Fires of a Thousand Suns
Title: Fires of a Thousand Suns
Fandom: SS501
Focus: YoungSaeng-centric
Word Count: 1,800
Genre: Apocalypse, Horror
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death, apocalyptic themes
Summary: He didn't want to know if he was the only one left, fighting for a cause that was just as hopeless as it was forgotten.
A/N:SERIOUSLY. DON'T ASK. AND PLEASE DON'T KILL ME. /runs away/ Betaed by the awesome mi_iseul , who also estimates I will need a weeks head start to avoid being killed by a certain unnie of mine... /coughs/ Inspired by the MV to Linkin Park's new song The Catalyst, which I SERIOUSLY recommend watching before reading this, or right after, just to get the visual...or at the very least have the song playing in the background while reading.
He could almost taste the coppery tinge of blood, his tongue darting out to wet cracked and peeled lips. Perhaps he was bleeding. YoungSaeng supposed he should care more than this, as blood on his tongue could mean any number of things, but he couldn't bring himself to care. In fact, if it really were something as simple as a cut lip, he would be disappointed.
The world beyond his mask was a green and yellow haze, shapes moving like shadows without definite form. He could no longer tell his friends from his enemies and he supposed it was better that way. He didn't want to know if he was the only one left, fighting for a cause that was just as hopeless as it was forgotten.
There was a small voice in his head, one that whispered to keep moving, keep hidden and above all, keep shooting. Gloved fingers curled around the grip of a machine gun that would have been far too heavy to lift if it hadn't been for the years consumed by training for this very purpose. If only he could remember what that purpose was.
A movement to his right. Whirling around, YoungSaeng lifted his machine gun and fired with an instinctive precision, his body completely on autopilot while his mind watched dispassionately. The sight of a figure falling made him smile underneath the mask. Finally he'd hit more than just shadows.
Continuing to fire until he was sure the nameless body wasn't moving, he staggered over to stare down at the soldier. The unknown man was dressed the same as him, the biohazard suit making his body look three times its actual mass and a mask strapped over his head in an airtight seal. YoungSaeng had watched so many just take that mask off and drop to the ground without a sound; dying with the taste of copper bubbling up in their throats and the nuclear haze seeping in through their pores had seemed more merciful than the painfully slow death of bullets piercing through arms and legs until there was nothing left but bloody stumps.
For a brief moment, YoungSaeng allowed himself to consider who this man had been before he became merely another chess piece for game masters ready to sit back and drink champagne while their world was reduced to a nuclear graveyard. Who had he been? There was a faint memory, laughter in his ears and arms around his waist and the taste of sweat created by something entirely different than what he was consumed by now, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't want to care.
Looking up as there was a slight lull in the haze, YoungSaeng watched soundlessly as they came for the dead man. Black figures even he knew he could never kill, their fingers reaching out to caress the tattered clothing in an almost loving way. Being taken away by them didn't seem so bad, even if they were only taking them all to Hell.
One reached out to him, beckoning, but YoungSaeng shook his head behind the mask and stepped away. It wasn't his time yet. There was a reason he was here, he was sure, a reason to keep going, to keep shooting. Even if he didn't remember it, it was there, like a tick in his mind, eating away at his thoughts until all that was left was the idea of revenge.
He didn't even know who he wanted vengeance from, but that too didn't matter.
Stumbling around the crumbling buildings of what used to be a proud city, he reached out and brushed a gloved hand lightly against the pane of a window, wiping away the powdery residue on the glass to peer inside. No one. Unless you counted the half-rotten corpse in the corner as someone.
The mask removed all sound, leaving only his breathing in his ears and the slight pumping sound of the air filtering to him from the oxygen tank on his back. It was like he wasn't really here, like he was just an observer, and that suited him just fine. It felt so surreal, like a dream, except for the steady ache in his bones from lugging around a machine gun and a heavy tank for days. It had to have been days. The sun didn't shine through the nuclear gas, but the amount of oxygen left in his tank told him he had been in here for a lot longer than they originally thought.
They? He hadn't been alone?
He couldn't remember.
Walking around without aim, without goal, he searched in the haze for someone else to target. He couldn't be the only one left. There were bodies, but not enough. He was just in the wrong part of the battlefield, he was sure of it. Doggedly he kept walking, unable to listen to his muscles screaming at him to stop, like a zombie inside his biohazard suit. That was an accurate enough description.
His oxygen tank was just about empty, he noticed absently. Maybe another hour at the most. It was getting hard to breathe. Did he even want to breathe? What was the point?
Time ticked on. YoungSaeng noted its passage only by the increased strain on his lungs as he struggled onwards. Should he just shoot himself and get it over with? Open his mask and let the toxins drown him in his own blood? Or slowly suffocate as the tank reached rock bottom?
As he was debating this, movement caught his attention. Figures up ahead. He wasn't alone in here. Clenching his fingers around the machine gun, he headed towards the movement. Maybe it was just the shadows again, or the dark angels who cared for the dead. He wasn't even sure why he could see them in the first place. Maybe it was just a sure sign he was going to Hell.
Two of them. Peering over the twisted remains of a car, YoungSaeng watched without a word as they just stood there, looking around. Why weren't they killing each other? Wasn't that why they were here? To fight and to die? There were no sides in this place. The toxic gas didn't take sides. It wasn't even possible to tell one group of soldiers from another, everything looking the exact same to him.
White and black had dissolved into a gray puddle on the ground.
Metal crumbled in front of him as he stumbled and suddenly their attention was on him. His breath catching, YoungSaeng watched with wide feverish eyes as they approached.
"Stay back!" he screamed at them, but no sound left the mask that stripped him of his identity.
They didn't stop. Even when YoungSaeng lifted his gun and began to fire, no weapons were raised against him. Their bodies jerked and lifted off the ground with the force of the bullets, YoungSaeng firing everything he had.
Finally dull clicks reached his ears through the mask as the bullets ran out, the young man sagging against the rubble and staring as the two forms fell. After a long pause, he checked over his own suit for injuries. He hadn't even been shot once aside from a few wounds sustained days ago, the broken skin oozing yellow.
YoungSaeng looked up at them again, taking in the splashes of red and noting they had to be dead. There was no satisfaction, only exhaustion as he stumbled over to the bodies just as the dark angels appeared.
Breathing was a struggle. Sinking to the ground with his back to the crumbled stone, YoungSaeng just watched as the figures cared for the two dead, their fingers brushing over the bullet holes riddling the suits like mothers who convinced their children that a simple touch could take the pain away. It must feel nice, YoungSaeng thought a little enviously as he continued to watch, noting a few locks of red hair poking out of the mask of one of the dead men. Dying hair was against protocol, but he supposed when they were all going to die it hardly mattered.
His vision was going. Coughing, YoungSaeng looked at the gauge on his tank. Nearly empty.
He was going to die here, surrounded by the poison and death that he supposed he had helped created in a way. They had all contributed to this...the wasteland that would eat them alive.
The laughter that came from him was hysterical and bordering on insane, tears slipping down dirt-streaked cheeks. Not that anyone could see; the only ones here were the dark angels, and his face was consumed by the mask he wore anyways.
They were watching him though. The closest, YoungSaeng could see now, was a figure in a large brown cloak, only his lower face visible. He had known they were the angels of death the second he saw them. The nuclear gas would have eaten anyone else.
Mutely he watched as the hooded angel approached him, his cloak stirring up the dust that coated everything.
YoungSaeng smiled through his tears. "Is it my turn?" he whispered.
He wasn't sure if he could be understood, but the sad smile that stretched the lower half of the man's face comforted him. YoungSaeng didn't fight him as he reached out, his fingertips brushing against the mask covering his face and gently taking it off.
Breathing in deeply, YoungSaeng blinked up at him through teary eyes. Without the mask obscuring his vision he could see so much more clearly. The darkness that had taken hold of his mind slowly dissipated as he slowly looked around, taking in what had been done.
Why was he here? Was there a reason? He thought there was...
Warm fingers touched his chin and tilted his head up, YoungSaeng obediently looking at the dark angel. He couldn't see the man's upper face, but he knew his eyes were watching, the young soldier's lips parting as tears slipped down his cheeks.
Sitting around a low table passing a bottle of soju around, as four men he had once known as well as he knew himself laughed. Singing his heart out on a stage for the world to hear and know his name. Watching the world slide by from the windows of a plane before falling backwards into a warm embrace that kept him safe, just as he kept the one holding him safe.
"I remember," he whispered, staring up at the angel of death in wonder even as red slipped past cracked lips, dripping down his chin as he coughed up more. He couldn't breathe but it didn't scare him, falling into the warmth he could feel waiting.
"Will I see them again?" he asked past a mouthful of copper as the black closed in on him. The last thing he saw was the angel's smile surrounded by the green and yellow haze his world had become. The last things he felt were warm arms wrapping around him, voices laughing in his ears as four faces smiled at him and welcomed him back home.
Fandom: SS501
Focus: YoungSaeng-centric
Word Count: 1,800
Genre: Apocalypse, Horror
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character death, apocalyptic themes
Summary: He didn't want to know if he was the only one left, fighting for a cause that was just as hopeless as it was forgotten.
A/N:SERIOUSLY. DON'T ASK. AND PLEASE DON'T KILL ME. /runs away/ Betaed by the awesome mi_iseul , who also estimates I will need a weeks head start to avoid being killed by a certain unnie of mine... /coughs/ Inspired by the MV to Linkin Park's new song The Catalyst, which I SERIOUSLY recommend watching before reading this, or right after, just to get the visual...or at the very least have the song playing in the background while reading.
He could almost taste the coppery tinge of blood, his tongue darting out to wet cracked and peeled lips. Perhaps he was bleeding. YoungSaeng supposed he should care more than this, as blood on his tongue could mean any number of things, but he couldn't bring himself to care. In fact, if it really were something as simple as a cut lip, he would be disappointed.
The world beyond his mask was a green and yellow haze, shapes moving like shadows without definite form. He could no longer tell his friends from his enemies and he supposed it was better that way. He didn't want to know if he was the only one left, fighting for a cause that was just as hopeless as it was forgotten.
There was a small voice in his head, one that whispered to keep moving, keep hidden and above all, keep shooting. Gloved fingers curled around the grip of a machine gun that would have been far too heavy to lift if it hadn't been for the years consumed by training for this very purpose. If only he could remember what that purpose was.
A movement to his right. Whirling around, YoungSaeng lifted his machine gun and fired with an instinctive precision, his body completely on autopilot while his mind watched dispassionately. The sight of a figure falling made him smile underneath the mask. Finally he'd hit more than just shadows.
Continuing to fire until he was sure the nameless body wasn't moving, he staggered over to stare down at the soldier. The unknown man was dressed the same as him, the biohazard suit making his body look three times its actual mass and a mask strapped over his head in an airtight seal. YoungSaeng had watched so many just take that mask off and drop to the ground without a sound; dying with the taste of copper bubbling up in their throats and the nuclear haze seeping in through their pores had seemed more merciful than the painfully slow death of bullets piercing through arms and legs until there was nothing left but bloody stumps.
For a brief moment, YoungSaeng allowed himself to consider who this man had been before he became merely another chess piece for game masters ready to sit back and drink champagne while their world was reduced to a nuclear graveyard. Who had he been? There was a faint memory, laughter in his ears and arms around his waist and the taste of sweat created by something entirely different than what he was consumed by now, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't want to care.
Looking up as there was a slight lull in the haze, YoungSaeng watched soundlessly as they came for the dead man. Black figures even he knew he could never kill, their fingers reaching out to caress the tattered clothing in an almost loving way. Being taken away by them didn't seem so bad, even if they were only taking them all to Hell.
One reached out to him, beckoning, but YoungSaeng shook his head behind the mask and stepped away. It wasn't his time yet. There was a reason he was here, he was sure, a reason to keep going, to keep shooting. Even if he didn't remember it, it was there, like a tick in his mind, eating away at his thoughts until all that was left was the idea of revenge.
He didn't even know who he wanted vengeance from, but that too didn't matter.
Stumbling around the crumbling buildings of what used to be a proud city, he reached out and brushed a gloved hand lightly against the pane of a window, wiping away the powdery residue on the glass to peer inside. No one. Unless you counted the half-rotten corpse in the corner as someone.
The mask removed all sound, leaving only his breathing in his ears and the slight pumping sound of the air filtering to him from the oxygen tank on his back. It was like he wasn't really here, like he was just an observer, and that suited him just fine. It felt so surreal, like a dream, except for the steady ache in his bones from lugging around a machine gun and a heavy tank for days. It had to have been days. The sun didn't shine through the nuclear gas, but the amount of oxygen left in his tank told him he had been in here for a lot longer than they originally thought.
They? He hadn't been alone?
He couldn't remember.
Walking around without aim, without goal, he searched in the haze for someone else to target. He couldn't be the only one left. There were bodies, but not enough. He was just in the wrong part of the battlefield, he was sure of it. Doggedly he kept walking, unable to listen to his muscles screaming at him to stop, like a zombie inside his biohazard suit. That was an accurate enough description.
His oxygen tank was just about empty, he noticed absently. Maybe another hour at the most. It was getting hard to breathe. Did he even want to breathe? What was the point?
Time ticked on. YoungSaeng noted its passage only by the increased strain on his lungs as he struggled onwards. Should he just shoot himself and get it over with? Open his mask and let the toxins drown him in his own blood? Or slowly suffocate as the tank reached rock bottom?
As he was debating this, movement caught his attention. Figures up ahead. He wasn't alone in here. Clenching his fingers around the machine gun, he headed towards the movement. Maybe it was just the shadows again, or the dark angels who cared for the dead. He wasn't even sure why he could see them in the first place. Maybe it was just a sure sign he was going to Hell.
Two of them. Peering over the twisted remains of a car, YoungSaeng watched without a word as they just stood there, looking around. Why weren't they killing each other? Wasn't that why they were here? To fight and to die? There were no sides in this place. The toxic gas didn't take sides. It wasn't even possible to tell one group of soldiers from another, everything looking the exact same to him.
White and black had dissolved into a gray puddle on the ground.
Metal crumbled in front of him as he stumbled and suddenly their attention was on him. His breath catching, YoungSaeng watched with wide feverish eyes as they approached.
"Stay back!" he screamed at them, but no sound left the mask that stripped him of his identity.
They didn't stop. Even when YoungSaeng lifted his gun and began to fire, no weapons were raised against him. Their bodies jerked and lifted off the ground with the force of the bullets, YoungSaeng firing everything he had.
Finally dull clicks reached his ears through the mask as the bullets ran out, the young man sagging against the rubble and staring as the two forms fell. After a long pause, he checked over his own suit for injuries. He hadn't even been shot once aside from a few wounds sustained days ago, the broken skin oozing yellow.
YoungSaeng looked up at them again, taking in the splashes of red and noting they had to be dead. There was no satisfaction, only exhaustion as he stumbled over to the bodies just as the dark angels appeared.
Breathing was a struggle. Sinking to the ground with his back to the crumbled stone, YoungSaeng just watched as the figures cared for the two dead, their fingers brushing over the bullet holes riddling the suits like mothers who convinced their children that a simple touch could take the pain away. It must feel nice, YoungSaeng thought a little enviously as he continued to watch, noting a few locks of red hair poking out of the mask of one of the dead men. Dying hair was against protocol, but he supposed when they were all going to die it hardly mattered.
His vision was going. Coughing, YoungSaeng looked at the gauge on his tank. Nearly empty.
He was going to die here, surrounded by the poison and death that he supposed he had helped created in a way. They had all contributed to this...the wasteland that would eat them alive.
The laughter that came from him was hysterical and bordering on insane, tears slipping down dirt-streaked cheeks. Not that anyone could see; the only ones here were the dark angels, and his face was consumed by the mask he wore anyways.
They were watching him though. The closest, YoungSaeng could see now, was a figure in a large brown cloak, only his lower face visible. He had known they were the angels of death the second he saw them. The nuclear gas would have eaten anyone else.
Mutely he watched as the hooded angel approached him, his cloak stirring up the dust that coated everything.
YoungSaeng smiled through his tears. "Is it my turn?" he whispered.
He wasn't sure if he could be understood, but the sad smile that stretched the lower half of the man's face comforted him. YoungSaeng didn't fight him as he reached out, his fingertips brushing against the mask covering his face and gently taking it off.
Breathing in deeply, YoungSaeng blinked up at him through teary eyes. Without the mask obscuring his vision he could see so much more clearly. The darkness that had taken hold of his mind slowly dissipated as he slowly looked around, taking in what had been done.
Why was he here? Was there a reason? He thought there was...
Warm fingers touched his chin and tilted his head up, YoungSaeng obediently looking at the dark angel. He couldn't see the man's upper face, but he knew his eyes were watching, the young soldier's lips parting as tears slipped down his cheeks.
Sitting around a low table passing a bottle of soju around, as four men he had once known as well as he knew himself laughed. Singing his heart out on a stage for the world to hear and know his name. Watching the world slide by from the windows of a plane before falling backwards into a warm embrace that kept him safe, just as he kept the one holding him safe.
"I remember," he whispered, staring up at the angel of death in wonder even as red slipped past cracked lips, dripping down his chin as he coughed up more. He couldn't breathe but it didn't scare him, falling into the warmth he could feel waiting.
"Will I see them again?" he asked past a mouthful of copper as the black closed in on him. The last thing he saw was the angel's smile surrounded by the green and yellow haze his world had become. The last things he felt were warm arms wrapping around him, voices laughing in his ears as four faces smiled at him and welcomed him back home.