Z A G R E U S [BTS-ot7]

Chapter 2.

ZAGREUS N°2

Leverport, Rosetall Island

BH CORP. CLINIC Unit #13613

Beta Transensorial Studies

Yoongi’s Two Thousand, Seven Hundred, and Forty-First (2741st) day 

(Seven years, six months and four days)

The joy that bubbles in his chest when the lock of the tracking anklet finally snaps open, makes Yoongi want to scream, and when five minutes have gone by and no one stalks into the room to stop him from doing whatever they’d think he’s doing, he feels like jumping out of his skin with happiness. 

Unfortunately, he has to put it back on when one of the guards outside is kind enough to remind him that he should get ready to go to his appointment in the lab if he doesn’t want to be late and get in trouble again. 

He puts on his black uniform with the BH Corp - BTS Unit logo embroidered in the little pocket on the front on the shirt and on the side of the pants and allows the guards to put the handcuffs around his wrists with the occasional grunt when they close them too tight.

Yoongi walks towards the lab, almost mechanically with the two guards flanking his sides until they reach the door to the lab and they take the cuffs off to let him in and stay standing in the hallway with their backs to the heavy door. 

Inside the white room, he finds one of the monitors he hates the most, and that is saying something, however, he puts on his best smile and sits on the chair assigned for the interns, “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Seung-Hyeon,” Yoongi says as an observation.

The older man turns to look at him with a stone-faced expression that makes Yoongi want to laugh, “Not mutual then,” he says instead only with an underlying giggle in his voice, “My heart hurts.”

“Cut it, Yoongi, you know why they put me in charge of you today, don’t you?” Seung-Hyeon says a cold tone that suggests he too would rather be somewhere else at the moment.

Yoongi shrugs, already losing interest in whatever the other man has to say, “I haven’t had a hit of inspiration for weeks, I guess the people upstairs are getting impatient,” he remarks knowingly, a sarcastic smile still plastered on his face. 

The monitor ignores his snarly comments, concentrating on giving Yoongi orders instead, “Put your arm out,” he says as Yoongi obliges because he has very little interest to fight with anybody when he’s been having such a good day so far. 

He bares his teeth in something that resembles a growl, however, when the first syringe buries in the central vein of his arm, “Motherfucker,” he mutters, glaring daggers into the man’s head, “A warning would’ve been nice,” Yoongi says next, his words slurring slightly at the end of the sentence. 

He knows what those drugs do to him, but hopefully, he’s trained himself enough to not let it hit him too hard. 

It begins with his body getting numb, slowly impeding him to move his limbs while the monitor secures the different moorings around his ankles, under his armpits, and the one around his forehead that keeps his head upright against the back of the chair. 

Soon after, Seung-Hyeon takes another syringe that he takes to Yoongi’s jugular this time. This one, Yoongi knows, is meant to drive him into a trance-like state, however, if everything goes alright, now should be the right time for his practicing to show results. 

The monitor waits around for what he perceives is a pertinent time for the medicine to do effect on Yoongi and then exits the room to go hide behind the glass window from where they always send orders to the subjects.

A white computer keyboard pops up from the desk in front of Yoongi, and he makes the theater of closing his eyes and reaches forward with his hands. 

The liquid running through his veins kicks in slightly, slowing down his breath until he can’t tell if he’s even breathing anymore, but his hands don’t move, he commands them not to move even though every muscle in his body is ordering him otherwise.

For months Yoongi has been trying to control his writing, make it go away. 

He used to love his strange ability to hold a pencil in his hand and let go of everything else, almost falling asleep to wake up later to find a beautiful poem, a fairytale, or sometimes a song written in the paper before him; his handwriting the only sign that in fact, it had been him writing those words he grew fond of more and more each time it happened. 

Yoongi never knew he could communicate with other beings that way, let them take over his body and write down their experiences. He never knew he would grow to hate it so much. 

The same way he had to learn how to give his body up to do what he did, he had now tried to stop it, and make it disappear, but the medicine’s strong and he’s certainly worried that his teeth are going to break for how hard he’s clenching his jaw while trying to not feel the effects of the numbing medicine. 

“Min Yoongi, can you hear me?” the apathetic voice of Seung-Hyeon comes in through the speakers located on the corners of the room, “If you can hear me, write your answer down.” 

Yoongi types the word—, “Yes—,” slowly, feeling a bit of relief at being able to calm down the muscles of his wrists, ephemeral as it is. 

“Alright,” the monitor says, reciting his routine just because he had to, “Now I will ask you a number of question and you’ll have to answer truthfully, do you understand?” 

Yoongi does the same as before, faster this time to not let it slip that he’s consciously typing his answers down. 

“What date is it?” The first question is innocent enough that he can answer with a simple—, “I don’t know—,” that gets him a disappointed grunt from the man behind the window but lets them move on easily.

An hour and a half later, Yoongi has answered about twenty different questions with the most generic, and ambiguous answers he can come up with, noticing how the monitor is getting increasingly annoyed by this. 

Thankfully, right when one of the nurses is sent to put more medicine into Yoongi’s veins, the bell announcing the ending of his session rings loudly, and his guards enter the room to put on his handcuffs and guide him towards the kitchen where he’ll be given a small meal before dinner is ready. 

On his way to the bathroom, Yoongi catches sight of Hoseok who looks up briefly; a special smile on his face that lets Yoongi know he’s made progress on their plans. 

His heart beats faster for a moment in which he thinks one of the other man’s guards notices something is going on as he lifts a hand and pushes Hoseok forward to keep him walking which makes Hoseok growl angrily from the back of his throat as he turns around to fight the daring guard. 

Yoongi doesn’t stop, can’t stop to see what happens, rapidly jogging to the bathroom instead; closing the door to let the guards outside, always holding onto the excuse that at least in the bathroom he would like to have some privacy.

“It’s not like I’m going to flush myself down the toilet, you know,” he said once. 

Hoseok can’t get in trouble now, they both know that, so Yoongi takes a deep breath and sprints towards the mirror above the first sink of five left to right; his cuffed hands reaching out to take the mirror off the wall almost on instinct at this point.

The letters they’ve managed to crave behind it, small so there’s more real state, and yet the whole rectangle is almost covered fully in text, so Yoongi’s eyes travel to the bottom of it and read the last three lines that have been precariously craven in with the edge of Hoseok’s handcuffs, “We should find another way to communicate, my cards said we’ll have an inconvenience with it soon,” the two first lines say, making Yoongi frown slightly.    

“I finally count the cards without mistake,” the last sentence says, giving Yoongi a wonderful sense of relief to write a simple—, “I opened the anklet—,” in return before he hangs the mirror back on its place and walks out of the bathroom.