June 2016, an abandoned lot near Daejeon

The landing gear of the helicopter meets land around two hours of a silent, tense ride later in an abandoned warehouse backlot, close enough to the city lights you noticed earlier but far enough away to reduce any attention called to the noise of the whipping blades.

You drop down first, then extend a hand to help the hopelessly underdressed Baekhyun down. BoA steps down next, but she quickly pulls you into a tight embrace and shoves a giant wad of crumpled bills into your hands.

“Unnie, what--”

“You have to take him and hide. I can’t go with you further than this; I need to get back and oversee the investigation into this whole mess. But it’s not safe for him, not for any of them.”

She beckons to the helicopter pilot, who opens his door to hand her a notepad and pen. Knee up on one of the landing gear’s steps, BoA fights the wind from the blades and scribbles down a quick note before tearing the sheet. Her hair whips into her face, but she doesn’t notice -- her eyes are only focused on her writing. Her arm extends towards you, the tiny scrap of paper bending and threatening to fly out of her grasp.

“Here,” she calls out, fighting to be heard above the sound of the helicopter. “It’s a number to reach me at; specifically for emergencies like this. Only a few trusted people know about it and it’s not supposed to be used unless… unless everything goes haywire and I need to have a lockdown. Don’t call me here unless it’s an absolute emergency and you think someone is coming after him to put your lives in danger.”

You swear you hear her mutter something like ‘and this is why nobody else wants to work with alien research’ under her breath, but it’s hard to be sure above the din.

“Take the cash, use it to get somewhere safe. Don’t try to tell me where you are; don’t try to get in contact with anyone else until you hear from me. IF you hear from me. If nothing else happens, just keep him safe and find a place to hide or blend in without anyone noticing.”

Pupils are blown wide in fear, you have a million questions to ask. But when you open your mouth to protest, BoA waves her hand and looks at Baekhyun before giving you a pointed look.

“Go to a bank, withdraw all you’ve got, and ditch your phone. Get a new one on a totally different carrier and don’t trust anyone who approaches you first. It’s life or death, Doctor Aeri, you need to figure it out. I’ll do my best to get to the bottom of this and find you when everything’s fixed and it’s safe.”

“But how am I supposed to--”

“It’ll be hard,” BoA interrupts, eyes sympathetic but determined. She grasps your arm, squeezing tightly in an effort to bolster your self-confidence. “But I know you can do it.”

Then she disappears, back in the helicopter, and is lifted away. You squint upwards at the retreating aircraft with hand raised as a visor over your brow, a sinking feeling of dread filling your soul. 

The sounds of the helicopter’s blades eventually fade, and you drop your hand to your side in resignation. The Being, Baekhyun, eyes you closely, with an expression eerily similar to understanding and comfort, and you shake the strange feeling of familiarity. He’s not human, you remind yourself. And he doesn’t speak Korean. It’s on me to keep him alive.

You reach out a hand as a mother reaches out for a child -- almost instinctively, with your new mandate to protect -- but Baekhyun curiously watches the gesture before slipping an elegant hand into your palm with nothing more than the wordless crinkle of the shock blanket serving as his clothing. It surprises you to see him respond so accurately -- but perhaps there was much more to the Beings than even you could try to comprehend. You smile at him then, and if you push your imagination, you might even say that his lips curl in the hint of a smile back.

“Come on,” you say, no longer caring about his language ability and resolving only to focus on the task at hand -- one task at a time, until he’s truly safe. No matter how long it might take. “Let’s get you some real clothes.”

Bathed in the dim yellow glow of street lamps, you trudge towards a main road.

-------------

If the taxi driver you hail has questions about the man (covered in a silver blanket) in his backseat, he doesn’t ask. It’s well past midnight by now in Daejeon, and he figures you’re just a pair of drunk idiots after a scandalous night at a love hotel. Well, at least, that’s what you think he’s assuming, from what you can glean from the smirk painted across his features that reflects in the man’s rearview mirror. You purse your lips and cross your arms, pulling the lapels of your lab coat tighter together. It’s a legitimate work uniform, not a scandalous roleplay costume (it’s from the Korean government, for goodness’ sake!) -- but it’s not like you can expect this man to know that. But you suppose that his silence is better than his questions. You’re not even sure what kinds of answers you could conjure up to at least make some semblance of sense.

“Where ya headed?” He asks gruffly, and peers up at you. Baekhyun doesn’t notice; he’s watching the world fly by outside the window.

“Daejeon Station,” you say quickly after consulting the image of the train schedules on your phone. You’ll ditch the device at the station, you think. There are a few people you need to contact and there are routes you need to check first before getting rid of it -- but in the least you know not to directly search for your true end location.

“Heading where? You know there are two main stations that could lead you to any number of places.”

“Uh,” you reply intelligently, looking back down at your phone. “Osong.”

The driver grunts in agreement -- Daejeon’s the right station to go to if that’s where you’re headed, and he’s silent for the rest of the ride.

Your back falls into the seat, exhausted now that the adrenaline has lessened somewhat from immediate fight-or-flight and settled into I-need-a-new-identity-and-a-home-right-now-and-I-have-an-alien-to-babysit instead. BoA assured you that she would take care of your affairs in Seoul, but that left you to focus on the difficult part: trying to lie low with virtually no resources and no thought-out plan.

Thankfully, the driver’s questions on your route helped you obfuscate your true destination -- Mokpo, in order to catch a ferry to Jeju. It was quiet, you knew, especially in the dead of winter, and you figured you could secure a low-level part-time job and an apartment with low rent with better ease than Seoul. If anyone wanted to kill you and Baekhyun, they’d have to leave the mainland to do so.

You begin to sort out the wad of bills BoA gave you before departing; naturally, they’re clumped together and not organized in the slightest. Pressing each bill flat against your thigh in an effort to straighten them, one note drops. You bend to grab it from the floor of the vehicle, but a crinkle sounds and warm fingers press the fallen bill into your palm. Looking up, you see Baekhyun watching you with eyes crinkled into half-moons. It’s a natural smile, a strikingly heartwarming one -- and it contrasts so, so starkly against the gravity of your situation. But you smile instinctively, your body responding to the positive emotional cues for you.

The driver’s eyes pick up on this in the rearview mirror, and the mock-scandalized chuckle he gives you jolts you back to cold, hard reality.

“Cute couple,” he comments. “Wild night?”

Your mind races. It’ll help to have a cover story, a way to erase your tracks. “Yup!” A forced, stereotypical girlish giggle leaves your throat as you toss some aegyo gestures in the general direction of the extraterrestrial seated beside you. “Keep our secrets for us, yeah?”

The taxi driver just shakes his head in humor, and places his eyes back on the road. You clear your throat, iron out the money Baekhyun just handed you, and count out the fare you’ll need when you arrive.

--------

Despite the sheer intelligence you feel lurking behind those beautiful brown eyes, trying to get Baekhyun in human clothing proves to be more of an adventure than not.

First you shove Baekhyun into the first single-stalled, lockable public restroom you can find at the station, before scurrying off to the first ATM for your bank that you can see (you’re not about to risk an ATM percentage fee when every cent may determine how long you can keep the two of you alive). Then you’re off to procure the cheapest clothing possible -- which unfortunately happen to be a giant tourist T-shirt with the Daejeon O-World theme park printed in garish colors on it, and a pair of khaki shorts. Calf-high dad-socks and the somehow-fashionable ‘ugly shoe’ rounds out the look, but you hope to the heavens that Baekhyun will grace the outfit with enough confidence to pull it off as a trendsetter.

You dash back to the restroom, knocking on the door until it cracks open a sliver and those brown eyes stare at you, wide and open. Pressing your shoulder into the door, you purposely avert your gaze as you throw the bags of clothing at him.

In Korean, you tell him to get dressed. But as soon as the words are out of your mouth, you realize the error of your ways. He may be humanoid… but… the Beings were found . Would they know how to --?

You peek at the man -- person -- alien -- only to find him peering curiously in the bags, sans mylar blanket to cover him.

Forcing your gaze above his very bare waist, you creep towards the bags and lean down -- looking away when appropriate -- and using only the sensation in your fingers, you pull out each article of clothing. You’d forgotten boxers -- not having ever worn them yourself -- and you sigh inwardly. This will have to do. The clothes are quickly divested of their packaging, and you help gesture to Baekhyun in an effort to show him how to dress.

The shirt goes smoothly, perhaps thanks to its sheer size and large margin of error, and the pants go on reasonably smoothly but as soon as Baekhyun lifts up a foot to put a sock on, the pants slide down to his knees. You yelp, startling the poor guy (who gives you an incredulous, alarmed look, like he thinks you’re the nutcase alien and you’re invading his home planet), but he calms himself quickly with what you’d call a disapproving glare.

You gesture at his waist. “Um, there’s a zipper. To hold things up.”

Baekhyun looks down. So do you. Thankfully the shirt hangs low enough to provide the man some decency. You wince, knowing what you have to do, and you gingerly step closer. Baekhyun gives you the same look of almost angry alarm, but you pull the pants up and help secure the zipper while pulling the fabric as far away from his crotch as you can. You’re about to fasten the button, which is slightly more intimate and closer to his body, but deft fingers bat your hands away and Baekhyun successfully fastens the pants after two failed attempts.

He looks up at you triumphantly, and you swear his throat makes a little ‘hmph!’ of proud indignation. Irritated, you clear your throat and nod your head at the shoes and socks, and Baekhyun’s gaze falters. But he manages to get them on with reasonable efficacy -- up to a point. He fumbles with the shoelaces, configuring them in ways you’ve never seen even the most confused child try, and after watching a few amusing tries you bend down to squat (not kneel -- not in a public restroom, no no) before affixing his shoelaces in two neatly tied bows.

You look up at him with a satisfied smile, and Baekhyun just tilts his head at you. It’s interesting, you, think, how much a human learns and ingrains into second nature. You promise yourself never to take the workings of a pants zipper for granted ever again.

------------

Hours later you finally make it to the docks, your wallet filled with the bills from your now-drained savings account, your phone in pieces with SIM card and battery removed. You and Baekhyun sit on a bench nearby, two tickets to Jeju held in Baekhyun’s fingers (what, you needed to give him something to do) as you await the ferry that will take you to your new, foreign home.

It’s the first bit of a breather you’ve had since BoA dropped you off several hours ago, and it’s odd to sit by the coast in a few beats of stillness. The backdrop is beautiful, but it’s hard to appreciate with your survival and your ward on the line. Baekhyun turns to face you, gaze softening, and it strikes you that his species is deeply emotional -- if anything you’ve learned from interacting with him in the past twelve hours or observing footage of the beings in the lab, it’s that they’re not so different from you.

Apart from the superhuman abilities, of course.

“Sorry,” you say aloud -- partly to Baekhyun and partly to nobody in particular. “I did my best to pursue good and ethics and the betterment of humanity, but I failed.”

A pale hand reaches out to squeeze your forearm, and you’re surprised to see Baekhyun scoot closer.

“Thanks,” you reply instinctively, and the man smiles.

Then a loud horn sounds, and you both jump out of your seats. Baekhyun’s fingers open and the tickets go flying. You scream first, pointing and running towards the little slips of paper to chase them, but Baekhyun is faster and gets to them first. You press a hand to your chest in an effort to tamp down the sheer panic coursing through your veins, but with a few deep breaths you find yourself stabilizing.

Oddly enough, it’s Baekhyun who gestures at the walkway up to the ferry first. You’re about to follow when you remember something important.

“One sec,” you tell him, holding an index finger up. Reaching into your bag, you find your smartphone and SIM card. You allow yourself one last wistful look at the photographs and messages and memories stored on the device, before bending down to place both items on the floor. You take a sharp inhale, then drive your heel into the phone -- the sim card next -- then pick up both and chuck them into the rocky water below.

Walking back to where Baekhyun stands, you take your ticket. In your seat on the ferry, you power on a new, paid-for-in-cash phone.

----------------------------------------------------------

January 2016, S.M. Research Facility #52

“Okay,” you breathe out, looking over the mishmash of colorful highlights in your Project Exodeux binder. “So, aliens.”

It’s only been a week since you first started, but you’ve already made it a point to eke out every possible detail about your specimens as you can. If you’re going to investigate the ethics of this project and to suggest anything, you’ll need every tidbit of information you can get. One of your coworkers, as sassy and sharp as they are, quickly rises above the rest as someone who cares as much as you and BoA do, but unfortunately for you his patience is limited with your peppering of questions.

“Yes, Doctor Aeri, aliens. We’ve established this. Any other coherent thoughts for the day?”

You glare at him, but Kim Kibum (Key, as you usually call him) just throws his head back in a laugh.

“Just kidding. What’s your follow-up question? I’m assuming you have many.”

You take in a deep breath, then unleash your flurry of queries. He looks shocked, but smiles and answers each one as rapidly as you fire them at him.

-----------

February 2016, S.M. Research Facility #52

For the most part, your work with the lab goes smoothly; you analyze readings from the tanks of both the originals and the clones, run the numbers, postulate a bit. You spend a good portion of your days going over some of the papers you read for your doctorate, trying to glean answers that will help direct the project in the most ethical path. Your labmates are effective and keen; BoA’s certainly selected a good group.

But one day is a little more rigid than the others; a visit throws off the entire atmosphere by putting BoA on edge -- and when your team lead doesn’t feel right, nobody else feels right either. Your entire team stands, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the containment hall as BoA’s former partner and now-boss and a few extremely decorated members of the military survey the specimens.

“Why’s the military here?”  You hiss as quietly as you can, leaning over to make sure Key can hear you.

“I don’t know,” he fires back. “But I don’t like it. It can only mean one thing: weaponizing people genetically.”
 

A shiver of disgust runs down your spine -- if anything is the antithesis to your literal thesis, it’s using genetic editing for war. BoA glances over at you, and you share a brief moment of understanding. She looks somewhat pained; she must be. You know from the collection of confidential footage in her room that Yunho’s been her friend and partner for a long time -- if he’s selling out in the fashion that everyone in the room thinks he is, it must come as a great disappointment.

You can’t catch the words of Yunho’s conversation with the few generals. Despite the echoing, cavernous structure of the hall, they speak only in hushed tones well out of earshot. But you can see their greasy grins from where you stand, and you can safely say you’re not fond of the exaggerated machismo and confidence oozing from the pores of the men in uniform. You can respect people who enter the military with noble intentions; what you can’t respect are people who stay in it for far more nefarious, self-serving purposes. The lab group takes a collective sigh of relief as Yunho escorts the guests out of the hall. All of the previous, apprehensive tension in the air dissolves, and you all fan out to the various containment tanks to redo all the checks.
 

You pass by Specimen #4’s tank, hovering around it to make sure all the pressure gauges and valves are tightly screwed and that the monitoring devices weren’t tampered with. But something catches your eye as you pass in front on your way out. You yelp, and Key rushes over to your assistance.

“Is everything okay? What is it, did they do something to the tanks? What happened?”

With a tiny gesture, you point up at the window of the tank -- through which the specimen stares at you through half-lidded eyes.

Key scowls, mock-punching you in the arm. “Seriously? You’ve worked here for months now and that still throws you off?”

“What do you mean, still?” You retort. “He’s watching me, Key, that’s totally weird. I thought you said they were unconscious!”

“I said we think they’re likely unconscious; I made no such factual statements. And what? Have you really never seen that? Their neurological activity is pretty low beyond the vitals, you know, they’re probably not trying very hard to keep their eyelids shut. It happens from time to time; kinda creepy, but you get used to it. Helps that they’re all super handsome.”

He’s not entirely wrong, but it’s still… peculiar. Key rolls his eyes and makes for the door, but you lift yourself on your tiptoes to survey Specimen #4 onc