(no subject)
Two pairs of dark eyes meet his across the small clearing, rising from concealed spaces to reveal themselves and their weapons-almost antiquated plasma rifles-raised and ready to fire. Changmin feels a small spike of fear drive through him, for once letting it show on his features.
I’m a kid, he thinks desperately, as if willing the thought to take shape in the minds of the two rebels. And the big bad Guard is using me. I know nothing. Don’t shoot me.
The two men move closer, almost in a synchronized motion, the one on the right jabbing Changmin’s injured shoulder with the muzzle of his rifle. The action tears a cry from his lips unbidden, even as he forces himself to remain still. No sudden movements.
His reaction settles a frown on the man’s delicate features, a black gaze flitting to his companion’s. “Chunnie?”
They speak quickly, the words rushed and whispered, in a language he doesn’t recognize. A moment later, and the pretty boy’s companion is shaking his head, a scowl covering soft features.
“Hands behind your head,” he orders in Basic, his own gun poking threateningly in Changmin’s side.
It takes him nearly biting his lip through, but he manages to do it, raising the injured arm and trying to breathe as the world spins dangerously around him. For a split second, he thinks he’ll black out again, but it passes. Quick, impersonal hands run over his body, finds the gun tucked in the back of his trousers, relieving him of it quickly. Twin muzzles shift to his back and they’re walking.
The two behind him are anything but silent, chattering and arguing in their own tongue, every so often, rifle digging deeper in Changmin’s back as if to emphasize a point. He winces, trying to keep up with the pace they are setting, his eyes on the forest floor.
“Where are you taking me?” he asks, keeping his tone small, unthreatening.
“Quiet.” The word comes with the deeper voice, making Changmin wonder if he’s the only one of the two who speaks Basic, or if he just gets off on ordering people around.
“I’m not who you think I am,” he returns insistently, itching for the weapon they’d taken.
A hand digs suddenly into his pocket, drawing out his dog tags and holding them up for Changmin to see. “No? These don’t mean you’re traitorous Guard scum? Just like you to try and lie your way out of it.”
”Coward,” comes the softer tone, and it figures the other would choose to break the language barrier on that word.
His tags fall from a dirt-streaked hand, landing in the mud with a soft squelch, even as he’s forced on. Anger sparks in him, white-hot and prideful. He’d earned those, they were his, how fucking dare they-
The feel of cold metal at the small of his back cuts the outburst off in his throat.
The walk seems endless. Only when he’s gasping for breath, the thick, humid air stealing the air from his lungs, only then do his captors relent, raising a canteen to his lips, dark eyes never leaving him. Always watching. The second his arms start to droop, the gun is jammed into his spine, forcing them back into place.
His pace becomes increasingly more sluggish, the ache in his neck and shoulders near unbearable.
“I can’t,” he breathes raggedly, ashamed of his own physical weakness, but he isn’t trained for this. Not for this type of trek, not for this climate. Not to be forced to walk for hours in unrelenting pain, after managing to survive a fucking fighter crash.
With the exception of a quiet, nonsensical murmur from the softer one, and a short, firm reprieve courtesy his companion, his plea goes unanswered. Changmin allows self-pity to worm its way in amongst swirling emotions. He’s been abandoned here, he knows it now. Too much risk, not enough reward to pursue.
And Yunho had wanted him gone anyway.
He is deep in his own sorrows when night finally falls, when at last they stop. Past the vicious glares of hostile after hostile and into a ramshackle base, hands pressed one after another into the scanner at the door, urging him through. He’s cuffed and searched, put behind bars as his pack and com-link are confiscated.
Sitting heavily on the stone floor, Changmin leans back against the wall, trying to ease some of the cuffs’ pull on his arm, to no avail. Resting his head against the thick stone, he concentrates on taking even breaths, listening to the talk outside his cell. Pretty boy’s gaze keeps sliding to him, expression indecipherable. Changmin follows his movement out of the corner of his eye, watching as fingertips brush his companion’s side in a graze that could’ve been purely accidental but wasn’t in the least.
It makes his stomach twist viciously, eyes closing as he lets his head thunk against the stone. Fear threatens to rise, the stories of just what the rebels do to prisoners echoing in his ears from when he was a recruit. He pushes it back, curling in on himself, for once feeling his nineteen years.
***
Alarms blare overhead, but Yunho is ready this time. He’s reviewed every scenario, spent more time in the simulator than necessary and hounded his pilots into checking their systems twice before take-off. They may resent him for it, but he’s not losing anyone else.
Changmin’s death still sits heavy in his chest as he leaves their quarters. He doesn’t even have his dog tags to give to the boy’s family. “Here you are, he died honourably in the line of duty.” No. He died because of faulty intel and too much cockiness - that Yunho helped build. He’s guilty as charged when it comes to buffing up his pilots’ egos as he is when it comes to tearing them down. It’s his weakness, but no more of that. No more taking chances.
Ronson’s voice in his helmet jars him to wakefulness. “Let’s go kick some rebel butt, yeah!”
He doesn’t wait for the others to quiet down before he overrides their channels. “Keep to the mission. Radio silence until further notice.” The order is curt, and so is the swiftly dying laughter. Now more than ever, they won’t dare to question him.
Silence reigns in his cockpit, only interrupted by his laboured breathing. He’s tense and fearful. The relaxation of old is gone. He can’t afford it. Command drones in his ear, he doesn’t even consider ignoring the information. It’s everything from a peptalk to tactical information, but he doesn’t relay any of it to his pilots. They need to keep their focus and so does he.
“Enemy fighters, twelve o’clock.”
Static distorts the voice and for one horrible moment, Yunho thinks he hears Changmin. But it’s only Kim. They’re close enough to visually confirm that, even if the man’s craft has changed position. Someone had to cover that hole in the formation.
He nods, relaying what his radar is telling him back to Command. “Engage enemy fighters before they engage you,” he orders, voice even, hand on his stick not wavering, not even a bit. They’ve run this simulation. Direct attack countered by direct attack. No questions asked, no messing around.
“Kim and Ronson, I want numbers.” How many squadrons, how well equipped. No more surprises, not like the last time. “Keep visual and do not break atmo until you have my permission. Go.”
Crafts falling out of the step with the rest of the squadron, Yunho turns his attention to the rest of their attack plan. If there are no air defences, they’ll sweep in and finish those bastards off quickly. If there are… they’ll need a bit more time. It’s not a problem. They’ve got time and ammo and his pilots know their fighters like the back of their hands. They just have to hope the same isn’t true for the rebels.
Later, when the dust has settled and there’s nothing to justify his efforts, Yunho will lose it. Twice in as many days when so far his record has been spotless. It’s Changmin’s fault, but you can’t really hold the dead accountable.
For now, he drives the Imperial Guard into the belly of the beast, eyes glued to the screen falling over his vision. The Acheron is not far behind, he kn ows. This is too big a hit for the Commander to risk staying out of it. The man wants the glory and Yunho is ready to give it to him if it means back-up, if it means a security blanket.
“Delta leader, delta leader,” Kim’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Negative on the anti-aircraft. I repeat, negative on the anti-aircraft.”
Too easy, he thinks, but doesn’t radio the thought out to the squadron. There’s nothing worse than showing a lack of faith in the man you’ve trained. “Alright boys, let’s show’em how it’s done,” he sighs, doubling his speed in a matter of seconds. The quicker this is over, the quicker he can beat Intel up.
Formation is held until they’re close enough to see the fear in their enemies’ eyes. It’s not a tactic so much as a show of force. See us, fear us. Some fighters break pursuit and try evasive manoeuvres, others think they can match the Imperial Guards through sheer willpower. They’re all dead anyway.
Yunho’s craft dips low out of range, dragging his attackers down with him. With the sun at his back, he changes his strategy, pursuer becoming pursued. It’s child’s play by now, and if it weren’t for Changmin’s death so fresh in his memory, he’d be more reckless than he is. Instead, his breathing evens out, calm claiming him as lasers fly by his shield, barely grazing.
He flies a circle around his squadron, dragging five crafts behind him and into no man’s land. All space is no man’s land, but he doesn’t fear it. He lets them gain on him, changing altitude and pitch with every turn, practically feeling those scumbags panting against the back of his neck. As if.
They’re too concerned about him as a target, they lose sight of the bigger picture. Too close to their compatriots, one of the crafts gets hit by friendly fire and spirals into another, out of control, out of sight. Swiftly, the two fighters blink off the radar as the electrical systems inside the cockpits flicker and die.
“Delta leader, three more on your six,” Kim’s voice intervenes, momentarily breaking his concentration.
One look at his radar tells him the same holds true for Junsu. “Roger, Delta two. Let me worry about that.”
Kim’s response is full of static but still Yunho can detect a note of disapproval. It almost sounds like Changmin. “Copy that, Delta leader, be careful about the Acheron’s line of fire.”
It’s no small advice, even if Yunho bristles momentarily at the insinuation. They’re coming up fast on the battleship and the cannons are out. One more push of his stick and they’ll be playing Russian roulette with their fates. With his fate. He thinks about it.
“Delta leader, execute a ninety degree turn,” Command requests in his ear, the voice as monotonous as ever. “Delta leader, respond.”
Yunho does neither.
Angling his craft into an upsurge, he checks his radar. Still three fighters and closing in fast. Of course they would be, he’s reduced his speed to about a quarter of what it could be. Dangle the carrot and they’ll trot to the pace he wants them.
“Delta leader, what the hell are you doing?” Kim intervenes again, anxiety in his voice. It clashes nicely with Command’s even droning but Yunho doesn’t bother replying. He’s still Captain. He still knows what he’s doing.
“Delta leader, execute a ninety degree…”
“Yunho!”
The small fighter vessel surges in speed, finesse of flight lost in the straining of the engine, the enemy in hot pursuit. A trail of smoke escapes one of his wings-has he been hit? What matter? Driving onwards fast, he sees the Acheron loom large above him. An alien ship for an alien mindset. He doesn’t understand why he’s fighting anymore.
“Delta leader, please respond.”
Silence meets all entreaties, the stick in his hand and the craft on the whole rattling dangerously around him. Yunho pays it no mind; his attackers are stupid enough to follow. Another gun blast skitters past, missing him completely. He takes no comfort in their failure, instead holding his breath as friendly fire falls swift and narrow, hitting his damaged right wing.
“Yunho!” Kim’s voice has risen to a pitch, a cry of desperation escaping him and Yunho dejectedly watches him alter course to come to aid. He doesn’t need help, he’d like to say. He’s fine.
And he is. Whether or not the others know it too doesn’t matter. Eyes narrowed and both hands on the shift, he waits, waits, waits. Sweat trickles down his brow. They’re so close now; the Acheron’s cannons will surely get him. Another laser shots misses him by inches and he dives. Stomach lurching with the speed, he plummets at the ninety degree angle advised by Command, only it’s in the wrong direction. Where the Acheron once loomed before him, now all he sees is darkness.
A flash of light behind him and then three blinks before his pursuers die off the radar.
“Holy shit…”
“Captain, are you okay?”
He can’t tell which voices he hears in his ear-piece, can’t tell if they’re imagined or real, if they’re his own. His hands shake as debris falls around him. Somewhere among it are bodies of pilots like him. Fighting for the wrong side, sure, but like him. They just couldn’t evade their mortality long enough.
Another, well-known voice breaks the haze in his mind. “Delta leader, delta leader, we have neutralized the enemy. Return to base.”
Nonsense. It wasn’t mortality they couldn’t evade. It was the Acheron.
I’m a kid, he thinks desperately, as if willing the thought to take shape in the minds of the two rebels. And the big bad Guard is using me. I know nothing. Don’t shoot me.
The two men move closer, almost in a synchronized motion, the one on the right jabbing Changmin’s injured shoulder with the muzzle of his rifle. The action tears a cry from his lips unbidden, even as he forces himself to remain still. No sudden movements.
His reaction settles a frown on the man’s delicate features, a black gaze flitting to his companion’s. “Chunnie?”
They speak quickly, the words rushed and whispered, in a language he doesn’t recognize. A moment later, and the pretty boy’s companion is shaking his head, a scowl covering soft features.
“Hands behind your head,” he orders in Basic, his own gun poking threateningly in Changmin’s side.
It takes him nearly biting his lip through, but he manages to do it, raising the injured arm and trying to breathe as the world spins dangerously around him. For a split second, he thinks he’ll black out again, but it passes. Quick, impersonal hands run over his body, finds the gun tucked in the back of his trousers, relieving him of it quickly. Twin muzzles shift to his back and they’re walking.
The two behind him are anything but silent, chattering and arguing in their own tongue, every so often, rifle digging deeper in Changmin’s back as if to emphasize a point. He winces, trying to keep up with the pace they are setting, his eyes on the forest floor.
“Where are you taking me?” he asks, keeping his tone small, unthreatening.
“Quiet.” The word comes with the deeper voice, making Changmin wonder if he’s the only one of the two who speaks Basic, or if he just gets off on ordering people around.
“I’m not who you think I am,” he returns insistently, itching for the weapon they’d taken.
A hand digs suddenly into his pocket, drawing out his dog tags and holding them up for Changmin to see. “No? These don’t mean you’re traitorous Guard scum? Just like you to try and lie your way out of it.”
”Coward,” comes the softer tone, and it figures the other would choose to break the language barrier on that word.
His tags fall from a dirt-streaked hand, landing in the mud with a soft squelch, even as he’s forced on. Anger sparks in him, white-hot and prideful. He’d earned those, they were his, how fucking dare they-
The feel of cold metal at the small of his back cuts the outburst off in his throat.
The walk seems endless. Only when he’s gasping for breath, the thick, humid air stealing the air from his lungs, only then do his captors relent, raising a canteen to his lips, dark eyes never leaving him. Always watching. The second his arms start to droop, the gun is jammed into his spine, forcing them back into place.
His pace becomes increasingly more sluggish, the ache in his neck and shoulders near unbearable.
“I can’t,” he breathes raggedly, ashamed of his own physical weakness, but he isn’t trained for this. Not for this type of trek, not for this climate. Not to be forced to walk for hours in unrelenting pain, after managing to survive a fucking fighter crash.
With the exception of a quiet, nonsensical murmur from the softer one, and a short, firm reprieve courtesy his companion, his plea goes unanswered. Changmin allows self-pity to worm its way in amongst swirling emotions. He’s been abandoned here, he knows it now. Too much risk, not enough reward to pursue.
And Yunho had wanted him gone anyway.
He is deep in his own sorrows when night finally falls, when at last they stop. Past the vicious glares of hostile after hostile and into a ramshackle base, hands pressed one after another into the scanner at the door, urging him through. He’s cuffed and searched, put behind bars as his pack and com-link are confiscated.
Sitting heavily on the stone floor, Changmin leans back against the wall, trying to ease some of the cuffs’ pull on his arm, to no avail. Resting his head against the thick stone, he concentrates on taking even breaths, listening to the talk outside his cell. Pretty boy’s gaze keeps sliding to him, expression indecipherable. Changmin follows his movement out of the corner of his eye, watching as fingertips brush his companion’s side in a graze that could’ve been purely accidental but wasn’t in the least.
It makes his stomach twist viciously, eyes closing as he lets his head thunk against the stone. Fear threatens to rise, the stories of just what the rebels do to prisoners echoing in his ears from when he was a recruit. He pushes it back, curling in on himself, for once feeling his nineteen years.
***
Alarms blare overhead, but Yunho is ready this time. He’s reviewed every scenario, spent more time in the simulator than necessary and hounded his pilots into checking their systems twice before take-off. They may resent him for it, but he’s not losing anyone else.
Changmin’s death still sits heavy in his chest as he leaves their quarters. He doesn’t even have his dog tags to give to the boy’s family. “Here you are, he died honourably in the line of duty.” No. He died because of faulty intel and too much cockiness - that Yunho helped build. He’s guilty as charged when it comes to buffing up his pilots’ egos as he is when it comes to tearing them down. It’s his weakness, but no more of that. No more taking chances.
Ronson’s voice in his helmet jars him to wakefulness. “Let’s go kick some rebel butt, yeah!”
He doesn’t wait for the others to quiet down before he overrides their channels. “Keep to the mission. Radio silence until further notice.” The order is curt, and so is the swiftly dying laughter. Now more than ever, they won’t dare to question him.
Silence reigns in his cockpit, only interrupted by his laboured breathing. He’s tense and fearful. The relaxation of old is gone. He can’t afford it. Command drones in his ear, he doesn’t even consider ignoring the information. It’s everything from a peptalk to tactical information, but he doesn’t relay any of it to his pilots. They need to keep their focus and so does he.
“Enemy fighters, twelve o’clock.”
Static distorts the voice and for one horrible moment, Yunho thinks he hears Changmin. But it’s only Kim. They’re close enough to visually confirm that, even if the man’s craft has changed position. Someone had to cover that hole in the formation.
He nods, relaying what his radar is telling him back to Command. “Engage enemy fighters before they engage you,” he orders, voice even, hand on his stick not wavering, not even a bit. They’ve run this simulation. Direct attack countered by direct attack. No questions asked, no messing around.
“Kim and Ronson, I want numbers.” How many squadrons, how well equipped. No more surprises, not like the last time. “Keep visual and do not break atmo until you have my permission. Go.”
Crafts falling out of the step with the rest of the squadron, Yunho turns his attention to the rest of their attack plan. If there are no air defences, they’ll sweep in and finish those bastards off quickly. If there are… they’ll need a bit more time. It’s not a problem. They’ve got time and ammo and his pilots know their fighters like the back of their hands. They just have to hope the same isn’t true for the rebels.
Later, when the dust has settled and there’s nothing to justify his efforts, Yunho will lose it. Twice in as many days when so far his record has been spotless. It’s Changmin’s fault, but you can’t really hold the dead accountable.
For now, he drives the Imperial Guard into the belly of the beast, eyes glued to the screen falling over his vision. The Acheron is not far behind, he kn ows. This is too big a hit for the Commander to risk staying out of it. The man wants the glory and Yunho is ready to give it to him if it means back-up, if it means a security blanket.
“Delta leader, delta leader,” Kim’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “Negative on the anti-aircraft. I repeat, negative on the anti-aircraft.”
Too easy, he thinks, but doesn’t radio the thought out to the squadron. There’s nothing worse than showing a lack of faith in the man you’ve trained. “Alright boys, let’s show’em how it’s done,” he sighs, doubling his speed in a matter of seconds. The quicker this is over, the quicker he can beat Intel up.
Formation is held until they’re close enough to see the fear in their enemies’ eyes. It’s not a tactic so much as a show of force. See us, fear us. Some fighters break pursuit and try evasive manoeuvres, others think they can match the Imperial Guards through sheer willpower. They’re all dead anyway.
Yunho’s craft dips low out of range, dragging his attackers down with him. With the sun at his back, he changes his strategy, pursuer becoming pursued. It’s child’s play by now, and if it weren’t for Changmin’s death so fresh in his memory, he’d be more reckless than he is. Instead, his breathing evens out, calm claiming him as lasers fly by his shield, barely grazing.
He flies a circle around his squadron, dragging five crafts behind him and into no man’s land. All space is no man’s land, but he doesn’t fear it. He lets them gain on him, changing altitude and pitch with every turn, practically feeling those scumbags panting against the back of his neck. As if.
They’re too concerned about him as a target, they lose sight of the bigger picture. Too close to their compatriots, one of the crafts gets hit by friendly fire and spirals into another, out of control, out of sight. Swiftly, the two fighters blink off the radar as the electrical systems inside the cockpits flicker and die.
“Delta leader, three more on your six,” Kim’s voice intervenes, momentarily breaking his concentration.
One look at his radar tells him the same holds true for Junsu. “Roger, Delta two. Let me worry about that.”
Kim’s response is full of static but still Yunho can detect a note of disapproval. It almost sounds like Changmin. “Copy that, Delta leader, be careful about the Acheron’s line of fire.”
It’s no small advice, even if Yunho bristles momentarily at the insinuation. They’re coming up fast on the battleship and the cannons are out. One more push of his stick and they’ll be playing Russian roulette with their fates. With his fate. He thinks about it.
“Delta leader, execute a ninety degree turn,” Command requests in his ear, the voice as monotonous as ever. “Delta leader, respond.”
Yunho does neither.
Angling his craft into an upsurge, he checks his radar. Still three fighters and closing in fast. Of course they would be, he’s reduced his speed to about a quarter of what it could be. Dangle the carrot and they’ll trot to the pace he wants them.
“Delta leader, what the hell are you doing?” Kim intervenes again, anxiety in his voice. It clashes nicely with Command’s even droning but Yunho doesn’t bother replying. He’s still Captain. He still knows what he’s doing.
“Delta leader, execute a ninety degree…”
“Yunho!”
The small fighter vessel surges in speed, finesse of flight lost in the straining of the engine, the enemy in hot pursuit. A trail of smoke escapes one of his wings-has he been hit? What matter? Driving onwards fast, he sees the Acheron loom large above him. An alien ship for an alien mindset. He doesn’t understand why he’s fighting anymore.
“Delta leader, please respond.”
Silence meets all entreaties, the stick in his hand and the craft on the whole rattling dangerously around him. Yunho pays it no mind; his attackers are stupid enough to follow. Another gun blast skitters past, missing him completely. He takes no comfort in their failure, instead holding his breath as friendly fire falls swift and narrow, hitting his damaged right wing.
“Yunho!” Kim’s voice has risen to a pitch, a cry of desperation escaping him and Yunho dejectedly watches him alter course to come to aid. He doesn’t need help, he’d like to say. He’s fine.
And he is. Whether or not the others know it too doesn’t matter. Eyes narrowed and both hands on the shift, he waits, waits, waits. Sweat trickles down his brow. They’re so close now; the Acheron’s cannons will surely get him. Another laser shots misses him by inches and he dives. Stomach lurching with the speed, he plummets at the ninety degree angle advised by Command, only it’s in the wrong direction. Where the Acheron once loomed before him, now all he sees is darkness.
A flash of light behind him and then three blinks before his pursuers die off the radar.
“Holy shit…”
“Captain, are you okay?”
He can’t tell which voices he hears in his ear-piece, can’t tell if they’re imagined or real, if they’re his own. His hands shake as debris falls around him. Somewhere among it are bodies of pilots like him. Fighting for the wrong side, sure, but like him. They just couldn’t evade their mortality long enough.
Another, well-known voice breaks the haze in his mind. “Delta leader, delta leader, we have neutralized the enemy. Return to base.”
Nonsense. It wasn’t mortality they couldn’t evade. It was the Acheron.