#c:e

[jungkoode]

CODE: EPITAPH | 𝟎𝟐

"valis core"

"The blade finds his throat before he finds your weakness. His fingers find one of your triplet markers before you can process the threat. And somewhere along the city walk, you confirm all Consortium pricks are, indeed, pricks."

next | index | wc: 5.5k

↦author's note : SOOOOO welcome to my alien world monster, or as I like to call it: Code : Epitaph. Chapter 2, by the way. In case you didn't notice. In case you stumbled in here by accident. In case you somehow read Chapter 1 and thought, "oh wow I bet this gets less intense now" — no it does not. It gets worse. I am so sorry. I'm also lying. I'm not sorry at all ( ◔‿◔)✧ First of all—the POV shift. Did you catch that? We start in Namjoon's head. Cold. Clinical. Calculating escape routes and threat assessments like he's running some kind of biological Excel spreadsheet. I wanted you to feel what it's like inside the mind of someone who has systematically murdered their own emotional responses in favor of "optimization." The way he catalogs Y/N's every micro-movement, the way he processes her defiance as a puzzle to solve rather than a person to understand. It's chilling, right? It should be. Because here's the thing about Namjoon—he's not evil in the traditional sense. He's something worse. He's someone who has convinced himself that viewing people as data points is actually the moral high ground. Now. This chapter… okay the first scene, sue me, it's hot. I'm allowed one little war-crime-y sexual tension beatdown per chapter. It's called balance. I really wanted to lean into actual antagonism and not that watered down "oh no we're enemies but he's soooo handsome" trope. No. These two look at each other and it's like: 'the moment I see an opening I will slit your fucking throat and smile doing it' energy. And yes, it's giving. I love writing fights where the tension is physical and psychological and primal and terrifyingly competent. Sue me (again). Also. His threatening non-threats?? Am I okay?? Why is it so hot when he says things like "perhaps you require further conditioning" without blinking?? WHO GAVE HIM THE RIGHT. Anyway. I'm opening my legs respectfully (metaphorically). Let's move on. See you in the comments! Let me know what you think about our disaster duo's first real interaction! (ﾉ'ヮ')ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Namjoon arrives at Sub-Level Seven at 0800 hours, punctual as he ever is.

You're awake. Standing. Waiting.

He catalogs this.

Most subjects require forty-eight hours minimum to adapt to containment rhythms.

Proximity sensors logged seven hours of movement—pacing patterns, tactical assessment sweeps, stress sequences.

But you're not cowering. Not pleading. Not broken.

You're measuring kill zones.

The stance is familiar. Weight distributed, hands loose but ready. You're calculating distance between his position and the exit. Mapping strike angles. Finding escape routes that don't exist.

He recognizes the assessment protocol because it mirrors his own.

Interesting.

The Algorithm chose efficiently.

"Good morning," he says, voice calibrated to establish dominance without triggering immediate violence. "I trust your accommodations proved adequate."

Your eyes narrow. Displeased, then.

"Adequate." You test the word like poison. "Is that your diplomatic way of asking if I slept well in my fucking cage?"

Crude emotional outlet. Designed to provoke reaction.

He, of course, doesn't provide one.

"Sleep quality affects operational performance. The monitoring period requires optimal efficiency from both participants."

Both participants. Partnership terminology. Deliberately deployed.

You tilt your head. Mimicking his own assessment gesture. Learning his patterns while displaying your own.

Clever.

"Optimal performance." Your mockery is accurate. "For what, exactly? Planning to lecture me to death?"

"Joint field operations commence immediately. Your infiltration capabilities require practical evaluation under controlled parameters."

He watches the information process. Surprise flickers across your features—quickly suppressed, but visible. You weren't expecting active deployment.

Good. Predictability breeds complacency.

"Field operations," you repeat. "Leaving this place."

"Temporarily. Under supervision."

Your posture shifts. Subtle. Professional.

Left foot angling slightly outward. Weight redistributing. Hands dropping to a more natural position that conceals preparation.

You're not just angry anymore. You're hunting. Most likely searching for an opportunity of escape.

How terribly mundane of you.

"What kind of operations?"

Your voice carries false curiosity. Buying time. Setting distance.

He should recognize the setup. Should anticipate—

The attack comes from nowhere.

No telegraph. No warning.

One moment you're standing three meters away, the next you're inside his guard with a blade materialized from absolute nothing.

Fast.

Faster than his file suggested.

The knife slices air where his throat was a split second before. He twists back, feeling steel part the air millimeters from his carotid. Close. Too close.

You don't pause. Don't recover. You flow into the next strike like water, blade spinning in your grip to reverse the angle, coming up toward his ribs in a motion that speaks of training far beyond rebel desperation.

Professional. Military grade.

Where did you learn this?

He blocks with his forearm, deflecting the strike but not stopping your momentum. You use the contact to pivot, already spinning into a leg sweep that would take him down if he hadn't—

Jumped. Minimal elevation. Just enough to let your leg pass underneath.

You're good. Better than good.

But not better than him.

You recover from the failed sweep by converting the spin into momentum for another knife strike. This one aimed at his kidney.

Lethal intent. No hesitation.

He catches your wrist mid-swing.

Your eyes widen. Not in surprise at being stopped—surprise at the speed of his counter.

Now he moves.

Still holding your knife hand, he uses your forward momentum against you. One step to the side, pulling you past your balance point.

You try to compensate with that twisting leg kick—beautiful technique, would have taken his knee out—

He blocks with his shin. Absorbs the impact. Redirects your energy.

Your other hand comes up, clawing for his eyes. He catches that wrist too.

For a moment you're locked together. Face to face. Close enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes. Close enough to smell the combat pheromones starting to flood the air between you.

Sharp. Electric. Dangerous.

Your pupils dilate. Not fear. Not fury.

Something else.

"Impressive," he says, voice steady despite the proximity, despite the scent spike. "But slow. The aurora cycles must be affecting your movements."

His expression doesn't change. Blank. Clinical.

But your eyes widen, and that tells him you caught the condescension.

"Fuck you," you snarl, trying to knee him in the groin.

He turns his hip, deflecting the strike. Uses the motion to redirect your momentum completely.

Forward.

Hard.

"Skaisse," the curse escapes him—rough, guttural—as he drives you into the wall with enough force to rattle your teeth.

The impact is immediate. Brutal.

Your chest slams against stone, breath driven from your lungs in a sharp exhale. Before you can recover, before you can even process the collision, steel presses against your throat.

The knife. Your knife. Now his.

Cold metal bites into heated skin.

His body brackets yours completely—legs on either side of your thighs, chest pressed to your back, one arm braced against the wall beside your head.

Trapped. Dominated.

His free hand hooks your jaw. Fingers spread along your cheek and neck, tilting your head back just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

His eyes scan your face. Your pupils. Still dilated. Breathing pattern—rapid, shallow. Pulse visible at your throat, hammering against skin.

Fascinating physiological responses.

His thumb shifts slightly along your jawline. Just a millimeter. Nothing significant.

Except you react.

A sharp intake of breath. Involuntary. Your pulse spikes visibly where his fingers rest near your ear.

Interesting.

His gaze drops to where his hand cradles your jaw. The pressure point behind your right ear—completely exposed, practically throbbing under his fingertips.

The way you flinched when he moved. The immediate tension that followed.

Recognition flickers in his mind.

A triplet marker.

One of three neurological weak points every trained operative learns to identify and protect.

You've left at least one completely unguarded.

"For such an excellent fighter," he murmurs, voice low and measured, "you seem remarkably careless with your defensive positioning."

Your breath catches.

Understanding flashes across your features.

He doesn't know your full configuration. But he knows enough.

Amateur.

You jerk your head away from his grip, trying to break the contact. But his fingers tighten immediately. Not painful. Just inescapable, as intended. Steel wrapped in flesh.

"Impressive technique," he continues, pressing the blade more firmly against your throat. "But exploitable vulnerabilities. Any competent operative would have noticed by now."

You struggle against his hold. Test the restraint. Search for weakness.

There isn't any.

"Lesson one," he says, bringing the blade up to rest more firmly against your throat. "I've been trained in combat since before you were even alive."

The knife doesn't waver. Neither does his grip.

"Let me go," you breathe, but there's no plea in it.

Just calculation. You're still looking for an angle.

"No."

His chest presses against your back. He can feel your heart hammering. Can smell the spike in your scent—that sharp, electric combination of adrenaline and—

Combat pheromones. Standard stress response.

"You fight well," he observes. "Better than your file indicated. Where did you receive training?"

You don't answer. Just breathe hard against the wall, muscles tense but not panicked.

Interesting. Most people would be breaking down by now.

"No response?" He adjusts his grip on your jaw. "Perhaps you need time to consider cooperation."

"Perhaps you need to get fucked."

The profanity vibrates against the blade. Defiant to the end.

He finds this… stimulating.

Your refusal to submit creates an optimization problem. A puzzle requiring solution.

How peculiar.

"Cooperation would be more efficient," he says. "Resistance only prolongs inevitable outcomes."

"Inevitable." You test the word. "Like you getting shanked in your sleep?"

"Unlikely. You'll be monitored continuously."

"Continuously?"

Something in your voice shifts. Not fear. Recognition, perhaps finally understanding the scope of your situation. The complete loss of privacy. The knowledge that every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of weakness will be documented.

"Welcome to the Epitaph Program," he says. "Sixty days of comprehensive observation. Cooperation ensures… comfort levels remain tolerable."

The threat hangs between you. Implicit but clear.

He releases your jaw but keeps the knife steady. Tests your reaction.

You don't move. Don't try to escape.

Smart.

"Are you prepared to proceed with mission briefing," he asks, "or do you require additional conditioning?"

Silence. Then:

"Mission briefing."

Good. Progress.

He steps back, lowering the blade but maintaining defensive positioning.

You turn around slowly, back against the wall, watching him with new wariness.

The air still carries that charge. That scent. Combat pheromones that haven't dissipated despite the conclusion of violence.

Curious.

Most stress responses fade quickly once threat neutralization occurs. But yours seems to be… intensifying.

As does his own.

Purely physiological. Adrenaline requires time to metabolize. Nothing more complex than biochemistry.

"Follow me," he says, returning your knife to his belt.

A confiscation that doubles as a reminder of capability differential.

You push off from the wall, rolling your shoulders. Testing for damage. Finding none.

Then you follow him toward the briefing room. Maintaining careful distance. Close enough for communication. Far enough to avoid sudden contact.

But the strange entry remains, humming low like the beasts on the Verge Wastes. That resonance pattern his sensors can't classify.

Further investigation required. Document the phenomenon. Understand tactical implications.

For the Algorithm's analysis, naturally.

Nothing personal.

The transport to the Central Efficiency Boulevard takes twelve minutes through the Citadel's internal transit system.

Sealed corridors, regulated atmosphere, no external views.

You sit across from him in the passenger compartment, cataloging everything. Emergency releases. Ventilation systems. Structural weak points.

Still planning escape routes even while compliance appears complete.

Predictable. But admirable in its consistency.

The transport halts smoothly, and the passenger door slides open to reveal Valis Core's beating commercial heart.

The sight hits you immediately.

Sound first—thousands of voices creating a low hum of regulated conversation; the rhythmic pulse of scanning stations and allocation terminals processing endless queues of citizens.

Then the scale.

The Central Efficiency Boulevard stretches ahead like a canyon of black stone and gleaming metal, rising in terraced levels that disappear into aurora-filtered light. Suspended walkways create layers of foot traffic moving in perfectly regulated streams.

He watches your reaction. Measures the way your eyes widen despite obvious attempts at control.

"Welcome to functional society," he says, stepping onto the Boulevard.

In here, citizens move in predictable patterns—efficient foot traffic, minimal congestion.

Absolute standard procedure.

What isn't standard is the way conversations pause when you pass.

Namjoon catalogs the disruption. Valis Core citizens glancing sideways. Merchants hesitating mid-transaction. Children stopping to stare before their parents pull them along.

Curiosity. Or threat assessment. Both, perhaps.

You notice too. Shoulders tensing incrementally. Defensive posture activating despite the absence of immediate danger.

"They're staring," you mutter, voice low but audible.

He processes your discomfort. Files it.

"They are observing," he corrects. "Curiosity regarding your presence here."

Your laugh carries no humor. "Curiosity. Right. Nice way of saying they're side-eyeing me like I'm contaminated."

Side-eyeing. Another colloquialism absent from his linguistic databases.

Your phrasing patterns continue demonstrating gaps in his understanding of rebel vernacular.

Problematic. Communication efficiency requires comprehensive language mapping.

He turns slightly, studying your expression. "Clarification required."

"What?"

"The term. Side-eyeing."

You stop walking. Actually stop. Citizens flow around you both like water around stones, maintaining distance from his authority radius.

"Are you serious right now?"

He waits. Blinks slowly. Explanation pending.

"Side-eye means…" You gesture vaguely. "Looking at someone with suspicion. Judgment. Like they're doing something wrong just by existing."

Interesting. Facial expression terminology with embedded social context. He files the definition for future reference.

"The great Commander doesn't know basic slang," you continue, something sharp creeping into your voice. "Does that bother you?"

Bother. Emotional terminology suggesting personal investment in knowledge gaps.

"I require comprehensive communication protocols," he says. "Unknown variables reduce operational efficiency."

"So yes, it bothers you."

"Incorrect. I am identifying areas requiring data acquisition."

"Which means it bothers you."

"It means I am optimizing communication parameters."

"Same thing."

"It is not the same thing."

You tilt your head, mimicking his own assessment gesture. "You're getting defensive about being bothered by not knowing something. So, essentially, you're bothered."

"I am not defensive nor bothered."

"You just corrected me twice in thirty seconds."

He processes this. Reviews the conversation log. Identifies the pattern.

"Precision in communication serves tactical purposes."

"Tactical purposes." Your voice carries mockery now. "Right. Because God forbid the great Commander admits something annoys him."

Annoys. Another emotional designation he doesn't—

"It doesn't annoy me."

The words emerge too quickly. Too sharp.

You smile.

"There it is."

"There is nothing."

"You're bothered that you don't know rebel slang. You're bothered that I know something you don't."

"Your linguistic knowledge represents data I require for operational efficiency. Nothing more."

"Which bothers you."

Circular logic. Deliberately deployed to elicit emotional response.

He will not provide one.

"Irrelevant," he states. "Continue walking."

But you don't move. Just stand there with that sharp smile, cataloging his reaction patterns.

Learning his weaknesses.

A merchant nearby—Valis Core, purple hair indicating metallurgy specialist—drops a tool when Namjoon's gaze passes over their stall. The clatter echoes.

Your attention follows his. "See? Side-eye."

He observes the merchant more carefully. Elevated heartrate visible in neck pulse. Hands trembling slightly. Eyes avoiding direct contact.

"They are not expressing suspicion," he says. "They are demonstrating deference to authority. Standard protocol when Authority Level 7 personnel are present."

"Level 7?" Your voice shifts. Interest replacing mockery. "I thought you'd be higher."

The observation lands precisely where it was aimed.

Level 7 isn't low. It represents significant achievement within Consortium hierarchy.

"Level 7 is quite high," he states, voice flattening.

"Quite low for someone with your reputation."

Your tone carries calculated dismissal. Designed to provoke.

"I am Level 7 with supreme authority over the Epitaph System," he corrects, something sharp threading through his tone. "My clearance supersedes standard hierarchical limitations regarding species survival protocols."

"If you say so."

The casual dismissal triggers something deeper. Irritation crystallizing into something colder.

"Level 10 Council members cannot override my decisions regarding Transference procedures," he continues, voice dropping. "The Epitaph Program operates under my exclusive jurisdiction."

"Sure. Very impressive."

Your mockery remains unchanged. As if his specialized authority means nothing. As if the power structure he's carved out through years of strategic positioning is irrelevant.

Which, clearly, means you simply don't understand the implications of what you're dismissing.

So he will educate you.

"My authority regarding the Algorithm is absolute," he states. "Council oversight is limited to resource allocation. Operational control belongs to me."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

Now he processes the tactical objective differently.

You're testing his authority. Measuring the extent of his control.

Smart. You need to understand the parameters of your situation.

"I am clarifying the scope of authority you will be operating under for the next sixty days."

Your posture shifts. Subtle recognition of threat.

"Perhaps proximity will improve your attitude regarding appropriate deference protocols."

The words emerge as a statement of fact rather than threat.

But your reaction suggests you understand the implication.

Sixty days of his direct oversight. His rules. His authority.

Your choices: cooperation or consequences.

You stay silent after that. Walk behind him as he moves through the Boulevard, and he is most certain you are still attempting to find ways to turn this to your advantage.

Foolish, but admirable.

The primary Distribution Hub processes a constant stream of individuals receiving their assigned goods—scanning biometric chips, dispensing ration cubes, efficiency tools, and personal items based on productivity metrics.

Children move in supervised groups between educational facilities. Authority Level 4 supervisors guide them past the Productivity Reward Stations where higher-performing citizens access luxury items—actual flavored foods, personal decoration allowances, recreational materials.

The Equipment Dispensaries have workers receiving tool updates and uniform modifications. Allocation Supervisors stand behind scanning stations, their enhanced eyes analyzing each citizen's productivity metrics before dispensing goods.

It does not escape him, how your trained eye identifies the underground commerce.

Information traders lingering near public terminals. Favor brokers—mid-level officials discreetly arranging better allocations in exchange for services. Memory merchants operating from building alcoves, offering illegal identity modifications.

"Authority fear isn't the same as curiosity," you observe after several minutes of movement through the crowds.

He glances back at you. Notes you are circling back to the conversation about the so-called 'side-eyes' you were receiving.

Valid point. He recalculates.

The stares aren't uniform. Younger citizens show genuine fascination. Older ones display wariness. Children exhibit undisguised interest before parental intervention.

"Multiple response patterns," he replies after a few seconds. "But the primary driver is genetic variance recognition."

"Meaning?"

"Citadel populations are predominantly Valis Core. Interspecies contact remains limited despite policy allowances."

A pause. Processing.

"You're saying they're staring because I'm different."

"Because you represent genetic diversity they rarely encounter in this sector."

Your stride shortens. Subtle defensive behavior.

"Valis Core citizens aren't accustomed to observing mixed heritage individuals," he says. "Your parameters differ from sector norms."

You stop again. Completely.

Citizens adjust their paths, creating a small clearance zone.

"What do you mean by 'mixed heritage'?"

He blinks, a tad startled at your direct questioning. Odd questioning.

Is it not obvious?

"Your genetic markers indicate partial Valis Core ancestry. Approximately fifty percent. The remaining heritage appears Hollow Crest based on dermal characteristics and bone density indicators."

Your face changes. Guarded becomes hostile.

"How would you know that?"

"Standard biological assessment protocols. Skin reflectivity patterns, facial structure analysis, movement efficiency calculations. The hybrid characteristics are evident to trained observation."

"Trained observation." Your voice flattens dangerously. "You mean profiling."

"I mean accurate genetic classification."

A child—perhaps eight years old—breaks away from their parent to approach. Valis Core features but with curiosity overriding social conditioning.

"Are you from the outer sectors?" they ask you directly.

Before you can respond, the parent appears. Face flushed, clearly horrified by the breach of protocol.

"Commander, forgive the interruption—"

Namjoon raises a hand. Minimal gesture. Maximum authority.

"No breach of protocol occurred."

The parent relaxes incrementally. The child continues staring at you with open fascination.

"Your skin changes colors," the child observes. "Are those markings functional?"

You glance down at your forearms where subtle chromatophore patterns shift under stress. Barely visible, but the child's observation skills are acute.

"They're adaptive," you say carefully.

"Environmental adaptation," Namjoon clarifies for the child's benefit. "Beneficial genetic trait from Hollow Crest heritage."

The parent's eyes widen. Not disapproval—interest.

"How fascinating. Hybrid genetics are quite rare in the Core. The adaptive capabilities must be remarkable."

"We have appointments to maintain," Namjoon interrupts.

Social interaction efficiency has limits.

The parent nods, collecting their child. But the expression remains intrigued rather than dismissive.

After they leave, you stare at him.

"They weren't horrified."

"As I said."

The stares seem to make more sense to you now. Not suspicion. Genuine curiosity about biological variance they rarely encounter.

"But if they knew I was rebel—"

"They would respond differently," he acknowledges. "Rebellion represents ideological contamination. Genetic diversity represents biological advancement."

He observes how you process this distinction. The way hybrid status grants curiosity while political status would generate hostility.

"Convenient that they don't know."

"Indeed."

"And what exactly does my 'genetic classification' matter to anyone?"

The question contains multiple layers.

Surface inquiry about social relevance. Deeper concern about discrimination protocols. Underlying anger about genetic monitoring systems.

He addresses the practical component.

"Valis Core social structures don't discriminate against interspecies heritage. Hybrid genetics are considered beneficial for population stability."

"Beneficial how?"

"Genetic diversity reduces mutation accumulation. Cross-species reproduction produces offspring with enhanced adaptive capabilities. Improved disease resistance. Broader environmental tolerance ranges."

Your expression shifts. Surprise replacing hostility.

"You're saying mixing species is good."

"Scientifically optimal, yes. The Consortium actively encourages genetic diversification through managed reproduction programs."

"Then why don't more Valis Core people marry outside their species?"

Valid observation. He considers the behavioral patterns.

"Cultural preference for familiar social frameworks. Valis Core social structures emphasize systematic approaches to relationship formation. Most find comfort in predictable partner compatibility."

"Rigid thinking."

"Efficient compatibility assessment."

You snort. "Same thing."

It isn't.

But the distinction appears irrelevant to your worldview.

"The fact remains unchanged. Hybridness is viewed as positive amongst Valis. Our offspring would represent particularly advantageous genetic combinations. Enhanced cognitive function from Valis Core heritage combined with environmental resilience from Hollow Crest adaptation. The theoretical capabilities would be—"

"Our what?"

Your voice cuts through his analysis. Sharp. Dangerous.

He processes your tone. Elevated stress markers. Aggressive posture shift.

"Our hypothetical offspring," he clarifies. "Based on genetic compatibility analysis."

"Our offspring." You repeat the words like they taste poisonous. "You're talking about us. Having children. Together."

"I am explaining theoretical genetic optimization outcomes based on—"

"I would rather slit your throat and then throw myself off the Citadel than have your children."

The vehemence surprises him. Most citizens express enthusiasm about contributing to genetic optimization programs.

"Your personal preferences are irrelevant," he states. "The genetic benefits to society would be considerable regardless of individual opinion."

Something shifts in your posture. Coiling. Dangerous.

"Individual opinion."

"Optimal reproductive outcomes serve collective survival priorities."

Your hand drops toward where your knife was. Still reaching for confiscated weapons.

"Is that the plan?" Your voice drops to something lethal. "Sixty days of observation and then they strap me down and—"

"No."

The word is immediate.

He sees you freeze. Hand still positioned for a weapon draw that won't succeed.

He processes your reaction pattern. The immediate jump to coercion. The assumption of bodily violation.

What experiences shaped such expectations?

"Reproductive autonomy remains absolute under Consortium law," he clarifies. "No individual is required to participate in biological reproduction against their will."

You stare at him. "What?"

"The Consortium maintains advanced reproductive technologies. Genetic material can be combined through laboratory processes without requiring physical reproduction."

Your shoulders drop slightly. Combat readiness decreasing.

"Body autonomy remains inviolate," he continues. "Valis Core social development prioritizes consent in all intimate contexts."

Relief flickers across your features. Then hardens again.

"Except where the Epitaph Algorithm is concerned."

Accurate assessment.

The Algorithm does override individual choice regarding Transference participation.

"That serves species survival. Different parameters."

"How convenient." Your voice carries acid. "And what about the aurora bands? The heat cycles?"

He processes the shift. Unexpected tactical pivot.

"Clarification required."

"Don't play stupid with me, Commander. You know exactly what happens when the violet bands hit and biology takes over—where's the consent then?"

Aurora-induced heat cycles. Reproductive imperative overrides.

Hm.

A valid concern regarding Consortium control mechanisms.

"Heat cycles represent biological intensification, not autonomy elimination."

"Bullshit." You step closer, aggressive posture returning. "Rut cycles. Heat cycles. When biology kicks in and rational thought gets complicated."

"Biological intensification does not equate to consent elimination," he states. "Enhanced drive does not remove choice."

"Enhanced drive." Your laugh cuts sharp. "That what you call it when people fuck strangers because they can't think past the need?"

"I call it temporary prioritization of reproductive impulses while maintaining agency over partner selection and participation parameters."

You stare at him. "You're really going to stand there and tell me people consent during heat cycles?"

"I am stating that biological imperative amplifies existing desire without removing the capacity for decision-making. Individuals retain choice regarding participation, partners, and boundaries."

He processes his own experiences.

The elevated aggression. The singular focus on breeding compatibility. The way rational analysis shifted to accommodate reproductive priorities.

But never absent. Never eliminated.

"The neurochemical changes intensify specific responses," he continues. "They do not override cognitive function. Enhanced want does not constitute absence of will."

"Even when they're desperate enough to make choices they'd normally never consider?"

"Especially then. Desperation requires conscious acknowledgment of need and deliberate action to address it."

"You sound like you've given this considerable thought."

He has. Clinical analysis of his own rutting behaviors. Documentation of decision-making processes during biological peak periods.

"Personal experience provides relevant data."

"Personal experience." Something shifts in your expression. "Right. How many people have you fucked during rut cycles, Commander?"

The question contains tactical probing. Seeking vulnerability data through intimate details.

"Partner quantity is irrelevant to the consent framework discussion."

"But you have. Had partners during cycles."

"Yes."

"And you maintained perfect rational decision-making the entire time?"

"Rational frameworks adapt to biological priorities. Decision-making remains functional within modified parameters."

"Modified parameters." You test the phrase. "Meaning you wanted to fuck so badly you'd have taken anyone available."

"Negative. Biological enhancement cannot create attraction where none exists. It can only amplify existing compatibility markers."

You cross your arms again. "And if someone's compatibility markers are… inconvenient?"

"Then enhanced biological states create discomfort, not compulsion. The science is clear."

"How convenient that your science supports your moral boundaries."

"Accurate science reflects observable reality. Biological drives amplify potential. They do not manufacture it."

He sees you are about to respond when a priority communication activates through his neural interface.

Command-level authorization. Immediate briefing required.

"Change of plans," he says, altering course toward the administrative transit station. "Priority briefing requires immediate attention."

"What kind of priority?"

"The kind that determines our first joint operation parameters."

Your expression shifts. Recognition that the abstract concept of shared missions is about to become concrete reality.

As you move through the crowds toward the transport station, citizens continue their subtle observations. Curiosity about genetic diversity mixed with deference to his authority.

But you're no longer paying attention to their stares. Your focus has shifted to tactical assessment—processing the environment, cataloging resources, identifying potential advantages.

The transition from civilian observation to operational preparation.

Smart.

Because whatever briefing awaits will likely determine whether your first mission together becomes cooperation or warfare.

He suspects the latter.

The briefing chamber operates under Level 8 security protocols. Reinforced walls. Signal dampening. Personnel restricted to essential command staff only.

You enter behind him, positioning yourself near the exit.

Strategic placement.

He catalogs this behavior—always mapping escape routes, even in seemingly secure environments.

The intelligence officer approaches. Valis Core, specialized reconnaissance division. Stress markers visible in posture, elevated respiratory rate.

Bad news, then.

"Commander," the officer begins, then hesitates, glancing toward you.

"Proceed," Namjoon states. "She has clearance for this briefing."

Not entirely accurate. But operational parameters require your presence for proximity monitoring. Security concerns secondary to Algorithm requirements.

"Sir, Priority Target J-7 has vanished."

Namjoon processes this. Reviews available data. Priority Target designation suggests high-value asset.

Classification level: restricted.

"Clarification required. Vanished how?"

"Subject was being transported from containment to advanced research facility. Armored convoy, triple security protocols. When the transport arrived at destination, the containment unit was empty."

You shift behind him. Subtle positioning change. Intelligence gathering through observation.

"Sealed?" Namjoon inquires.

"Completely sealed, sir. Undamaged. Biometric locks intact. Life-sign monitoring showed no anomalies during transit. But when the unit opened…" The officer spreads empty hands. "Nothing."

Impossible. Transport containers operate under continuous surveillance. Molecular-level breach detection. Emergency beacon activation for any system compromise.

"Describe the containment specifications."

"Triple-hull construction. Quantum lock mechanisms. Atmospheric control independent of external systems. Subject would require specialized tools and external assistance to achieve breach."

The officer pauses. Glances toward you again.

Security concern. Your presence during classified briefing creates operational complications.

The chamber door slides open. Two figures enter—Authority insignia indicating higher command presence.

Namjoon straightens. Recognition protocols activate.

Director Kang Yura. Level 8 Authority. Research Division oversight. Sharp features, silver-streaked black hair, cybernetic enhancement visible along her left temple.

Behind her: Marshal Choi Daesung. Level 9 Authority. Strategic Operations Command. Massive frame, scarred hands, patched eye.

The intelligence officer steps back. Deference to superior authority.

"Commander Kim," Director Kang states. "Your presence is required for Priority Classification briefing."

Marshal Choi's gaze settles on you.

Assessment. Threat evaluation.

"The proximity asset," he observes, then switches immediately. "Interessanter Tzeitpunkt" (Interesting timing.)

Proximity asset.

Clinical designation that reduces you to operational utility.

You don't react visibly to the language shift. But Namjoon catches the subtle tension—you understand you're being discussed in a language deliberately excluding you.

"Sirs," Namjoon acknowledges. "Briefing in progress regarding Priority Target J-7 containment failure."

"Nikt Aindemmungswersagen," Director Kang corrects sharply. "Evolutionere Veiterentviklung iber ervartete Parameter hinaus." (Not containment failure. Evolutionary advancement beyond anticipated parameters.)

Altsprek it is, then.

"Prätzisirung erforderlik." (Clarification required.)

Marshal Choi steps forward. "Subjekt J-7 nahm vor seks Monaten an freivilligem Werbesserungsprogramm teil. Mournwell Basin Herkunft. Agrarvissenskaftler Betzeikhnung wor Modifikation." (Subject J-7 participated in voluntary enhancement program six months ago. Mournwell Basin origins. Agricultural scientist designation before modification.)

You shift. Mournwell Basin mentioned. But the rest remains incomprehensible.

"Werbesserungsspetzifikationen?" (Enhancement specifications?)

"Klassifitzirt Level 9," Marshal Choi states. "Aber relewante Details umfassen: tzellulare Anpassungsfehikkeiten, Umveltresistenz-Optimirung, werbesserte Iberlebensparameter." (Classified Level 9. But relevant details include: cellular adaptation capabilities, environmental resistance optimization, enhanced survival parameters.)

He glances at you deliberately. "Subjekt demonstrirt Fehikkeiten, di bestimte… Rebellenfraktionen interessiren kennten." (Subject demonstrates capabilities that may interest certain… rebel factions.)

Your posture tightens.

Understanding the tone if not the words.

Perceptive.

"Di Modifikationen varen erfolglaiker als prognostitzirt," Director Kang continues. "Subjekts Biologi begann sik auf Vaisen antzupassen, di nikt in urspringliken Werbesserungsprotokollen enthalten varen." (The modifications succeeded beyond projected parameters. Subject's biology began adapting in ways not included in original enhancement protocols.)

"Anpassung vi?" (Adapting how?)

"Strukturelle Werenederungen. Sensoriske Werbesserung. Stoffvekseleffitzienz-Werbesserungen." (Structural alterations. Sensory enhancement. Metabolic efficiency improvements.)

The intelligence officer clears his throat. "Sirs, di tzelluleren Scans des Subjekts aus der letzten Aindemmung tzaikten Anomalien. Gevebeproben enthillten molekulare Strukturen ausserhalb bekannter biologisker Rahmen." (Sirs, subject's cellular scans from final containment showed anomalies. Tissue samples revealed molecular structures outside known biological frameworks.)

"Ausserhalb vi?" (Outside how?)

"Kvantenebene Organisationsmuster. Tzellulare Netzverke kommunitziren durk Mekanismen, di bekannte Physik werletzen." (Quantum-level organizational patterns. Cellular networks communicating through mechanisms that violate known physics.)

Namjoon processes this.

Enhancement programs typically improve existing capabilities. They don't create impossible biological functions.

"Vas var das Werbesserungsziel?" (What was the enhancement objective?)

Marshal Choi exchanges a glance with Director Kang. "Adaptive Iberlebensoptimirung fir faindselige Umgebungen. Spetzifisk: Verge-Territorium-Navigationsfehikkeiten." (Adaptive survival optimization for hostile environments. Specifically: Verge territory navigation capabilities.)

"Varum?" (Why?)

"Klassifitzirt." (Classified.)

"Aktuelle Fehikkaiten des Subjekts?" (Subject's current capabilities?)

"Unbekannt. Abskliessende Bewertung doitete auf Potenzial fir Materi-Phasen-Manipulation hin. Molekulare Diktewerenederung. Meglikervaise Raum-Tzeit-Interaktionsmodifikationen." (Unknown. Final assessment indicated potential for matter-phase manipulation. Molecular density alteration. Possibly space-time interaction modifications.)

Director Kang activates a holographic display. Security footage appears—transport container interior.

The recording shows a figure. Humanoid. Standard proportions. Sitting calmly in the containment unit.

Then the figure begins… shifting.

Edges becoming less defined. Molecular coherence appearing to fluctuate.

The image distorts. Static interference.

When clarity returns, the container is empty.

"Skaisse," Namjoon breathes.

You catch that.

Curse words have a tendency to transcend language barriers.

"Tatseklik," Marshal Choi states. "ubjekt skainet in der Lage tzu sain, fundamentale molekulare Kohesion tzu werendern." (Indeed. Subject appears capable of altering fundamental molecular cohesion.)

"Vo ist er jetzt?" (Where is he now?)

"Unbekannt. Aber Aufklerung doitet auf Bevegung in Riktung Hollow Crest Territorien hin." (Unknown. But intelligence suggests movement toward Hollow Crest territories.)

Director Kang deactivates the holographic display, then turns to address you directly in Consensus.

"Your familiarity with regional territories may prove tactically relevant."

The sudden shift back to your language feels jarring.

Intentional exclusion followed by intentional inclusion.

"Relevant how?"

Marshal Choi studies you. "Enhanced assets seeking sanctuary typically utilize known safe passage routes."

"You think someone escaped."

"We know someone escaped. Question is whether certain factions provided assistance."

Your expression hardens. "And you want me to help track them down."

"We want you to provide regional intelligence," Director Kang corrects.

"Mission parameters," she continues to Namjoon. "Gemainsame Aufklerungsoperation. Si biten strategiske Aufsikt. Nehe-Asset bitet regionale Aufklerung." (Joint reconnaissance operation. You provide strategic oversight. Proximity asset provides regional intelligence.)

Back to Altsprek. Excluding you again.

"Tzeitplan?" (Timeline?)

"Sofortiger Ainsatz. Di Fehikkeiten von Subjekt J-7 maken ervaiterte Fraiheit unadvisable." (Immediate deployment. Subject J-7's capabilities make extended freedom inadvisable.)

"Bedrohungsainsketzung?" (Threat assessment?)

"Unbekannte Wariablen," Marshal Choi admits. "Werbesserungsprogramme skaffen unworsagbare Ergebnisse, venn Subjekte projitzirte Parameter iberskreiten." (Unknown variables. Enhancement programs create unpredictable outcomes when subjects exceed projected parameters.)

"Vas var sain urspringliker Name?" (What was his original name?)

You step forward suddenly. "What are you discussing?"

The question cuts through their Altsprek conversation.

Direct challenge to the exclusion.

Marshal Choi switches back to Consensus. "Operational parameters."

"I'm part of this operation. I should understand what I'm walking into."

Director Kang's cybernetic implant flickers. Processing. "You will receive necessary tactical information during deployment preparation."

"Necessary according to who?"

"According to authority classification."

Your jaw tightens. Understanding the power dynamic.

Information as control mechanism.

Namjoon observes this exchange. Your frustration at exclusion. Their deliberate information restriction.

"She requires basic operational parameters," he states carefully.

Marshal Choi nods. "Recovery mission. High-value target. Regional reconnaissance required."

Minimal information. Sufficient for cooperation without revealing classified details.

"And if the target doesn't want to be recovered?"

"Target cooperation is not required."

Cold, brutal statement. Standard Consortium approach.

"Follow me," Namjoon states, reading the room.

Time to extract you before additional complications develop.

You don't move immediately, however.

"When do I get full briefing details?"

"Si verden si nikt," Marshal Choi states quietly. (You won't.)

The Altsprek comment wasn't meant for you to understand.

But he knows you recognize the tone, the exclusion, the dismissal.

"What exactly am I walking into?" you ask again.

"Recovery operation," Namjoon repeats. "Subject escaped transport. Regional knowledge required for location assessment."

Minimal truth.

"Follow," he states more urgently.

This time you comply. But tension radiates from your posture.

As you exit the briefing chamber, Marshal Choi's voice follows in Altsprek.

"Kommandant. Wersagen ist nikt aktzeptabel. Werbesserte Assets kennen nikt unibervakt blaiben." (Commander. Failure is not acceptable. Enhanced assets cannot remain unsupervised.)

Understanding. Success required. Or consequences would extend beyond mission parameters.

Field deployment begins in one hour.

Time to discover what happens when your knowledge becomes essential to Consortium operations. While being systematically excluded from understanding why.

next | index

— taglist @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap  @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear 

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkoode]

Here’s my 6’4ft man with pale bluish skin and dark eyes with lavender reflections. You’re welcome????

C:E!Namjoon

Namjoon — Code : Epitaph (fanfic) by @jungkoode

art by jungkart. do not repost. all rights reserved.

[bubblebuttgamez]

T: 1

🔹️Tavaya Durkgbane (BG3)

🔹️Taylor Littlewing (C:ES)

🔹️Tevan Slyvexter (BG3)

[yoshipea762]

There are two things that I want to say, mostly concerning our generations.

Number one: I am aware that each generation grows up with different things and different slang. As a late 2000's and 2010's kid, I grew up with things like the Super Nintendo, Dreamcast, Wii, Xbox 360, and an iPad game called Blocksworld. Two of them are my parent's old stuff, and if i had to be honest, I'd rather stick to them than buy the CoD 3 reboot.

(I wonder what the older Phantasy Star Online games were like. The original PSO2 already felt like a relic from the past already, imo)

I also find the current slang we throw around to be strange. You might think "bet" or "Cringe" are normal bits of slang to say, but this 19 year old finds them to be strange. The word cringe makes me cringe internally, and that says a lot about me.

Everyone my age and below is making me feel old just by the way they talk, lol

And number two: Me starting off with the SNES, my once-in-a-while fascination with Super Mario World rom hacks that spawned from it, the DS with games downloaded onto it from the internet that I play on (becuase I... admittedly thought I needed to play on the older DS titles for a bit longer), and the indie games with pixelated graphics all have one thing in common.

They combined into me wanting to appreciate retro games more. I also want my dream game to have Quake and/or Halo C:E style graphics(complete with pixels and choppy animations inspired by mentioned games), if that says anything.

Man. I am one strange person, aren't I?

[vannersource]

Vanner for Harper’s Bazaar Korea

[lesbian-octoling]

THE FIRST TIME I LOOKED IN YOUR EYES YOU SUCKED ME INTO THE VOID  I LOOK FORWARD TO BEING DESTROYED  BLACK HOLE EYES

[rosencrantzsguildenstern]

cyberpunk edgerunners bangs its a shame that the intro animation doesn’t really

[c-driveart]

11.02.2021

ah...

[vividsect]

Why is the Cow Expand AU named that way?

Good question!  It’s because it actually started out as 100% a joke fic.  Basically, in a now dead-server, someone drew a picture of Mask, and instead of drawing the ventilation holes, they drew a frowny face, and it made Mask look like a cow.  So it became a running gag on the server, even before I joined!  At the time, I’d asked “what’s the story behind cow mask?��� who at this point, had many a fanart from other people of him actually as a cow/cow-satyr like creature.  And that started people talking about it again and getting hysterical, and I said, right there, right then, that I was going to write a fic about it.  That everything was going to be the same, except Mask is a cow.  The only one who’d notice is Bobble because she’s a very uncanny character, even in canon.  I proceeded to livewrite it immediately, much to the delight and terror of the chat.  The name came about not just from the fact of a cow being in there, but also because the writers for the Splatoon fanfiction Gun Expansion (one of them is actually a very very close friend of mine) were also getting in on it.  I decided to, on a whim,  jokingly title the fic “Cow: Expand” (yeah the colon being there is like the usual spelling) the just to make it sound as absolutely batshit as possible, and as a reference to Gun Expansion (I even was calling it a knockoff of it at the time) and now here we are

Cows are likely barely even a factor in the story anymore, as the whole thing has exploded way beyond a joke ficIt’s now a just kind of a fresh serving of hell

[tinysua]

So for Frey brothers,Cassandra like their Idol or something? 😂 they tried to mimicked how her talk and insult people,but pretty suck at it,they also super scared to make Cassandra angry,it seem like they admired and respected her a lot

Trans:

Colby: Hey Fischer,look someone come here.

Fischer:Colby, I can't seem to see who he is?

C:E, Fisher, I think it's because someone is too short? I can only see the dirty head dangling in front of my eyes

MC:Although you and Cassandra learned a few tricks to satirize people, your acting skills are really clumsy.

F:Cassandra? If she knew that we were talking like her, she would be very angry, Colby.

C:Yes, we should pay attention...Wait, we should pretend not to see or hear MC!

2nd:

Cassandra:Fisher, Colby, I don't know when you two became studious . Holding books at the dining table?

Does this book look familiar?

Fischer:Well... we just want to use it to cushion things.

MC: Frey brothers, this is Lottie's painting book. You are bullying others again! Give it back soon, or I will be rude.

Cassandra: MC, yelling during meal time, really lacks demeanor.

Why do you two keep staring at that tattered book , it is always stained with dirty paint.

Take it away quickly, MC. Then stay away from me so that won’t stain my clothes.

[jungkoode]

CODE : EPITAPH | 01

"perfect match, death protocol"

"You've always known how you'd die. Not the when or the where—just the how. The Consortium would catch you. They'd execute you. What you never counted on was this precise flavor of fucked."

next | index | wc: 4.2k

↦author's note : Ohhhhh boy. Ohhhhhh Kiki Nation. You thought I was done tormenting you? Foolish. Delusional. Have you met me? You really thought I'd let Jungkook carry all the emotionally constipated weight of fanfic war crimes on his impossibly broad back? No no no. It's Namjoon's turn, baby. That's right. Brainy. Brutal. Built like the consequences of my own unresolved issues. The man is a walking philosophical contradiction in tactical gear and I said, "Yeah. I'm gonna ruin him." So welcome to whatever the hell this is. First of all, let's just get one thing out of the way: this story is NOT set on Earth. I made up a planet. A sexy, miserable, tragic one. Aurora cycles? Check. Weird tectonic atmospheric vents? Obviously. Heat cycles??? Look. Listen. It's not ABO. I'm not an animal. But also… smut. And Namjoon. And a knife against your throat at a molecular compatibility clinic. You get it. This fic is rooted in completely unhinged planetary science that exists only because I had a horny idea and then overcommitted to the worldbuilding. Combat pheromones. Yes. I said it. Combat. Pheromones. Did I take the concept of primal attraction and militarize it like an emotionally damaged sci-fi gremlin? Absolutely. This fic is… well. It's messy. It's brutal. It's horny in the way trauma sometimes is. Namjoon here is not the safe space. He's the algorithm. The architect. The man who built a machine that decides who lives and who dies—and now he has to sit across from the one person who might break the whole system. So yeah. Sixty days until one of them dies. Or both of them fall apart trying not to. This is not FMU. This isn't "oops we're roommates and now I hate how hot you are." This is "I will gut you if I get the chance but god help me I want to kiss you in the fallout bunker." Love, Kiki (who clearly has a god complex and no intention of using it for peace)

You've always known how you'd die. Not the when or the where—just the how.

The Consortium would catch you. They'd execute you. Public, probably. They like the spectacle of rebels bleeding out under aurora light.

What you never counted on was this precise flavor of fucked.

The readout on the terminal blinks, sixty seconds of staring doing nothing to change the numbers: 100%. A perfect match. The first in recorded history.

You rip the connector from your wrist, the medical port leaving a perfect circle of blood welling up where the needle pulled free. The diagnostic bay smells like antiseptic and metal—the universal scent of bad news.

"Run it again," you tell Yoongi, who's hunched over the stolen medical interface like it might suddenly bite him.

"Wouldn't make a difference." His voice carries that particular Hollow Crest flatness—half sarcasm, half resignation. "System's triple-verified the sample against the database. It's real."

You pace the cramped confines of the abandoned medical outpost. Three steps. Wall. Three steps. Wall. The ceiling leaks something dark that's not quite water, hitting the concrete in a rhythm that matches the pounding in your skull.

Through the cracked viewport, the atmospheric glow shifts from deep blue to amber. Kindle's ending early today.

Fuck.

That means Wane in two hours, maybe less. The tunnels turn into hunting grounds when the light dies.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is who you’ve been paired to by the Epitaph System.

Perfect genetic match with Commander Kim Namjoon. The fucking architect himself.

The man who built the algorithm that decides which matched pair lives through Transference and which one dies. The machine that's slaughtered thousands while claiming to save the species from Veris. The coldest bastard in the Consortium's command structure.

And apparently, your genetic twin. Your perfect fucking match.

"This is a joke, right?" Your laugh scrapes raw from your throat. "The great rebel hacker and the Consortium's prize tactician? What, did they manipulate my profile in the database?"

Yoongi doesn't bother looking up, fingers skimming over the interface. His hands are scarred from years of working with explosives, chemical burns mapping a history of missions across his skin. 

“Database is clean. This is a primary pull, not from the central network. Direct sample comparison."

The reality sinks teeth into your gut. "He'll know."

"Already does." Yoongi's voice drops lower. "Alert went system-wide the moment the match registered. They'll be hunting you."

"They've been hunting me for years." 

You check your gear reflexively—blade at your hip, pistol in its holster, backup knife in your boot. The weight is familiar, comforting in its lethality. 

"This just changes the price on my head."

"This isn't a bounty adjustment." Yoongi finally looks up, and the rare direct eye contact makes your spine stiffen. "This is different. The Consortium needs you alive now. Intact. For Transference."

The word hangs between you like a death sentence, which it is. 

One match survives the procedure. One dies. 

The Epitaph Algorithm determines which—its selection criteria known only to Namjoon himself.

"I'm not surrendering to that death lottery," you say, checking the ammunition counter on your pistol. "Especially not with him on the other end."

"Not asking you to." 

Yoongi rises, tucking the portable interface into his pack. You catch the faint scent of explosives that always clings to him, metallic and sharp. 

"But Jimin's on his way with news. High-level Consortium chatter. We need to know what we're dealing with."

Your jaw tightens. "We're dealing with me on a countdown to either execution or unwanted immunity."

The door to the outpost slides open with a pneumatic hiss, admitting a gust of cold air that tastes like steel and chemical runoff—the familiar breath of Hollow Crest's lower levels. 

Jimin steps through, silver-blonde hair stark against his stealth gear. Despite the urgency, he moves with no wasted energy.

One look at his face tells you everything.

"They've adjusted the standard protocols," he says, not bothering with greetings. "Consortium's deploying specialized units. They want you within the hour."

"They can keep wanting." You check your comm unit, scanning frequencies for Consortium chatter. "I'll be halfway to the Scorch Rift by then."

Jimin's hand closes around your wrist, his grip stronger than his frame suggests. "You don't understand. They've instituted a Protection Protocol. Anyone harboring you is marked for immediate execution. Anyone helping you escape—the same. They've already deployed squads to known Shroud safehouses."

The implications wash over you like acid. 

"They're forcing allies to become hunters."

"It gets worse." 

Jimin releases your wrist, pulling up a projection from his own comm unit. A holographic map of Hollow Crest shivers to life between you, red markers pulsing at key tunnel junctions. 

"They've sealed all primary exits. Secondary routes are being patrolled by drones. They're not just hunting you—they're burning the entire sector to flush you out."

"Because of a blood match?" Your voice sharpens. "They've never gone this far for a Transference capture."

"You've never seen a 100% match before." Yoongi's voice drops like a stone. "Nobody has. The implications for the Epitaph System itself..."

The words die as a distant boom shakes dust from the ceiling. Proximity charges. Consortium's getting closer.

"We need to move," Jimin says, already gathering his pack. "Safe route through maintenance shaft C4 is still clear. We've got maybe twenty minutes before they sweep this sector."

You grab your gear, muscle memory taking over while your mind races. "Where's Jungkook? And Taehyung?"

"Jungkook's creating diversions near the border checkpoints," Jimin answers, checking the seal on his mask. "Taehyung was on a supply run when the alert went out. Still no contact."

Something cold settles in your stomach. 

Taehyung going silent during a crisis never ends well.

The three of you move into the tunnel, the faint blue-green phosphorescent fungi that crawls along the walls providing just enough light to navigate by. The air grows thicker as you descend, way too dense woth mineral dust and the peculiar damp of Hollow Crest's recirculated atmosphere.

"Wait." 

You freeze, one hand raised. The tunnel ahead is silent—too silent. Even the distant hum of ventilation systems seems muffled. 

“Something's wrong."

Yoongi's hand goes to the explosive charges at his belt, a reflex born from years of narrow escapes. 

Jimin pulls a scanner from his jacket, checking for life signs.

"Clear readings," he whispers, "but something's interfering with—"

The wall to your right explodes inward, chunks of concrete and metal rebar ripping through the air. The concussive force throws you against the opposite wall, your shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. 

Through dust and debris, armored figures pour into the tunnel—Consortium Purifiers, their masks filtering the dust, weapons raised.

You draw your pistol in one fluid motion, muscle memory overriding the pain screaming through your shoulder. 

Two shots—the first catches a Purifier in the neck joint of their armor, the second misses as the tunnel fills with suppression gas. 

Yoongi hurls something toward the breach, a small device that clatters among the Purifiers' feet. 

“Down!" he shouts, and you have just enough time to cover your face before the flashbang detonates, momentarily blinding your attackers.

Your blade finds the gap in a Purifier's armor as they stumble. Jimin is now using his modified medical tools as weapons, striking pressure points. Yoongi creates chaos, small charges blasting debris to create cover.

But there are too many. 

For every Purifier that falls, two more push through the breach. 

Your lungs burn from the suppression gas, vision narrowing as your body fights the sedative compounds. 

Beside you, Jimin staggers, his reactions slowing.

A voice cuts through the haze—amplified, cold, and terrifyingly familiar even though you've only heard it through propaganda broadcasts.

"Stand down." 

Commander Kim Namjoon steps through the chaos, flanked by elite guards. 

The architect of the Epitaph System himself—a tall figure in black tactical gear that absorbs the meager light. 

His eyes are obsidian dark and assessing as they lock onto you. A streak of white cuts through his otherwise black hair—a genetic marker you've seen in Consortium propaganda. 

The mark of exceptional neural development.

"Rebel." 

The word sounds wrong in his mouth. 

"Resistance will only result in collateral damage to your associates. The Transference Protocol has been initiated."

You raise your pistol, aiming directly at his head. 

"Then why don't I save us all the trouble and put a bullet in your skull right now? No match, no protocol."

He doesn't even blink. "Because the Consortium has already deployed Purification squads to three rebel safehouses. Your cooperation ensures their survival. Your resistance guarantees their execution."

Your finger hovers on the trigger, hatred a physical pressure behind your eyes. 

You could do it. End the architect of so much suffering with a single shot. 

But the calculation is clear—he wouldn't be here without insurance policies in place.

"You're lying," you snarl, but doubt creeps in—because you know the Consortium would absolutely slaughter innocents to secure a prize like you.

"I don't lie when the truth is more effective." He responds monotonically. "Sixty days. The standard countdown for all matched pairs before Transference. Cooperate, and no one else dies today."

Beside you, Jimin struggles to stand, the suppression gas taking its toll. Yoongi has gone completely still.

"And if I refuse? If I put a bullet in your brain right now?" 

"Then you eliminate the only person with authority to call off the Purification squads." 

His lips curve in what might be a smile on anyone else. 

On him, it's just another weapon. 

"Your reputation suggests you're many things, but not someone who sacrifices innocents for personal vendettas."

The worst part is he's right. You've spent years ensuring your actions hurt the Consortium, not its victims. 

Still, your finger remains on the trigger, the temptation almost overwhelming.

Namjoon extends a hand, palm up. Empty. A gesture that should appear peaceful but somehow reads as the most threatening thing you've ever seen.

"Sixty days. Then the Epitaph Algorithm determines our fate. Until then, neither side benefits from pointless casualties."

You lower your weapon slowly, hate burning cold in your chest. 

“When this is over, only one of us walks away." 

"Indeed. Those are the terms of Transference."

As Purifiers move to secure you, you lock eyes with Yoongi. A slight nod passes between you—the signal established years ago. 

This isn't surrender. It's tactical repositioning. You'll find another angle, another weakness to exploit. 

You always do.

The Commander steps closer, and you catch his scent—cold stone and mineral water, like a mountain stream in winter. Nothing warm or human. It fits.

"Welcome to the Epitaph Program, rebel."

You bare your teeth in what no one would mistake for a smile. 

"Looking forward to watching you die, Commander."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes—the first genuine reaction you've seen. Good. You've found a nerve. You'll need every advantage for what's coming.

Because one thing is certain: in sixty days, either Commander Kim Namjoon dies, or you do.

And you've never been good at dying.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You're seated across from the man who built the machine that's going to kill one of you in sixty days. 

Or part of it. Not that you care what his stupid fucking job really entails.

The transport vehicle reeks of fear and industrial disinfectant, and the restraints around your wrists are some kind of adaptive metal—tight enough to cut circulation if you struggle, loose enough to maintain the illusion that cooperation might earn you breathing room.

It won't.

Commander Kim Namjoon hasn't looked at you since the Purifiers loaded you into the back of this armored carrier. He's reviewing something on a tablet, stylus moving across the screen. 

That silver strand of hair stands out like a scar, and you imagine pulling it out. 

You inwardly promise yourself one day you’ll do it.

You then catalog details because that's what keeps you alive. Emergency release on the restraints—magnetic, probably voice-activated by his authorization. Door mechanism—sealed from the outside, no manual override. Two Purifiers flanking the exit, weapons drawn but not aimed. They're confident you're contained.

Fucking amateurs.

The vehicle hits a pothole, jarring your shoulder against the metal wall. The impact sends fire down your arm where you took that hit during the tunnel breach. You don't let the pain show on your face.

Never give them ammunition.

"Impressive response time," you say, breaking the silence because you need to understand his operational patterns. "From match notification to capture—what, forty-seven minutes? Someone's been planning for contingencies."

He doesn't look up from his tablet. "Standard protocol accounts for high-value targets attempting immediate extraction."

"High-value." You test the word, find it bitter. "That what I am now?"

"You are a 100% genetic match." His voice carries no inflection, like he's reading from a technical manual. "The first documented case in Epitaph Program history. Your research value exceeds your threat designation."

Research value. 

Like you're a fucking specimen.

You lean forward as much as the restraints allow, forcing him to acknowledge your presence. 

“Let me guess—you're going to poke and prod and analyze every cell in my body to figure out why the great Algorithm paired us up. See if you can replicate the conditions."

That gets a reaction. His stylus stops moving. His eyes lift from the screen to meet yours, and for a split second you see something flicker behind the cold assessment—irritation, maybe. Or calculation.

"The Algorithm doesn't make errors," he says. "If we're matched, there's a biological imperative the system recognized that we haven't yet identified."

We. Like you're partners in this.

"Sorry to break it to you, Commander, but the only biological imperative I have regarding you is figuring out which vital organ to perforate first."

He sets the tablet aside, giving you his full attention for the first time since the capture; and the weight of his focus is unsettling—like being examined by something predatory that's deciding whether you're worth the effort to kill.

"Your reputation suggests tactical intelligence despite emotional volatility," he says. "The Algorithm factors psychological compatibility alongside genetic markers. There must be structural similarities in our cognitive architecture."

The clinical way he dissects the situation makes your skin crawl. 

"Structural similarities. Right. Because we're both such charming personalities."

"Neither of us appears capable of forming conventional emotional attachments. We prioritize mission objectives over personal sentiment. We've both sacrificed individuals we were responsible for when strategic necessity demanded it."

The observation hits like a blade between ribs. 

Too accurate. Too specific.

"Sounds like you've done your homework."

"I researched your operational history after the match registered. Hollow Crest tunnels, Mournwell extraction, the data theft from Virex Shard. Your tactical approach is methodical. Ruthless when required." His head tilts slightly, studying you like a particularly interesting equation. "Not what I expected from rebel psychological profiles."

"Disappointed I don't fit your propaganda?"

"Intrigued that you understand the necessity of calculated sacrifice."

The words land where he wants them to, and you realize he's testing you. 

Probing for reaction points. 

Two can play that game.

"Calculated sacrifice," you repeat, letting mockery creep into your voice. "Is that what you call the thousands who've died in your Transference chambers? Calculations?"

Something shifts in his expression—subtle, but you've spent years reading micro-expressions in combat situations. His jaw tightens by maybe half a millimeter.

"Every death serves species survival. Individual casualties are regrettable but necessary to prevent extinction-level population decline."

"How convenient that you get to decide who's expendable."

"The Algorithm decides."

"You built the Algorithm."

"I built a system that makes optimal choices without emotional compromise."

You lean back, studying him. "And what happens when the system decides you're expendable? When we're strapped into those chairs and your precious Algorithm picks me to survive?"

For several seconds, he doesn't respond. It’s just your breathing, his, and the vehicle’s engine.

"The Algorithm doesn't account for personal preference," he finally says. "If it selects you, the result serves optimal biological continuation."

"That's not what I asked."

His fingers drum once against his knee—such a small gesture you almost miss it. "I've prepared for all possible outcomes."

Bullshit. Nobody prepares to die, not really. 

And especially not someone who's spent years playing god with other people's lives.

You're about to press the point when the vehicle lurches to a halt. The Purifiers straighten, hands tightening on their weapons.

Through the small reinforced window, you catch a glimpse of Valis Core's outer ring—towering spires of black stone and steel that seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. 

The architecture is designed to intimidate, and you hate that it's effective.

"Welcome to your new accommodations," Namjoon says, rising as the rear doors unlock. "I trust you'll find them... sufficient."

The way he says sufficient makes it sound like a threat.

One of the Purifiers moves to release your restraints, and you resist the urge to test their reflexes. 

Not yet. 

You need to understand the lay of the land first, map escape routes, identify weaknesses.

Patience. Even when everything in you screams to fight.

"After you," you say as the metal cuffs retract. "Wouldn't want to miss the grand tour."

He steps aside to let you exit first, a gesture that might seem polite if not for the armed guards surrounding the vehicle. 

The Epitaph Citadel looms ahead, its central spire disappearing into the aurora-streaked sky. 

Somewhere inside that building is the machine that will determine which of you dies.

Sixty days.

You step forward, boots ringing against polished stone, and don't look back to see if Commander Kim Namjoon is following.

He is, of course. 

You can feel his presence like static electricity—a constant, irritating awareness that prickles along your spine.

This is going to be a very long sixty days.

But you've survived worse odds before. And if the Algorithm thinks it can break you down into components and variables, it's about to learn something new about what happens when you back a Hollow Crest tunnel rat into a corner.

You don't go quietly. You bring the whole fucking place down with you.

Your boots hit the ground with excessive force once you make it to the Citadel.

It’s obscenely loud, in comparison to the city. 

But that’s good. They should know you're not going quietly.

The atmosphere is sterile, a half-hearted attempt at breathable. Your lungs reject it on instinct, tasting the air in all its hollow decadence—too clean, too wrong, stripped bare.

You take three steps toward the massive entrance before Commander Kim falls into step beside you. 

Then ahead of you.

The audacity.

He walks like he owns every molecule of air in this place, shoulders straight, pace measured. Like you're supposed to follow him like some obedient fucking pet.

You stop walking.

The sudden halt makes the Purifiers behind you tense, hands shifting on their weapons. But you're not looking at them. You're staring at the back of Namjoon's head, at that streak of silver cutting through black hair.

"Is there an issue?" He doesn't turn around. Doesn't even slow his stride.

"Yeah, actually." Your voice carries across the courtyard. "Where exactly do you think you're going?"

Now he stops. Turns. Those dark eyes scan you like you’re a broken system readout—something in need of diagnostics.

"To show you your living arrangements."

Living arrangements.

“Be deadass right now."

A slight head tilt. That’s all you get while he tries to decrypt whatever ‘deadass’ means.

And failing, because apparently fluency in rebel sarcasm isn’t part of the Citadel curriculum.

"The Transference Protocol requires proximity monitoring. You'll be housed in the Citadel for the duration of the countdown."

Housed. 

Like livestock.

Your feet plant themselves against the stone, rooted by pure stubborn fury. 

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Your preferences are irrelevant." He states it like a law of physics. "The sixty-day monitoring period begins immediately."

"Monitoring—" 

The word sticks in your throat like glass. 

Because now you understand. 

This isn't just imprisonment. They're going to watch you. Study you. Document every heartbeat and breath and moment of weakness while you wait to die.

"No." The word tears out of you, rough and raw. "Absolutely fucking not."

One of the Purifiers steps forward, clearly interpreting your refusal as a threat. Namjoon raises a hand—barely a gesture—and the guard freezes.

"Resistance will not alter the Protocol," he says. "Your genetic compatibility requires observation to understand the unprecedented synchronization patterns. This is not negotiable."

The clinical way he dissects your future makes your skin crawl—as if you're already dead, just a collection of data points waiting to be analyzed.

"I'd rather take my chances in the execution chamber."

"That option is no longer available."

The Purifier behind you moves—not threatening, but positioning. Ready to assist if you decide to bolt. 

Your muscles coil instinctively, mapping distances, calculating angles.

Could you take three armed guards? Probably not without significant injury. Could you reach a weapon? Maybe, if you were fast enough and lucky enough and willing to sacrifice—

"Walk," Namjoon says, and somehow that single word carries more menace than any threat. "Or be carried. Your dignity is the only variable you control."

Dignity.

The bastard knows exactly which nerve to hit.

You force your feet to move, each step feeling like capitulation. But you're not surrendering. You're adapting. Learning the terrain. 

Finding the cracks you'll eventually exploit.

Namjoon resumes walking, and you fall into step beside him—not behind, because fuck him and his superiority complex—matching his pace. 

If he notices the aggressive mirror of his movement, he doesn't acknowledge it.

"The monitoring period involves shared tactical exercises," he continues, voice neutral as he explains your nightmare. "Joint mission parameters across multiple sectors. Physiological compatibility assessments every forty-eight hours."

Shared tactical exercises. Joint missions.

The implications hit like hammer blows.

"You're saying we're going to be—" Your voice catches. Clears. Continues with forced steel. "Working together."

"The Protocol requires operational cooperation. Your survival skills complement my strategic analysis. The Consortium benefits from the collaboration while studying our genetic synchronization."

Our. Like you're a team. Like you've chosen this.

"And if I refuse to cooperate?"

He stops again, turning to face you fully. 

For the second time since the capture, you have his complete attention. It feels like standing in the path of an avalanche.

"Then you remain confined to observation chambers while your rebel associates face the consequences of harboring a Priority Target."

The threat lands exactly where he aimed it. 

Yoongi. Jimin. Even Jungkook, wherever he is. 

Your cooperation isn't just about your own survival—it's about keeping the Consortium from turning their very considerable attention toward hunting down everyone you've ever worked with.

Checkmate in three fucking moves.

You want to hit him. Want to drive your fist into that perfectly composed face and watch him bleed. Want to see if anything human exists behind those calculating eyes.

Instead, you smile. Sharp enough to cut.

"How thoughtful of you to give me such compelling motivation."

"I find practical incentives more effective than ideological appeals."

"Right. Because you're such a practical man." 

He turns and continues walking toward the Citadel's entrance—a massive archway that seems designed to swallow people whole. You follow because the alternative is being dragged, and you'll be damned if you give him that satisfaction.

But with every step, rage builds like pressure behind your ribs.

Sixty days of this. Sixty days of shared missions and proximity monitoring and having to look at his face while he calmly explains how one of you is going to die.

Sixty days of pretending cooperation while planning his destruction.

The entrance hall is honestly ugly—all polished black stone and cold light, very Citadel vibes. The sound of your booths get swallowed by the vast empty space.

"Your quarters are on Level Seven," Namjoon says as you walk. "Adjacent to the monitoring facilities. Meals are provided at scheduled intervals. Personal effects will be processed and returned based on security assessment."

Adjacent to monitoring facilities. Of course.

"And you?" The question slips out before you can stop it. "Where are your quarters?"

He glances at you—a quick, measuring look. "Level Eight. Protocol requires close proximity without direct cohabitation during the initial assessment period."

One floor up. Close enough to respond to any emergency, far enough to maintain the illusion of separate accommodation.

Your laugh scrapes raw from your throat. "How considerate. Wouldn't want to make this too uncomfortable."

"Comfort is not a consideration. Operational efficiency is."

You turn back to face him, noting the way he’s positioned himself just outside striking distance. Like he’s calculated exactly how far your reach extends if you actually wanted to drag his stupid face through the ground.

Probably has.

“You think you’re clever.” Your voice comes out rougher than intended. “Backing me into corners, limiting my options. Playing chess while I’m stuck playing checkers.”

His head tilts again—that same assessment that makes your skin crawl.

“I think you’re more intelligent than your file suggests. And far more dangerous than standard containment protocols account for.” His eyes never leave yours. “Which is why we’re having this conversation instead of proceeding with unconscious transport to a restraint chair.”

The casual mention of restraints sends ice through your veins. “So kind of you.”

“Practical.” He gestures toward the door again. “As I said, entirely your choice. Cooperation with dignity, or compliance without it.”

Choice. Like either option doesn’t end with you trapped in his maze.

But he’s right about one thing—your dignity is all you have left. And you’d rather walk into hell on your own terms than be dragged.

You step toward the door, noting the way he doesn’t relax until you’re moving in the right direction.

Smart man. You are exactly as dangerous as he suspects.

Maybe more.

The biometric scanner reads your palm print, and the door slides open. 

The room beyond is… not what you expected. Clean. Comfortable. Almost pleasant, if you can ignore the complete absence of windows or any view of the outside world.

“Welcome to your new home,” Namjoon says from behind you. “I trust you’ll find it adequate.”

You step inside, already cataloging the space. Bed. Desk. Small attached bathroom. No obvious surveillance equipment, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

“When do these interaction periods start?” 

You don’t turn around, afraid you’ll throttle him if you see his expression once more.

“Tomorrow. After you’ve had time to… acclimate.”

The pause before acclimate tells you everything you need to know. They expect you to break down. To crack under the pressure of isolation and impending death.

They’re going to be utterly, vastly disappointed.

You turn to face him one last time before the door closes between you.

“See you tomorrow, Commander.”

His eyes meet yours, and for just a moment, something passes between you. 

Recognition, maybe. 

Or the acknowledgment that this is going to be a very long sixty days for both of you.

“Indeed.”

The door slides shut with finality that feels like a coffin lid closing.

You’re alone. Trapped. 

Sixty days from either death or unwanted salvation.

But you’re still breathing. Still thinking. Still planning.

And Commander Kim Namjoon has no idea what he’s just locked himself in close proximity with.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[jungkart]

C:E!Namjoon

Namjoon — Code : Epitaph (fanfic) by @jungkoode

art by jungkart. do not repost. all rights reserved.

[andy-zone]

Pregunta para cery ¿de quién estas enamorado?

C:es obvio,de mi Broken ^^

[vidasempretoebranco]

C:Pode continuar falando. Só fala comigo, nem ligo sobre o que. Adoro ouvir a sua voz.

A:Acho minha voz tão feia...

C:Porque acha isso?

A:Ela é muito grossa

C:E é exatamente por isso que gosto tanto dela. É uma voz diferente de todas as outras, é só sua, é grossa, é profunda e eu adoro ouvir você falando.

A:Você sempre encontra um jeito de fazer eu ficar com vergonha, né?

Ele diz isso acariciando meus cabelos enquanto eu ouço o bater ritmado de seu coração, deitada em seu peito.

C:Eu nunca tenho a intenção de fazer você ficar com vergonha, só quero que você se veja como eu o vejo.

A:Você vê uma versão muito bonita de mim, uma que eu nem sei se existe.

C:Ela existe quando você está aqui comigo. Você me faz rir, me faz suspirar. Toda vez que estou contigo me divirto muito e sorrio sempre que chega uma mensagem sua. Gosto dessa sensação.

A:Eu gosto quando a gente tá junto também. Você faz eu me sentir bem comigo mesmo.

Levanto minha cabeça de seu peito e o beijo. Não consigo evitar de sorrir e o sinto sorrindo quando nossos lábios se encontram novamente. Abro os olhos e encontro seus lindos olhos azuis me olhando e sorrindo. Ganho meu dia, a semana. Suas mãos já estão me puxando novamente para ele, colando nossos corpos, acariciando meu corpo. Seus lábios tocam os meus e nossas línguas se encontram em um beijo delicioso, calmo, sem pressa, só um beijo que precisava ser dado.

[vannersource]

Vanner for Cosmo Korea

[lesbian-octoling]

Well, I was there and I saw what you did I saw it with my own two eyes