(no subject)
Title: Dune (1/8)
Authors: butterflyweb and nemesis_cry
Genre: Sci Fi, AU to our "Acts" AU
Rating: R to NC-17
Pairing: Yunho/Yoochun
Summary: Enemies as members of opposing factions, they have to fight to survive as they are landed in unusual circumstances
Warnings: swearing, violence and sexual themes.
AN: Inspired by the premise of Barry B. Longyear's Enemy Mine.
AN2: Not a formal part of our multi-chaptered Acts of Contrition and Acts of Insurrection storyline but using elements of both.
Arrakis teaches the attitude of the knife - chopping off what's incomplete and saying: "Now it's complete because it's ended here."
from Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib by the Princess Irulan
(Dune by Frank Herbert)
No matter how exotic human civilization becomes, no matter the developments of life and society nor the complexity of the machine/human interface, there always come interludes of lonely power when the course of humankind, depends upon the relatively simple actions of single individuals.
from The Tleilaxu Godbuk
(Dune by Frank Herbert)
***
It's the shift in the winds that wakes him, face pressed close in the joint of a neck and shoulder, sand skittering over his bare skin. Untangling his body from the man at his side, he pushes himself up and ducks out of their small shelter. The sun is already too high in the azure sky, blinding him momentarily as he peers over the dunes, seeking the cause of the disturbance. They've learned better than to ignore the rapid escalation of the winds; they barely survived the last sandstorm. A hand comes up to shade his eyes, looking into the distance when a shine of sunlight on metal catches his eye, heart thudding dully in his chest.
"Gods..."
Yunho doesn't wake. His lips part on an exhale, one hand searching the covers for his missing bedfellow. Yoochun catches it with a hard swallow. Did he dream it?
A flash of silver over the dunes and then the sound. He knows it, he used to dream of it on lonely nights when all hope was lost. He used to pray to the Gods that he'd hear it for real, just once. He didn't think there was any point in it, not after so many months.
"Yunho..." His voice is a whisper, awed as he watches the crafts fly on overhead. It's not one ship. It's an armada. "Yunho, wake up." He shakes the other man, torn between joy and fear. "Wake up, come on. They found us! They've fucking found us!"
The older man's eyes flutter open, disorientation still painfully obvious in his half-asleep gaze. "What? Yoochun, what are you talking about?"
His grasp on the other man's hand tightens almost painfully before he starts trying to pull him up. They have to go and go now.
Yunho is quick, a military man down to his bones and he's on his feet with cold discipline that's still foreign and always will be to Yoochun. But there's no excitement at being rescued in the other man's reaction. Yoochun doesn't understand why.
Their eyes lock over the arid sand.
"Yoochun? Who's 'they'?"
***
The blare of alarms is heavy in his ears, flashing lights on the control panel alerting him to failure after failure. Forward shields at at a meager 10%, all powers directed to his tail. His last defense against the sleek black and silver craft that he can't fucking shake. This goes on much longer and he's a goner. It's a fate he's not ready to accept.
His comsys is bursting with activity, sounds of the battle raging on around him and cries of fear and horror alike. The Guard is not fucking kidding around. They want to exterminate them, as if they're a pest and not human beings with differing opinions.
Hey, fellas, let's talk.
Yeah, as if negotiations worked any better in the past. There's no negotiating with traitors, the Empress is right about that. There's only kill or be killed and right now, with no functioning weapons systems, the odds are not in his favor.
"So just get a little closer, you bastard and I'll show you..." A hard push from the rear of his craft sends him into the controls. "Not that close!"
He wrenches the controls, brings the craft at a hard angle, trying to reach his comrades, trying to get some fucking air support before he ends up a smear on a stray asteroid. The manoeuvre doesn't dissuade his tail and he swears, heart thrumming in his chest with fury and panic. He's out of ammo. His shields are almost gone. The only comfort now is that if he goes down, he's going to take this bastard with him.
If he doesn't get shot down first, that is.
A volley of fire skitters past his shield, only grazing his craft. Either this Guard lackey's blind or that shot didn't come from him. It's not that hard to hit a target when you're tailing it, so he has to assume it's the latter. Which makes him wonder.
Whoever he is, he's a stubborn son of a bitch if he's trying to take him down without firing. He's also fucking cocky and it's the blow to his ego more than the potential danger that raises Yoochun's hackles. Being underestimated gives him the upper hand. And where best to teach the bastard a lesson than in the asteroid field on the outskirts of the quadrant? At least there, he's not going to get fucking shot by fucking friendly fire.
"Let's see... how stupid you are..."
The craft veers in pursuit, tailing him faithfully. Yoochun smirks. Predictable.
***
He sticks to the ancient craft's trail, equipment humming around him, targeting screen retracted and shut off. It's useless now. His only method of attack is left in manipulation of the rebel's inexperience and uncouth skill. They're a dime of dozen, like a litter of mutts, pushed into failing equipment and sent out as canon fodder. Yunho is only to happy to hurry the pilot along to the completion of his destiny.
Whatever evasive manoeuvre's are supposed to shake him are pathetically littered in rookie mistakes, so much so that he barely registers their purpose until it's too late, until the son of a bitch has drawn him into a fucking asteroid field, a mine ground for crafts of all kinds and a killer on the engines. He adjusts accordingly, switching to complete manual control because he's not going to die being hit by a rock.
Especially one traveling at half the speed of his own craft when exiting the launch bay.
"Come on, you little shit," he mutters, fingers tight on the controls. "Ready to lose at your own fucking game?"
The signal from the comsys is fading, the polarization of the asteroids fucking with his electronics as he's drawn further and further out of range. The rebel pilot is remarkably adept, no matter his barbaric, rudimentary patterns, something Yunho comes to realize with no small amount of contempt as he loses him behind a stray piece of space debris.
His radar is no help, the image flickering because of magnetic interference when it doesn't report a few dozen enemy signals that he knows are nothing but solid rock. He slows to avoid collision even though he knows it's a mistake. The craft swerves, losing altitude before it's recovered, angling to peer behind spinning debris. Eyeballing is an old and defunct technique, but it's all he's got and he's determined not to let this one go until he's set his craft in flames.
Or maybe crushed it under a rock.
Determination is sadly all he's got left, however, because the sudden sound of metal scraping metal echoes through the cockpit as the other fighter craft knocks into his and he finds himself spinning down, engines useless in stabilizing the pitch and shake of the vessel. It sends him spiraling down instead, the full throttle of the enemy craft increasing his velocity until they barely escape the edge of an asteroid, a chunk breaking off where it catches Yunho's wing.
"Fuck," he swears, trying to use the rebel's tactic against him and failing. There's no reversing the power that's been diverted to the engines. They're going to crash.
The son of a bitch is suicidal.
He looks up to see some planet loom before them, pushes all remaining power to his shields and prepares for death.
***
Yoochun comes to slumped over the controls, the stick shoved into his solar plexus, ears ringing and vision spotty. For a moment, he doesn't understand. He should be dead. If his plan worked, then he should be dead. The afterlife, as far as he can tell from the first moments of awareness, is painful. And hot.
Sweat and blood clings to his skin, a hole in the cockpit bringing in scorching air and sunlight. It all feels surprisingly real.
"Fuck me," he groans, sitting back and working to undo the harness that still holds him strapped to the craft. The old girl, rusty as she is, saved his life. He sincerely hopes the same doesn't hold true for the Guard bastard he took down with him.
He swallows dry air, flicking uselessly at the comsys, trying to pick up a signal. Nothing, not even dead air. It seems saving his life was the last service the craft would ever provide him. Leaning back, he takes in a few ragged breaths, relieved to find that the air leaking through the broken viewshield isn't toxic. Luck is, so far, as much on his side as he can hope.
The hatch is fixed in place, no power to speak of to open it and he digs for something to shatter the remaining glass. He won't let his deliverance become his coffin. Who knows what kind of fuel he's leaking.
His sidearm is his only tool. He's not equipped for emergency landings. Shit, he's lucky if he even gets to land at all. Unlike the Guard with all their fancy footwork and contingency plans and ten year training programs, he's got faith to propel his fire. He believes in something, he's got something to fight for. And one way or another, taking down a Guard soldier and surviving is as much service to the cause as personally guarding Her Majesty with his own body.
A groan of pain echoes in the small space and he's too paranoid, too shaken to realize it's his own. His shoulder aches and he fears it might be dislocated. He can still move it and he's alive. Baby steps. He can't afford to let this overwhelm him. As soon as the battle is finished, his people will sweep the planets in this system for lifesigns. They'll find him. He just needs to make their lives a bit easier.
He needs to get out. He needs to get out. He needs... air. He can't breathe. Panic chokes him, pain spiraling quick and fast through his lungs and stomach until he's almost curled up in his seat, biting back sobs. What the fuck is he doing? What the fuck has he done?
He might as well put a bullet in his head, they're not coming for him. He's fucking doomed--
Below, he thinks he feels the enemy craft rattle with signs of life. It's a familiar sound, like hearing rats under the floorboards in his room on Elysia, always there when he was trying to sleep, never there when he made his father check. His breathing gradually recovers its rhythm. He grabs his gun with two hands, using it like a club to smash the glass panel above his head.
He's a grown man in Her Majesty's employ. He doesn't need anyone's help to survive and least of all to kill.
***
His craft is destroyed. It's the first thing Yunho registers, the first thing to grab and pull at this attention. The first thing he has to correct if he wants a prayer of surviving this. Nevermind the blood streaking his face. If his body can move, then he can consider himself operational. It's a whole different story for his fighter.
"Come on," he hisses under his breath, the comsys crackling with static as he tries to fire up the engines, flicking switches, checking the scrambled readouts on his screen.
Whatever power saved him from being blown to pieces is gone. No reserves, nothing. He's completely stranded.
With the last remains of fuel, he diverts power to his comsys, broadcasting a one-off emergency signal. It's meant to bounce out of the planet's atmosphere and into space, where, if he's lucky, the asteroid field's magnetic interference will keep bouncing it off and on to whoever's in range to hear it. Even if that means running the risk of drawing the enemy out to his position.
Against hope, he waits for an immediate response, sweeping the planet he's landed--no, crashed--on for signs that he's not alone. It's all in vain. While his screen feeds back information of a terraforming process in its earliest stages, it reports no shred of hope to cling to. Yunho bites on the inside of his cheek. He's a soldier. He doesn't need hope. He's got a gun, rations and a survival kit. He's good for months.
Unless, he thinks, eyes narrowing, he's not alone.
His suspicions are confirmed with the sound of shattering glass.
Yunho unholsters his gun from the strap around his ankle, digging out charges from under his seat, slipping them into his pockets. He didn't let the little shit kill him the first time, he won't let him a second. He jabs at the hatch release, wincing as it slides back with a groan and he pulls the helmet off, cocking the gun and taking aim. Waiting for the other man's head to appear from the cockpit and waiting to blow it off.
If he's learned one thing is that bastard rebel scum have got no patience anyway.
A helmet shoots up a half second later, easy target, easily poised and even easier to hit. Yunho fires two rounds straight at it, leaving it singed and smoking but sadly, unattached to a body.
"Shit," he swears, aware that he's wasted ammo for nothing, not to mention fallen for a diversion that can cost him his life. Another thing he's starting to pick up when it comes to the rebels is that they can be frustratingly inventive.
A volley of fire comes out of nowhere, laser shots skittering down the roof of his craft and stopping an inch bellow the hatch, two inches before his abdomen. Any closer and he'd be blood and guts and dead right here, on this waste of solid earth.
He's a sitting duck in this cockpit.
Returning fire as he moves, he takes the split second opportunity of the other pilot's retreat to scramble over the side of his craft. It's too much movement, too soon and he's overestimated his body's condition. He hits the hot sand with a dull smack, the jagged line of crimson staining the leg of his flightsuit making itself known. He drags himself backwards, using the right wing as a shield and checking the power on his weapon.
"Fuck," he hisses, eyes straining against the glaring sun to focus on the enemy's cockpit, hands sweaty on the butt of his weapon.
***
He tries to save his shots, but he doesn't know what to do. Inside the cockpit, he's in control, here he can't see, he can't react. And the earth might as well be moving under his feet, it's certainly spinning when he crashes to the ground, scrambling for cover on the other side of the craft.
The other side to what, he doesn't know. However still and dead this rock may be, the rush of blood in his ears is too loud to let his senses detect anyone's presence.
Or maybe not quite. There's no ignoring the jagged cry that echoes from the right side of their mangled crafts and Yoochun points his gun in that direction as if it might protect him. There's no threat. Not yet. But hiding like a rat will do nothing to insure it stays that way. Creeping forward on his haunches, he moves around the nose of his fighter, flightsuit sticking to the small of his back. Best to make it one shot, if he can. Quick and leaving no chance for retaliation.
The other pilot comes into his sight before he himself is spotted, sprawled on the ground, half-propped up against the wing and leaking scarlet over the golden sand. Yoochun raises his weapon.
Another is thrust in his direction just as quickly, the soldier smirking even though his eyes are narrowed to slits. "Thought I didn't hear you?" A humorless laugh. "If you're going to shoot, you'd best make it a winning shot or I'm taking you with me."
Something in the tone tells him it's not an idle threat, nor that it's unfounded, if his burnt helmet is anything to go by. Guard bastard he may be, but he's not lying. And that's precisely why Yoochun can't even consider lowering his gun.
"I got you well enough the first time around," he smirks, gritting his teeth at the pain spiking through his shoulder. At most, it's a surface wound. Unlike the other man, he's not about to bleed out. There's satisfaction in better odds.
A cold, ugly look is the only reaction, the man's gun hand unwavering despite his wounded state. "Think you'll be lucky enough to get one off again? We'll see who's faster on the trigger. Odds are the carrion with be picking your bones by nightfall."
Yoochun bears teeth. "Please. Try." He's got good enough aim at such close range. It's a child's game and he'll play it if he must. For Empress and country and all the Guard has taken from him, from his Empress to his country to his best friend all those years ago. "I'm ready to die for my cause. Are you, you fucking traitor?"
A matching snarl, the man's head leaning against the side of the craft, an almost indiscernable deviation in his aim. "Your cause is a blight on the face of the Empire. One I'm all too happy to be rid of."
Yoochun spits. "Your kind destroyed the Empire. You'll never get rid of those of us who are loyal." He doesn't know why he's making conversation, except it's interesting to see the barely visible lowering of the eyelids, as if the other pilot is suddenly very tired. Sunlight bathes him in a harsh light, but still he looks much too pale for it to be normal.
It dawns on Yoochun that he was right. His enemy is going to bleed out and he doesn't have to do anything but wait for nature to take its course. It disappoints him, in some way. The other man doesn't deserve an easy way out. He deserves to be shot in cold blood, to feel the fear he's no doubt taken pleasure in causing in others. He deserves to stare down a gun barrel and know how it will obliterate his insides, just like his own weapon has.
The man's hand starts to drop and a shot is fired, as if he realizes what's happening and is desperate to take Yoochun with him. It's wildly off base, leaving a smoking hole in the side of the craft before the gun hits the sand, the Guard scum slumping against hot metal. Unconscious, if not dead.
Yoochun thinks of firing and ending this now, but something tells him it would be cowardly. Too easy, too painless. He grabs the other's gun and places it well out of his reach. There'll be a time for execution, later. He wants to make sure he's prepared for it when it comes.
***
Consciousness filters back in slowly and it unnerves him, his eyelashes feeling like steel curtains that he can't manage to push up. He's always been quick to wake and be fully functional, ready for action. This sluggishness leaves him feeling vulnerable and vaguely panicked, his hand automatically closing around his weapon. His weapon that is no longer in his grasp. He drags his eyes open, trying to move, trying to get up, sparing a brief, incredulous thought to the fact that he's still alive.
"Don't even try," a voice orders him and it's not his Commander's. It lacks the finesse and the wealth of experience behind it. "Don't move."
The rebel bastard--the same one who shot him down--forces his shoulders back to the cooling ground. There's no use in fighting it, he doesn't have the strength. Not until he feels hands unzip his flightsuit and start pulling at the inner pockets.
"The fuck you think you're doing?"
"Shut up," comes the sharp retort. "You're really in no fucking position to be asking questions, so just lie there and be quiet before I decide shooting you like a dog isn't beneath me." His knife is withdrawn, along with the spare charges and his comlink, fucking looted while he's still breathing and aware.
The ache in his leg has faded to a dull, constant throb. Distantly, he can see the strip of fabric binding it just above the knee. A tourniquet. The rebel's put a tourniquet on his leg to slow down the bleeding. It's probably the only reason he's still alive. Yunho hopes the guy doesn't expect a thank you.
"It's clearly..." he groans, trying to move his toes and finding he can't, knowing that can't be a good thing, "clearly not beneath you to undress a dying man and steal from him. Is that your role in your little organization? Grave robber?"
The other man pulls back and dimly, Yunho can make out a scowl. "I think you'd have to be in a grave first, jackass. Forgive me if consideration for the bastard who tried to kill me really isn't on the top of my list."
"You're the one who landed us here, bitch," Yunho smirks and it must be the blood loss talking, "you deal with it." His vision swims, blurring around the edges. His leg's probably dying if not dead already. He wonders if it'll have to be amputated, if he'll need a robotic one instead.
Bye, bye, flying, he thinks and tries to reach out a hand to touch the craft that saved his life. Hell, even the one that almost killed him.
The other man's reflexes must be quicker than anticipated or his are just that weak, because his arm is caught mid-way and thrust back down into the dirt. "If you think I won't kill you, you're sorely mistaken."
"You haven't yet..." It doesn't seem like a good enough answer, but then what does he care anyway? Sleep is coming for him and it's surprisingly easy to slip under with the promise of painlessness.
A crack of pain blossoms over his cheek, eyes startling open, his fingers digging into the sand. "Miss the conversation already?" he slurs mockingly, eyelids drooping once again.
***
It's like babysitting the elderly, Yoochun sighs to himself, shaking the other man's body roughly. "You'll sleep when you're dead and if you keep sleeping, you will be." It's not wholly true and he knows jackshit about fixing people up and making them better. He's not a fucking nurse and least of all to a Guard soldier. But he needs him awake or he needs him dead. There's no in-between.
"Piss poor solider, you are," comes the mumble and Yoochun clenches his teeth. "Right. Doesn't fit with the savages you make us to be. Maybe I should take off the tourniquet and just leave you. Almost nightfall, bound to be some predators lurking about."
He receives a glare for his efforts, but it's better than nothing. It's what he wants. "I've got your attention? Good. Did you tell your buddies where to find you?"
"Is this... the part where you interrogate me?" deflects the soldier, staring right at him; right through him.
Yoochun fists clench in his shirt. "Listen to me, you fuck, we're crashed in the middle of fucking nowhere. We need to send out an SOS."
A jagged laugh. "You didn't? Piss poor doesn't fucking cover it, then. Kamikaze more like." Yoochun hisses through his teeth, fighting the rise of anger that flares in him. The other man's silence is enough of an answer. He did, and it does Yoochun not the slightest bit of fucking good. The Guard shows up, he's forfeit. He knows better than to think that not shooting the man now will earn him any gratitude.
He reaches for his gun with that very purpose in mind. It hovers near the ground, cocked and ready. The Guard pilot even arches an expectant eyebrow.
"If I were you, I'd do us both in," he notes, eyes closed but lips moving with striking clarity. "Look around you. It's all a desert. We're dead anyway."
Surprisingly fatalistic for a Guard soldier, but Yoochun isn't fooled. Incensed, he leans down, speaking against much too pale skin. "Tough luck because you're not me. I happen to think you'd look better with a bullet in your head and feeding the birds."
A hand comes up with shocking speed to grab the bag of his hair, fingers tight. "Then quit posturing and just do it, you coward."
"I'm not your fucking lapdog, you shit," he mutters right back, pressing the muzzle into the other man's temple. "I don't jump when you say jump. I don't shoot when you say shoot. Go to hell."
Another laugh, dark eyes meeting his in challenge. "Look around you. We're already there."
***
Authors: butterflyweb and nemesis_cry
Genre: Sci Fi, AU to our "Acts" AU
Rating: R to NC-17
Pairing: Yunho/Yoochun
Summary: Enemies as members of opposing factions, they have to fight to survive as they are landed in unusual circumstances
Warnings: swearing, violence and sexual themes.
AN: Inspired by the premise of Barry B. Longyear's Enemy Mine.
AN2: Not a formal part of our multi-chaptered Acts of Contrition and Acts of Insurrection storyline but using elements of both.
Arrakis teaches the attitude of the knife - chopping off what's incomplete and saying: "Now it's complete because it's ended here."
from Collected Sayings of Muad'Dib by the Princess Irulan
(Dune by Frank Herbert)
No matter how exotic human civilization becomes, no matter the developments of life and society nor the complexity of the machine/human interface, there always come interludes of lonely power when the course of humankind, depends upon the relatively simple actions of single individuals.
from The Tleilaxu Godbuk
(Dune by Frank Herbert)
***
It's the shift in the winds that wakes him, face pressed close in the joint of a neck and shoulder, sand skittering over his bare skin. Untangling his body from the man at his side, he pushes himself up and ducks out of their small shelter. The sun is already too high in the azure sky, blinding him momentarily as he peers over the dunes, seeking the cause of the disturbance. They've learned better than to ignore the rapid escalation of the winds; they barely survived the last sandstorm. A hand comes up to shade his eyes, looking into the distance when a shine of sunlight on metal catches his eye, heart thudding dully in his chest.
"Gods..."
Yunho doesn't wake. His lips part on an exhale, one hand searching the covers for his missing bedfellow. Yoochun catches it with a hard swallow. Did he dream it?
A flash of silver over the dunes and then the sound. He knows it, he used to dream of it on lonely nights when all hope was lost. He used to pray to the Gods that he'd hear it for real, just once. He didn't think there was any point in it, not after so many months.
"Yunho..." His voice is a whisper, awed as he watches the crafts fly on overhead. It's not one ship. It's an armada. "Yunho, wake up." He shakes the other man, torn between joy and fear. "Wake up, come on. They found us! They've fucking found us!"
The older man's eyes flutter open, disorientation still painfully obvious in his half-asleep gaze. "What? Yoochun, what are you talking about?"
His grasp on the other man's hand tightens almost painfully before he starts trying to pull him up. They have to go and go now.
Yunho is quick, a military man down to his bones and he's on his feet with cold discipline that's still foreign and always will be to Yoochun. But there's no excitement at being rescued in the other man's reaction. Yoochun doesn't understand why.
Their eyes lock over the arid sand.
"Yoochun? Who's 'they'?"
***
The blare of alarms is heavy in his ears, flashing lights on the control panel alerting him to failure after failure. Forward shields at at a meager 10%, all powers directed to his tail. His last defense against the sleek black and silver craft that he can't fucking shake. This goes on much longer and he's a goner. It's a fate he's not ready to accept.
His comsys is bursting with activity, sounds of the battle raging on around him and cries of fear and horror alike. The Guard is not fucking kidding around. They want to exterminate them, as if they're a pest and not human beings with differing opinions.
Hey, fellas, let's talk.
Yeah, as if negotiations worked any better in the past. There's no negotiating with traitors, the Empress is right about that. There's only kill or be killed and right now, with no functioning weapons systems, the odds are not in his favor.
"So just get a little closer, you bastard and I'll show you..." A hard push from the rear of his craft sends him into the controls. "Not that close!"
He wrenches the controls, brings the craft at a hard angle, trying to reach his comrades, trying to get some fucking air support before he ends up a smear on a stray asteroid. The manoeuvre doesn't dissuade his tail and he swears, heart thrumming in his chest with fury and panic. He's out of ammo. His shields are almost gone. The only comfort now is that if he goes down, he's going to take this bastard with him.
If he doesn't get shot down first, that is.
A volley of fire skitters past his shield, only grazing his craft. Either this Guard lackey's blind or that shot didn't come from him. It's not that hard to hit a target when you're tailing it, so he has to assume it's the latter. Which makes him wonder.
Whoever he is, he's a stubborn son of a bitch if he's trying to take him down without firing. He's also fucking cocky and it's the blow to his ego more than the potential danger that raises Yoochun's hackles. Being underestimated gives him the upper hand. And where best to teach the bastard a lesson than in the asteroid field on the outskirts of the quadrant? At least there, he's not going to get fucking shot by fucking friendly fire.
"Let's see... how stupid you are..."
The craft veers in pursuit, tailing him faithfully. Yoochun smirks. Predictable.
***
He sticks to the ancient craft's trail, equipment humming around him, targeting screen retracted and shut off. It's useless now. His only method of attack is left in manipulation of the rebel's inexperience and uncouth skill. They're a dime of dozen, like a litter of mutts, pushed into failing equipment and sent out as canon fodder. Yunho is only to happy to hurry the pilot along to the completion of his destiny.
Whatever evasive manoeuvre's are supposed to shake him are pathetically littered in rookie mistakes, so much so that he barely registers their purpose until it's too late, until the son of a bitch has drawn him into a fucking asteroid field, a mine ground for crafts of all kinds and a killer on the engines. He adjusts accordingly, switching to complete manual control because he's not going to die being hit by a rock.
Especially one traveling at half the speed of his own craft when exiting the launch bay.
"Come on, you little shit," he mutters, fingers tight on the controls. "Ready to lose at your own fucking game?"
The signal from the comsys is fading, the polarization of the asteroids fucking with his electronics as he's drawn further and further out of range. The rebel pilot is remarkably adept, no matter his barbaric, rudimentary patterns, something Yunho comes to realize with no small amount of contempt as he loses him behind a stray piece of space debris.
His radar is no help, the image flickering because of magnetic interference when it doesn't report a few dozen enemy signals that he knows are nothing but solid rock. He slows to avoid collision even though he knows it's a mistake. The craft swerves, losing altitude before it's recovered, angling to peer behind spinning debris. Eyeballing is an old and defunct technique, but it's all he's got and he's determined not to let this one go until he's set his craft in flames.
Or maybe crushed it under a rock.
Determination is sadly all he's got left, however, because the sudden sound of metal scraping metal echoes through the cockpit as the other fighter craft knocks into his and he finds himself spinning down, engines useless in stabilizing the pitch and shake of the vessel. It sends him spiraling down instead, the full throttle of the enemy craft increasing his velocity until they barely escape the edge of an asteroid, a chunk breaking off where it catches Yunho's wing.
"Fuck," he swears, trying to use the rebel's tactic against him and failing. There's no reversing the power that's been diverted to the engines. They're going to crash.
The son of a bitch is suicidal.
He looks up to see some planet loom before them, pushes all remaining power to his shields and prepares for death.
***
Yoochun comes to slumped over the controls, the stick shoved into his solar plexus, ears ringing and vision spotty. For a moment, he doesn't understand. He should be dead. If his plan worked, then he should be dead. The afterlife, as far as he can tell from the first moments of awareness, is painful. And hot.
Sweat and blood clings to his skin, a hole in the cockpit bringing in scorching air and sunlight. It all feels surprisingly real.
"Fuck me," he groans, sitting back and working to undo the harness that still holds him strapped to the craft. The old girl, rusty as she is, saved his life. He sincerely hopes the same doesn't hold true for the Guard bastard he took down with him.
He swallows dry air, flicking uselessly at the comsys, trying to pick up a signal. Nothing, not even dead air. It seems saving his life was the last service the craft would ever provide him. Leaning back, he takes in a few ragged breaths, relieved to find that the air leaking through the broken viewshield isn't toxic. Luck is, so far, as much on his side as he can hope.
The hatch is fixed in place, no power to speak of to open it and he digs for something to shatter the remaining glass. He won't let his deliverance become his coffin. Who knows what kind of fuel he's leaking.
His sidearm is his only tool. He's not equipped for emergency landings. Shit, he's lucky if he even gets to land at all. Unlike the Guard with all their fancy footwork and contingency plans and ten year training programs, he's got faith to propel his fire. He believes in something, he's got something to fight for. And one way or another, taking down a Guard soldier and surviving is as much service to the cause as personally guarding Her Majesty with his own body.
A groan of pain echoes in the small space and he's too paranoid, too shaken to realize it's his own. His shoulder aches and he fears it might be dislocated. He can still move it and he's alive. Baby steps. He can't afford to let this overwhelm him. As soon as the battle is finished, his people will sweep the planets in this system for lifesigns. They'll find him. He just needs to make their lives a bit easier.
He needs to get out. He needs to get out. He needs... air. He can't breathe. Panic chokes him, pain spiraling quick and fast through his lungs and stomach until he's almost curled up in his seat, biting back sobs. What the fuck is he doing? What the fuck has he done?
He might as well put a bullet in his head, they're not coming for him. He's fucking doomed--
Below, he thinks he feels the enemy craft rattle with signs of life. It's a familiar sound, like hearing rats under the floorboards in his room on Elysia, always there when he was trying to sleep, never there when he made his father check. His breathing gradually recovers its rhythm. He grabs his gun with two hands, using it like a club to smash the glass panel above his head.
He's a grown man in Her Majesty's employ. He doesn't need anyone's help to survive and least of all to kill.
***
His craft is destroyed. It's the first thing Yunho registers, the first thing to grab and pull at this attention. The first thing he has to correct if he wants a prayer of surviving this. Nevermind the blood streaking his face. If his body can move, then he can consider himself operational. It's a whole different story for his fighter.
"Come on," he hisses under his breath, the comsys crackling with static as he tries to fire up the engines, flicking switches, checking the scrambled readouts on his screen.
Whatever power saved him from being blown to pieces is gone. No reserves, nothing. He's completely stranded.
With the last remains of fuel, he diverts power to his comsys, broadcasting a one-off emergency signal. It's meant to bounce out of the planet's atmosphere and into space, where, if he's lucky, the asteroid field's magnetic interference will keep bouncing it off and on to whoever's in range to hear it. Even if that means running the risk of drawing the enemy out to his position.
Against hope, he waits for an immediate response, sweeping the planet he's landed--no, crashed--on for signs that he's not alone. It's all in vain. While his screen feeds back information of a terraforming process in its earliest stages, it reports no shred of hope to cling to. Yunho bites on the inside of his cheek. He's a soldier. He doesn't need hope. He's got a gun, rations and a survival kit. He's good for months.
Unless, he thinks, eyes narrowing, he's not alone.
His suspicions are confirmed with the sound of shattering glass.
Yunho unholsters his gun from the strap around his ankle, digging out charges from under his seat, slipping them into his pockets. He didn't let the little shit kill him the first time, he won't let him a second. He jabs at the hatch release, wincing as it slides back with a groan and he pulls the helmet off, cocking the gun and taking aim. Waiting for the other man's head to appear from the cockpit and waiting to blow it off.
If he's learned one thing is that bastard rebel scum have got no patience anyway.
A helmet shoots up a half second later, easy target, easily poised and even easier to hit. Yunho fires two rounds straight at it, leaving it singed and smoking but sadly, unattached to a body.
"Shit," he swears, aware that he's wasted ammo for nothing, not to mention fallen for a diversion that can cost him his life. Another thing he's starting to pick up when it comes to the rebels is that they can be frustratingly inventive.
A volley of fire comes out of nowhere, laser shots skittering down the roof of his craft and stopping an inch bellow the hatch, two inches before his abdomen. Any closer and he'd be blood and guts and dead right here, on this waste of solid earth.
He's a sitting duck in this cockpit.
Returning fire as he moves, he takes the split second opportunity of the other pilot's retreat to scramble over the side of his craft. It's too much movement, too soon and he's overestimated his body's condition. He hits the hot sand with a dull smack, the jagged line of crimson staining the leg of his flightsuit making itself known. He drags himself backwards, using the right wing as a shield and checking the power on his weapon.
"Fuck," he hisses, eyes straining against the glaring sun to focus on the enemy's cockpit, hands sweaty on the butt of his weapon.
***
He tries to save his shots, but he doesn't know what to do. Inside the cockpit, he's in control, here he can't see, he can't react. And the earth might as well be moving under his feet, it's certainly spinning when he crashes to the ground, scrambling for cover on the other side of the craft.
The other side to what, he doesn't know. However still and dead this rock may be, the rush of blood in his ears is too loud to let his senses detect anyone's presence.
Or maybe not quite. There's no ignoring the jagged cry that echoes from the right side of their mangled crafts and Yoochun points his gun in that direction as if it might protect him. There's no threat. Not yet. But hiding like a rat will do nothing to insure it stays that way. Creeping forward on his haunches, he moves around the nose of his fighter, flightsuit sticking to the small of his back. Best to make it one shot, if he can. Quick and leaving no chance for retaliation.
The other pilot comes into his sight before he himself is spotted, sprawled on the ground, half-propped up against the wing and leaking scarlet over the golden sand. Yoochun raises his weapon.
Another is thrust in his direction just as quickly, the soldier smirking even though his eyes are narrowed to slits. "Thought I didn't hear you?" A humorless laugh. "If you're going to shoot, you'd best make it a winning shot or I'm taking you with me."
Something in the tone tells him it's not an idle threat, nor that it's unfounded, if his burnt helmet is anything to go by. Guard bastard he may be, but he's not lying. And that's precisely why Yoochun can't even consider lowering his gun.
"I got you well enough the first time around," he smirks, gritting his teeth at the pain spiking through his shoulder. At most, it's a surface wound. Unlike the other man, he's not about to bleed out. There's satisfaction in better odds.
A cold, ugly look is the only reaction, the man's gun hand unwavering despite his wounded state. "Think you'll be lucky enough to get one off again? We'll see who's faster on the trigger. Odds are the carrion with be picking your bones by nightfall."
Yoochun bears teeth. "Please. Try." He's got good enough aim at such close range. It's a child's game and he'll play it if he must. For Empress and country and all the Guard has taken from him, from his Empress to his country to his best friend all those years ago. "I'm ready to die for my cause. Are you, you fucking traitor?"
A matching snarl, the man's head leaning against the side of the craft, an almost indiscernable deviation in his aim. "Your cause is a blight on the face of the Empire. One I'm all too happy to be rid of."
Yoochun spits. "Your kind destroyed the Empire. You'll never get rid of those of us who are loyal." He doesn't know why he's making conversation, except it's interesting to see the barely visible lowering of the eyelids, as if the other pilot is suddenly very tired. Sunlight bathes him in a harsh light, but still he looks much too pale for it to be normal.
It dawns on Yoochun that he was right. His enemy is going to bleed out and he doesn't have to do anything but wait for nature to take its course. It disappoints him, in some way. The other man doesn't deserve an easy way out. He deserves to be shot in cold blood, to feel the fear he's no doubt taken pleasure in causing in others. He deserves to stare down a gun barrel and know how it will obliterate his insides, just like his own weapon has.
The man's hand starts to drop and a shot is fired, as if he realizes what's happening and is desperate to take Yoochun with him. It's wildly off base, leaving a smoking hole in the side of the craft before the gun hits the sand, the Guard scum slumping against hot metal. Unconscious, if not dead.
Yoochun thinks of firing and ending this now, but something tells him it would be cowardly. Too easy, too painless. He grabs the other's gun and places it well out of his reach. There'll be a time for execution, later. He wants to make sure he's prepared for it when it comes.
***
Consciousness filters back in slowly and it unnerves him, his eyelashes feeling like steel curtains that he can't manage to push up. He's always been quick to wake and be fully functional, ready for action. This sluggishness leaves him feeling vulnerable and vaguely panicked, his hand automatically closing around his weapon. His weapon that is no longer in his grasp. He drags his eyes open, trying to move, trying to get up, sparing a brief, incredulous thought to the fact that he's still alive.
"Don't even try," a voice orders him and it's not his Commander's. It lacks the finesse and the wealth of experience behind it. "Don't move."
The rebel bastard--the same one who shot him down--forces his shoulders back to the cooling ground. There's no use in fighting it, he doesn't have the strength. Not until he feels hands unzip his flightsuit and start pulling at the inner pockets.
"The fuck you think you're doing?"
"Shut up," comes the sharp retort. "You're really in no fucking position to be asking questions, so just lie there and be quiet before I decide shooting you like a dog isn't beneath me." His knife is withdrawn, along with the spare charges and his comlink, fucking looted while he's still breathing and aware.
The ache in his leg has faded to a dull, constant throb. Distantly, he can see the strip of fabric binding it just above the knee. A tourniquet. The rebel's put a tourniquet on his leg to slow down the bleeding. It's probably the only reason he's still alive. Yunho hopes the guy doesn't expect a thank you.
"It's clearly..." he groans, trying to move his toes and finding he can't, knowing that can't be a good thing, "clearly not beneath you to undress a dying man and steal from him. Is that your role in your little organization? Grave robber?"
The other man pulls back and dimly, Yunho can make out a scowl. "I think you'd have to be in a grave first, jackass. Forgive me if consideration for the bastard who tried to kill me really isn't on the top of my list."
"You're the one who landed us here, bitch," Yunho smirks and it must be the blood loss talking, "you deal with it." His vision swims, blurring around the edges. His leg's probably dying if not dead already. He wonders if it'll have to be amputated, if he'll need a robotic one instead.
Bye, bye, flying, he thinks and tries to reach out a hand to touch the craft that saved his life. Hell, even the one that almost killed him.
The other man's reflexes must be quicker than anticipated or his are just that weak, because his arm is caught mid-way and thrust back down into the dirt. "If you think I won't kill you, you're sorely mistaken."
"You haven't yet..." It doesn't seem like a good enough answer, but then what does he care anyway? Sleep is coming for him and it's surprisingly easy to slip under with the promise of painlessness.
A crack of pain blossoms over his cheek, eyes startling open, his fingers digging into the sand. "Miss the conversation already?" he slurs mockingly, eyelids drooping once again.
***
It's like babysitting the elderly, Yoochun sighs to himself, shaking the other man's body roughly. "You'll sleep when you're dead and if you keep sleeping, you will be." It's not wholly true and he knows jackshit about fixing people up and making them better. He's not a fucking nurse and least of all to a Guard soldier. But he needs him awake or he needs him dead. There's no in-between.
"Piss poor solider, you are," comes the mumble and Yoochun clenches his teeth. "Right. Doesn't fit with the savages you make us to be. Maybe I should take off the tourniquet and just leave you. Almost nightfall, bound to be some predators lurking about."
He receives a glare for his efforts, but it's better than nothing. It's what he wants. "I've got your attention? Good. Did you tell your buddies where to find you?"
"Is this... the part where you interrogate me?" deflects the soldier, staring right at him; right through him.
Yoochun fists clench in his shirt. "Listen to me, you fuck, we're crashed in the middle of fucking nowhere. We need to send out an SOS."
A jagged laugh. "You didn't? Piss poor doesn't fucking cover it, then. Kamikaze more like." Yoochun hisses through his teeth, fighting the rise of anger that flares in him. The other man's silence is enough of an answer. He did, and it does Yoochun not the slightest bit of fucking good. The Guard shows up, he's forfeit. He knows better than to think that not shooting the man now will earn him any gratitude.
He reaches for his gun with that very purpose in mind. It hovers near the ground, cocked and ready. The Guard pilot even arches an expectant eyebrow.
"If I were you, I'd do us both in," he notes, eyes closed but lips moving with striking clarity. "Look around you. It's all a desert. We're dead anyway."
Surprisingly fatalistic for a Guard soldier, but Yoochun isn't fooled. Incensed, he leans down, speaking against much too pale skin. "Tough luck because you're not me. I happen to think you'd look better with a bullet in your head and feeding the birds."
A hand comes up with shocking speed to grab the bag of his hair, fingers tight. "Then quit posturing and just do it, you coward."
"I'm not your fucking lapdog, you shit," he mutters right back, pressing the muzzle into the other man's temple. "I don't jump when you say jump. I don't shoot when you say shoot. Go to hell."
Another laugh, dark eyes meeting his in challenge. "Look around you. We're already there."
***