Chapter Text
In a moment of harrowing fear and horror, Taehyung thinks back to the Red Wings versus the Blues-game on NHL 13.
The gameplay commentary begins, as the crowd roars in the stands. The players are already taking their positions on the ice, the Blues goalie kneeling down for his final warm-up butterfly slides. There is anticipation and ardent expectation in the air, as the hubbub of the spectators grows louder, as hands and stomping feet join the rhythm of the intro. Whatever is outside of the arena — whatever is real — disappears, all noise and ruckus fading into muffled nothingness, making way for the—
The championship final moves on, looking for the ultimate winner! This is game three. The Red Wings’ performance has been good for the first two games, but for this one, they want to get out on a double u.
It feels like time has slowed down.
It feels wrong.
Taehyung surmises that it must be his subconscious protecting him from going insane. By broadcasting Detroit versus St. Louis inside his head — although a distorted, somehow gruesome version of it — he is effectively detached from reality: the fact that his hand is inside his teammate’s chest, pressing down on an open wound, and he’s weighing up his options. Why that game, Taehyung isn’t sure — it had been one of many that they’d played, after all — but as the commentary now runs through his head, it’s as though he’s watching the scene before him from a distance, a game controller in his hand, waiting for the ref to drop the puck. The Red Wings’ red jersey flashes on his eyelids, smearing the ice with blood. He looks down, and the blood is on his hands, dripping from the grips of his controller. It’s soaking his sleeves.
But his hand is inside a man’s chest, not curled around a worn out DualShock with grips that feel sticky to his palm, and so the music ceases, and the commentary wanes. He is not back at the base, or at a hockey arena, but in a parking garage, hiding behind a Hyundai, and he might be at his breaking point. There’s yelling, and piercing sounds of pain and gunshots. He’s sitting on his knees on the hard concrete floor, hovering over the Sentinel lying on his back, and watching the blood pump out of his chest.
He’s dying. He’s at Taehyung’s mercy, and he’s dying. His visceral intestines are shutting down, and his heartbeat is erratic, thin, arrhythmic, portending its failure — soon it’ll stop. He’ll be cold and sallow, he’ll lose all tension. He’s two minutes away, maybe three, from being a name etched on a plate in their military unit’s memorial wall. An imaginary jersey frozen to the ceiling of an imaginary arena.
They say you’re gonna lose your mind in Detroit Rock City! Well, here we are in Detroit, the home of the red-winged wheel, and looking to go mad! No love lost between these two sides, we’re just moments away from puck drop here.
The right thing to do is unambiguous. There’s only ever been two choices, and the one where he leaves him to die is the one he should choose.
Taehyung has worked for the cause all his life. Ever since he was seven years old, and he saw his world end through the crack of a door from inside his wardrobe, his veins have pulsed with bitter blood. Every morning, his bare feet have met the cold floor because of his determination to dismantle — to demolish, to raze to the ground — a system that’s unjust, unfair, and unequal. To kill the man responsible for not only crushing his life, but the lives of many others. Every step in his life’s course, every grade from school assignments, every ‘Yes, sir!’ and ‘No, sir!’ he’s told his commanders, has been executed with only one thought in mind: that someday, the cause will be a plan of action, and that plan of action will change the world.
It’s a cruel world, and so his efforts for the cause have had to be cruel, too. He has lied through his teeth. He has deluded and deceived. He has lived under a name that’s not his. He hasn’t been alone in his endeavor, and that has been both a blessing and a curse; he has known that there are people even outside of his life’s circle who might not even know it, but whose lives have depended on his actions. And for twenty years, he’s lived like that: an ascetic life, the life of a viper, a traitor, a turncoat.
The life of Kim Taehyung.
And now, they’re so close. They’d been so close this morning: the day of action had finally come. After Taehyung had put on his uniform, he had looked at himself in the mirror and made peace with his life. He’d chosen to dedicate it to a cause greater than himself, and although that had also promised him a life of suffering — both his own and of others — he’d persevered by thinking that, someday, that pain would stop. And it could have been today, but things had gone wrong. Of course, success hadn’t been a given at any point, but today could have been the day they would get closer than they’d ever gotten before.
Closer than ever to killing Park Changho.
He can only blame himself for the failure; it’s not the fault of the Sentinel. His teammate shouldn’t have been anywhere near the parking garage, he shouldn’t have been outside of their base at all. Unless, of course...
“It’s not him. He isn’t the spy.”
“Taehyung, you don’t know that. You can’t be sure.”
So, it’s Taehyung, at the end of it all, who is at fault. He should have known that he would follow him, and then made sure that he couldn’t, whether or not he had come here to stop him — whether or not he was the informer. And now, to make up for his error, Taehyung should pull his hand out of his chest and leave him to bleed out. Not out of pettiness, or for harming the cause, but for the chance that the plan might still be salvaged; to make sure that Taehyung could still carry on with it, were he to leave the garage now.
And why not? The Sentinel is only a Sergeant, and not important to the cause.
The game is critical, it is important, and the fact is: they don’t like each other at all!
Taehyung only barely likes him. He’s a callow cockhead, and Taehyung has never trained a Sentinel as diabolic as him. He’s immature, tactless, and unmindful. He places more value on honing his gaming skills on NHL 13 on their common room’s old PlayStation 3 than on stretching his muscles. He doesn’t understand the consequences of his actions, which makes him a reckless, heedless asshole. Who, in their right mind, would so openly question and goad their captain, day one of being their subordinate? Who would play with fire, and so carelessly try to trick death, by pushing their body to its extremes, to the ends where their senses turn into white noise, white nonexistence? Who would, really, but him?
But... who would be as much of a challenge, either? Who would be so brave, so matchlessly dauntless, that they’d stand up against injustice without fear, and speak their mind in front of their commander, regardless of the repercussions? Who would put up a fight, against anyone and everyone, and tire out their own body, just to prove a point? Who would hide their struggles with such peerless strength and perseverance, choosing to suffer alone, until they were confronted and forbidden; until they were forced to share their pain?
If there ever was one.
If there ever was one — one Taehyung thinks he could center, and guard, and shelter — then...
He’s still alive, but not for long. He’s in uniform, and Taehyung is only touching the flesh, and the hot blood on the wound that the shrapnel had torn open, but he knows his skin is getting clammy. From the loss of blood, he’s hypothermic, and in just a moment or two, the shock will kill him. There is no way for their teammates to get to him in time to save him: the parking garage has turned into a trench warfare zone, with soldiers on both sides of the battle trying to kill — not even capture. When in the midst of chaos, everyone in the armed forces has been taught to make a body, not a hostage.
But if fate is on their side...
If there ever was one, it wouldn’t be so bad if it were him.
Him and his stupid, sheepish grin.
No one has the ability to resurrect. No one can restore life. But if it should so happen that a life force was shared — between a Sentinel and a Guide — then it could be possible for that Guide to share their life with their bonded partner. A Guide could, if their bond was strong enough, tie their hearts together, and make them beat as one. Not a resurrection, no, but close enough.
If there was a bond.
It’s almost fitting that Taehyung’s hand is already within him, pressed close to his heart, and so, so close to his life’s core. Really, all he has to do is hope that he’s right and call. If he does, he risks everything he’s ever worked for; if he does, and it works, he risks both their lives, and the lives of everyone working for the cause. But... hiding behind a Palisade on the concrete floor of a parking garage, Taehyung can only assume that perhaps the cause has already been lost.
So, he takes a shuddering breath and looks at the Sentinel’s face.
If there ever was one, then his would be the one he could look at. If he had to, he would, for a lifetime.
And — for fuck’s sake — he won’t let this infernal son of a bitch die without a rematch. The Red Wings will not be losers.
Centers glide into position for the opening draw!
And then he closes his eyes and he calls.