Song of Freedom. Part 1.
Title: Song of Freedom. 1/?
Author: sypherus_xiii
Pairing: HakyeonxTaekwoon
Rating: R. Language, violence and later sexual themes.
Summary: In a world bound by the tangles of war, Hakyeon searches for freedom. Post-apocalyptic AU.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just love 'em.
A/N: This is my first VIXX fanfic, but I started this off as a Beast fic for someone. I started writing them a different story, so... This just fits into VIXX so much better, so I just switched out the names! I doubt it looks familiar to anyone, but yeah, enjoy!
I'll see you again at the Red Sea,
Where we'll cross to our destiny,
Once full of dreams and liberty,
Now dark with Eerie catastrophe.
- The Song of Freedom
"Keep it moving!"
Hakyeon falls into his place in line, fingers wound through the knotted chord so he wouldn't lose the cloth sack. After all, this little bag has his earnings from this week. Anyone would be itching to put their ash-coated fingers on someone else's Liebre.
As he steps forward again, the guy behind him grumbles. Hakyeon doesn't catch it the first time, but the second time that gravelly voice rattles off, he can hear the words perfectly.
"They make us wait in these lines like we're slaves. Not like we're working citizens."
Another voice behind him joins in.
"The slaves shouldn't even be around here. They'll contaminate us."
"They're just a bunch of sex toys, anyways."
He hears a set of laughter. "If I had a slave, I'd be using them every night." Hakyeon feels his stomach turn. "Face down so I don't have to stare at their ugly mugs. Then just stick my dick right into that tight hole."
When he hears another round of laughter, he suddenly turns around. He hopes the heat kindling deep in his gut has shot high enough to reach his eyes. "How can you talk about them like that?" he spits out, fingers clenching harder around the thin rope of woven-thread. They were just a bunch of older men, natural color of their skin caked beneath layers of grime and dirt. "They're humans just like us," he continues, ignoring the darkening surprise on their faces. "We're all slaves if you think about it. Working day in and day out. For what? A measly Liebre?"
Just as one of the men bares his foul-stained teeth, a guard comes up, heavy clunk of wood shooting between them.
"Break it up ladies. You're holding everyone up."
Hakyeon sends a last look of fire, hoping that their leather skin prickles. As he faces the front again, he slowly breathes out, feeling his insides softening despite his hard exterior. It's normal for people to always place themselves higher than someone else, hoping that one day it'd save them from the bomb pits and crossfire of bullets.
He hates it.
He knows there used to be a time in their history where the world wasn't bound by the teeth of war. What was it like to be in a place where half the world wasn't chained in slavery, while the other half didn't toil away to serve a faceless governing power? There had to be some places on this earth that escaped the sharp canines of greed.
As he draws closer to the front of the line, he hears a smaller commotion off to the side. Curiously glancing over, he sees a boy a few years younger than him groveling on the ground in front of one of the guards. Seeing the upturned bowl of gruel, he guesses the slave must've knocked it over, driving the burly man into anger.
Meals are rare enough as it is, yet Hakyeon still finds a sympathizing frown. The boy cowers on the ground in an act for forgiveness, but the second Hakyeon sees the lift of a whip, he turns away, only hearing the loud crack splitting through the air. Everyone watches, stares on in satisfaction that things are 'in control and order.'
"The little shit deserved that."
Even though he hears the same reeking voice from before, it's his turn in line. Stepping up to a barred window, Hakyeon holds his wrist out, letting the clerk read the bold, black numbers drawn into his skin. After watching the single, copper-colored coin slide across the wooden surface, he immediately unties his bag and drops it inside. One daily payment to join the rest.
Slinging his bag off his shoulder, he tucks his money pouch securely within and begins to head out. He wastes enough of his days here that he doesn't need to linger once he's off his shift.
Leaving the main gates of the factory, Hakyeon notices hushed voices coming from a pair of boys on the side. He recognizes one of them as the slave from earlier. The other boy is inspecting his back, probably analyzing the damage.
Moving over, Hakyeon approaches them, already sliding his bag off his shoulder. "I have ointment for that. It's not that strong, but it'll help with the burning." When a pair of narrowed eyes whip over at him, he raises a hand in comfort. "Relax. I'm not here to harm you. Just to help."
He feels the suspicion rising from them. It's expected, since he shouldn't even be conversing with slaves that aren't his own. But Hakyeon is soon holding out a small jar, a gray cream within. After the boy who wasn't hurt studies it, he leans in to whisper to the injured one. A nod of agreement passes between them and Hakyeon falls into a smile as he sees him hesitantly take it.
Watching as he begins to apply it, Hakyeon soon asks, "Does it feel any better?" Although the boy didn't meet his eyes, the small twitch at the corner of his thin lips gives him his answer. "You can talk to me. I don't mind if you do."
With that, both of them once again turn their stares onto him. This time they're full of wonder, and Hakyeon can't resist the fascination running through him at the injured boy's intense, dark gaze. To show the offering of truce, he holds a hand out. "My name's Cha Hakyeon. I'm a Laborer." As if the latter part isn't obvious. "What are your names?"
When he senses the lowering of their guards, he feels a sense of accomplishment.
Until it flashes.
There's a flash that glints across their eyes. It spans out across the sky clogged with clouds; then all Hakyeon can do is move on automatic protocol--perform a drill he's learned since he was a child.
His shout of warning falls short, swarmed out by the sudden explosion bursting in the air. Lunging forward, his arms wrap tightly around a body as they tumble to the ground. All Hakyeon feels is heat burning at the hairs on his neck.
Minutes later, the initial cinching of flames is over. With aching limbs, he manages to push himself off the boy beneath him. His ears ring with pain and he wonders if those sirens are coming from him or inside the factory ground. When he goes to inhale, his lungs scream from the burn of smoke and he chokes out coughs that blaze through his chest. Through a gaze blurred by alkaline tears, he sees the plume of smoke poisoning the atmosphere.
A cough beside him catches his attention and he looks over, seeing the boy grasping at his chest. Hakyeon's slow in his movement, but he kneels beside him. "Are you okay?"
The boy nods.
"What about your-" his eyes scan the area to see where the other boy went. As soon as he spots the battered body beaten with red liquid and black ash, a lurch of bile threatens to spill out of his mouth. He quickly reaches out, preventing the boy next to him from seeing the remains of his friend.
"W-We need to go," he sputters out, his voice hoarse. From here, he can hear the avid cries of help and alarms blaring.
He's glad there's not much resistance, the boy most likely programmed to easily let loved ones go. It takes all of their combined effort to stand up and start heading towards the city. A truck suddenly roars by them and Hakyeon tries to shout for them to stop, but it only whirs by, kicking up a storm of dust at them. He then hears a knee buckling to the earth and when he spins around, he sees the boy collapsed on the ground. "Hey! Come on, we have to leave in case more attacks come."
Hakyeon is bending over and hoisting the boy's weight against him as he stands, his legs straining from the additional weight. He pushes on though, each step heavy and unsteady, but he does it. The occasional car drives by, but none of them stop. He's sure by now the city's received news of the recent bombing. Either they can mark off the factory as another lost cause, or send out troops to help restore it.
He doesn't have time now to think of which option is better. They had to get to safety.
"How're you doing?" he asks the boy, hearing the breaths leaving him in a ragged pace. His chin has fallen against his chest, unable to gather the strength to keep his head up. Hakyeon knows his body must be suffering more as he feels it tremble against him. He silently apologizes for how his arm must've been pressing into his fresh wound from earlier.
A weak utterance comes from him and Hakyeon really hopes that it's a positive one. The city was kilometers away, a black fortress in the distance. He rarely had to walk the distance, let alone with legs that begged for rest. The only thing he's grateful for right now, is the coming winter, the air less like an oven. His thick jumpsuit is splotched with abstract patterns of oil, but he knows he has to be warmer than the boy beside him. He's only in tattered pants and a thin tunic that sweeps slightly up his neck.
As they walk on, Hakyeon's about to stop and suggest a break. But out of nowhere, the ground rumbles and for a second he fears it's another attack. The following horn honking from behind them though, sends his neck craning back to see a broad set camper the color of the dunes. Hakyeon assumes it's going to wheel by like the rest of the vehicles, but when he realizes it's coming to a stop, he halts in his steps.
Adjusting the boy more securely against him, they slowly spin to watch the large military-style truck. It feels like forever that he waits in the twist of confusion and anticipation and little bit of hope.
When the door finally cracks open and a figure jumps out, Hakyeon watches, trying to swallow through his dry throat but fails. The man is wearing a gas mask shielding his whole face. He's wearing tan pants heavy enough to resist the wind billowing about. The darker brown jacket swings with his arms as he stalks closer to them. Hakyeon nearly reels back as the figure closes in on them, but he holds his ground, not wanting to appear weak in front of a possible threat.
"Who are you?" A voice muffled partly by the mask suddenly questions them.
Hakyeon's grip around the boy tightens as he answers firmly, doing his best to not let the parched walls of his throat crack his words. "We're workers from Factory 379."
The voice in response doesn't hesitate. "That factory was just under attack."
This makes Hakyeon want to wryly gesture to their current state. "We know."
A moment then passes and Hakyeon can almost see the eyes surveying over them behind that mask.
"Where are you going?"
"The city." Hakyeon denotes is a reasonable answer. He doesn't know what he'll do with the boy once he gets there. The hospitals rarely take in slaves.
"What's your name?"
He's growing tired, wasting time under futile interrogation. "Look, as you can see, he's not in very good condition." He motions to the boy in his arm. "I have to get somewhere quickly to patch him up. If you're gonna just ask us questions, can you please save it? We need to hurry." He's hoping they'd generously drive them, but right now he doesn't want to deal with people who have a list of fifty questions just to see if he is trustworthy or not.
Even if war hung in the thunder clouds like lightning about to strike anytime, he isn't exactly in a position right now to even appear remotely threatening. So as Hakyeon turns to keep walking, hearing the boy beside him groan, the same voice calls out.
"Wait. We can offer you a ride."
Hakyeon pauses and looks back. "Really?" He knows query is flitting through his eyes, and when he sees the masked head nod up and down, Hakyeon slowly grins.
I'll see you again at the Red Sea.
Owari.
Part 2.
Thanks for reading! I still don't know where this idea came from, haha.
Author: sypherus_xiii
Pairing: HakyeonxTaekwoon
Rating: R. Language, violence and later sexual themes.
Summary: In a world bound by the tangles of war, Hakyeon searches for freedom. Post-apocalyptic AU.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, just love 'em.
A/N: This is my first VIXX fanfic, but I started this off as a Beast fic for someone. I started writing them a different story, so... This just fits into VIXX so much better, so I just switched out the names! I doubt it looks familiar to anyone, but yeah, enjoy!
I'll see you again at the Red Sea,
Where we'll cross to our destiny,
Once full of dreams and liberty,
Now dark with Eerie catastrophe.
- The Song of Freedom
"Keep it moving!"
Hakyeon falls into his place in line, fingers wound through the knotted chord so he wouldn't lose the cloth sack. After all, this little bag has his earnings from this week. Anyone would be itching to put their ash-coated fingers on someone else's Liebre.
As he steps forward again, the guy behind him grumbles. Hakyeon doesn't catch it the first time, but the second time that gravelly voice rattles off, he can hear the words perfectly.
"They make us wait in these lines like we're slaves. Not like we're working citizens."
Another voice behind him joins in.
"The slaves shouldn't even be around here. They'll contaminate us."
"They're just a bunch of sex toys, anyways."
He hears a set of laughter. "If I had a slave, I'd be using them every night." Hakyeon feels his stomach turn. "Face down so I don't have to stare at their ugly mugs. Then just stick my dick right into that tight hole."
When he hears another round of laughter, he suddenly turns around. He hopes the heat kindling deep in his gut has shot high enough to reach his eyes. "How can you talk about them like that?" he spits out, fingers clenching harder around the thin rope of woven-thread. They were just a bunch of older men, natural color of their skin caked beneath layers of grime and dirt. "They're humans just like us," he continues, ignoring the darkening surprise on their faces. "We're all slaves if you think about it. Working day in and day out. For what? A measly Liebre?"
Just as one of the men bares his foul-stained teeth, a guard comes up, heavy clunk of wood shooting between them.
"Break it up ladies. You're holding everyone up."
Hakyeon sends a last look of fire, hoping that their leather skin prickles. As he faces the front again, he slowly breathes out, feeling his insides softening despite his hard exterior. It's normal for people to always place themselves higher than someone else, hoping that one day it'd save them from the bomb pits and crossfire of bullets.
He hates it.
He knows there used to be a time in their history where the world wasn't bound by the teeth of war. What was it like to be in a place where half the world wasn't chained in slavery, while the other half didn't toil away to serve a faceless governing power? There had to be some places on this earth that escaped the sharp canines of greed.
As he draws closer to the front of the line, he hears a smaller commotion off to the side. Curiously glancing over, he sees a boy a few years younger than him groveling on the ground in front of one of the guards. Seeing the upturned bowl of gruel, he guesses the slave must've knocked it over, driving the burly man into anger.
Meals are rare enough as it is, yet Hakyeon still finds a sympathizing frown. The boy cowers on the ground in an act for forgiveness, but the second Hakyeon sees the lift of a whip, he turns away, only hearing the loud crack splitting through the air. Everyone watches, stares on in satisfaction that things are 'in control and order.'
"The little shit deserved that."
Even though he hears the same reeking voice from before, it's his turn in line. Stepping up to a barred window, Hakyeon holds his wrist out, letting the clerk read the bold, black numbers drawn into his skin. After watching the single, copper-colored coin slide across the wooden surface, he immediately unties his bag and drops it inside. One daily payment to join the rest.
Slinging his bag off his shoulder, he tucks his money pouch securely within and begins to head out. He wastes enough of his days here that he doesn't need to linger once he's off his shift.
Leaving the main gates of the factory, Hakyeon notices hushed voices coming from a pair of boys on the side. He recognizes one of them as the slave from earlier. The other boy is inspecting his back, probably analyzing the damage.
Moving over, Hakyeon approaches them, already sliding his bag off his shoulder. "I have ointment for that. It's not that strong, but it'll help with the burning." When a pair of narrowed eyes whip over at him, he raises a hand in comfort. "Relax. I'm not here to harm you. Just to help."
He feels the suspicion rising from them. It's expected, since he shouldn't even be conversing with slaves that aren't his own. But Hakyeon is soon holding out a small jar, a gray cream within. After the boy who wasn't hurt studies it, he leans in to whisper to the injured one. A nod of agreement passes between them and Hakyeon falls into a smile as he sees him hesitantly take it.
Watching as he begins to apply it, Hakyeon soon asks, "Does it feel any better?" Although the boy didn't meet his eyes, the small twitch at the corner of his thin lips gives him his answer. "You can talk to me. I don't mind if you do."
With that, both of them once again turn their stares onto him. This time they're full of wonder, and Hakyeon can't resist the fascination running through him at the injured boy's intense, dark gaze. To show the offering of truce, he holds a hand out. "My name's Cha Hakyeon. I'm a Laborer." As if the latter part isn't obvious. "What are your names?"
When he senses the lowering of their guards, he feels a sense of accomplishment.
Until it flashes.
There's a flash that glints across their eyes. It spans out across the sky clogged with clouds; then all Hakyeon can do is move on automatic protocol--perform a drill he's learned since he was a child.
His shout of warning falls short, swarmed out by the sudden explosion bursting in the air. Lunging forward, his arms wrap tightly around a body as they tumble to the ground. All Hakyeon feels is heat burning at the hairs on his neck.
Minutes later, the initial cinching of flames is over. With aching limbs, he manages to push himself off the boy beneath him. His ears ring with pain and he wonders if those sirens are coming from him or inside the factory ground. When he goes to inhale, his lungs scream from the burn of smoke and he chokes out coughs that blaze through his chest. Through a gaze blurred by alkaline tears, he sees the plume of smoke poisoning the atmosphere.
A cough beside him catches his attention and he looks over, seeing the boy grasping at his chest. Hakyeon's slow in his movement, but he kneels beside him. "Are you okay?"
The boy nods.
"What about your-" his eyes scan the area to see where the other boy went. As soon as he spots the battered body beaten with red liquid and black ash, a lurch of bile threatens to spill out of his mouth. He quickly reaches out, preventing the boy next to him from seeing the remains of his friend.
"W-We need to go," he sputters out, his voice hoarse. From here, he can hear the avid cries of help and alarms blaring.
He's glad there's not much resistance, the boy most likely programmed to easily let loved ones go. It takes all of their combined effort to stand up and start heading towards the city. A truck suddenly roars by them and Hakyeon tries to shout for them to stop, but it only whirs by, kicking up a storm of dust at them. He then hears a knee buckling to the earth and when he spins around, he sees the boy collapsed on the ground. "Hey! Come on, we have to leave in case more attacks come."
Hakyeon is bending over and hoisting the boy's weight against him as he stands, his legs straining from the additional weight. He pushes on though, each step heavy and unsteady, but he does it. The occasional car drives by, but none of them stop. He's sure by now the city's received news of the recent bombing. Either they can mark off the factory as another lost cause, or send out troops to help restore it.
He doesn't have time now to think of which option is better. They had to get to safety.
"How're you doing?" he asks the boy, hearing the breaths leaving him in a ragged pace. His chin has fallen against his chest, unable to gather the strength to keep his head up. Hakyeon knows his body must be suffering more as he feels it tremble against him. He silently apologizes for how his arm must've been pressing into his fresh wound from earlier.
A weak utterance comes from him and Hakyeon really hopes that it's a positive one. The city was kilometers away, a black fortress in the distance. He rarely had to walk the distance, let alone with legs that begged for rest. The only thing he's grateful for right now, is the coming winter, the air less like an oven. His thick jumpsuit is splotched with abstract patterns of oil, but he knows he has to be warmer than the boy beside him. He's only in tattered pants and a thin tunic that sweeps slightly up his neck.
As they walk on, Hakyeon's about to stop and suggest a break. But out of nowhere, the ground rumbles and for a second he fears it's another attack. The following horn honking from behind them though, sends his neck craning back to see a broad set camper the color of the dunes. Hakyeon assumes it's going to wheel by like the rest of the vehicles, but when he realizes it's coming to a stop, he halts in his steps.
Adjusting the boy more securely against him, they slowly spin to watch the large military-style truck. It feels like forever that he waits in the twist of confusion and anticipation and little bit of hope.
When the door finally cracks open and a figure jumps out, Hakyeon watches, trying to swallow through his dry throat but fails. The man is wearing a gas mask shielding his whole face. He's wearing tan pants heavy enough to resist the wind billowing about. The darker brown jacket swings with his arms as he stalks closer to them. Hakyeon nearly reels back as the figure closes in on them, but he holds his ground, not wanting to appear weak in front of a possible threat.
"Who are you?" A voice muffled partly by the mask suddenly questions them.
Hakyeon's grip around the boy tightens as he answers firmly, doing his best to not let the parched walls of his throat crack his words. "We're workers from Factory 379."
The voice in response doesn't hesitate. "That factory was just under attack."
This makes Hakyeon want to wryly gesture to their current state. "We know."
A moment then passes and Hakyeon can almost see the eyes surveying over them behind that mask.
"Where are you going?"
"The city." Hakyeon denotes is a reasonable answer. He doesn't know what he'll do with the boy once he gets there. The hospitals rarely take in slaves.
"What's your name?"
He's growing tired, wasting time under futile interrogation. "Look, as you can see, he's not in very good condition." He motions to the boy in his arm. "I have to get somewhere quickly to patch him up. If you're gonna just ask us questions, can you please save it? We need to hurry." He's hoping they'd generously drive them, but right now he doesn't want to deal with people who have a list of fifty questions just to see if he is trustworthy or not.
Even if war hung in the thunder clouds like lightning about to strike anytime, he isn't exactly in a position right now to even appear remotely threatening. So as Hakyeon turns to keep walking, hearing the boy beside him groan, the same voice calls out.
"Wait. We can offer you a ride."
Hakyeon pauses and looks back. "Really?" He knows query is flitting through his eyes, and when he sees the masked head nod up and down, Hakyeon slowly grins.
I'll see you again at the Red Sea.
Owari.
Part 2.
Thanks for reading! I still don't know where this idea came from, haha.