R is for Renegades ••• Tae & Bee
taeyeonmin:
So it was indeed the girl with the mind-controlling ability (or whatever it was she had). She had attempted to curb his mind to her will at the store, to make him obey the rules, successfully pushing all of his buttons and then some. Taeyeon Min’s nerves were an erratic, temperamental thing, vibrating in all their volatile glory, brimming below his grinning countenance—and she had dared to fucking pull the trigger. Anger swept him away then, reddish blind rage lighting his spine on fire, because—ha!—she had expected him to obey her, fucking intending to put him under her own control. And that, that right there, was the quickest, most foolproof way to his berserk button.
However, Tae’s distracted mind didn’t linger too long on the annoying girl. In fact, he wasn’t even annoyed at her anymore, his temper long gone just as quickly as it had exploded during their first encounter. She had superpowers, and she was part of this Resistance. So what? The girl was a nobody, a blip in his life, soon to be forgotten without the faintest trace. He wouldn’t be seeing her anymore since like hell was he coming back here again. The meeting dragged on and on and on, and by the time Taeyeon successfully beat another level in his game, it seemed to be drawing to an end. Thank fuck, he thought, toying with the Zippo lighter inside the pocket of his dark jeans. He’d had half a mind to set the desk on fire if another minute of his time were wasted on listening to some lady rambling about inter-organization relations.
Taeyeon did support the rights of supers—but namely the rights of one particular super. Himself. His philosophy was as follows: nobody fucked with him and his family, and he (probably) didn’t fuck with them. Seeing this meeting unfold had further confirmed his distrust in the Resistance. They weren’t taking any action—they weren’t fighting! People couldn’t even handle having different skin colors, were these members so naïve to believe that they could change the public’s opinion by politics and mere talks?
Ugh, whatever. He was done with this, the collar of his shirt itched—Tae raised his hand to scratch the irritated spot on his skin—, and shit, his whole body was itching to escape this squeaky clean meeting room and practice parkour instead. He could only sit still in one position for so long. It was almost like a physical affliction, the way his body yearned to move around. Perhaps it was due to his power pumping his muscles, commanding the body that housed it to move, move, move because there was too much energy, and it was going to explode if Tae didn’t get off his ass and spend it—whatever it may be, it was now shaking Taeyeon’s left leg in bursts of jittery, restless motions.
Papers were shuffled around, variations of thanks for listening were uttered, and chairs were dragged across the carpeted floor. Time for him to finally bail the fuck out. He almost knocked over the chair while standing up.
But, oh God, the people. There were too many of them, and there were too many of them in his way. What would happen if he were to, say, kick the back of the knees of the person blocking him? Would they fall down, grabbing a fistful of the next person’s t-shirt, causing them to trip over as well? It would look like a domino, Taeyeon imagined, except with living, breathing humans collapsing on top of each other. A truly Vine-worthy imagery.
Humming a random melody to himself, he was debating whether or not to actually put his plan into action when he felt a small figure bump into him. Brown eyes flickered down to focus on—wow, who fucking knew? It was the blonde again. This time, instead of fury, his gaze was all leisurely blinks because, well, he was in a semi-good mood (if not a tad annoyed from that horrible boredom). It was as simple as that.
“—Are you stalking me?”
The question was posed with a head tilted to one side, eyebrows furrowed ever-so-slightly.
“Good little twelve-year-olds don’t stalk people, you know. It’s a crime,” he continued, fully aware that the girl was older than twelve. (Had she told him her real age in that soft, stuttery voice of hers? He couldn’t remember. Was it seventeen? Eighteen?) “Then again, you’re not as good as you say, are you?”
Taeyeon’s expression broke out into a lopsided grin, smug and a bit condescending, like a cat that swallowed the canary without leaving out a single feather.
Maybe it would have been another thing if Bridget Owens did not already believe all that the man said. If she’d had a little bit more confidence within herself, all things would have come to pass, and the words that this man had let go of would have been forgotten. Who was he, anyway? They were not friends! They were not even acquaintances! They didn't even know each other’s names! At the end of the day, he was a stranger. This man was a stranger, and the words of strangers should not have mattered. By their very essence, and because they came from a stranger, they should not have hurt. They should not have cut. They should not have bruised. If Bridget Owens had been a little bit more convinced with who she was and what she was doing --- the essence of it, the cause of all things ---, then things now would be entirely different.
She would smile, yes. She would smile, greet this man with a nice word or two, and maybe even strike up a conversation. Maybe he would not be as mean as he looked! Maybe he could even be nice, for a second or two! Maybe they’d have something in common, and then would go on to become good friends because they were both so clearly confident in who they were. Maybe Bridget would even flirt! Here was a nice-looking man, after all! He didn’t look half-bad on a normal day, and here, with a button-down shirt and a curved smile on his lips, Bridget had to admit to herself that he actually looked half-good. And then, maybe he’d flirt back. Maybe, even, Bridget would think herself pretty enough for him to flirt back with. Maybe Bridget Owens would think herself somewhat worthy, a little bit more worthy than who she is right now.
If only she were a little bit more confident, a little bit more okay with herself.
However, Bridget was not so strong. She was not made out of skin and bones that loved themselves. She was not made of a heart that beat with fervent love for her own being. She was not made of the stuff that stars were made out of: bright and charming and able to cast themselves a holy light from above. No, no. Instead, she was made of heavy hearts and broken figures. She was a broken porcelain doll with no idea how to fix herself, and so broken, even, that others could not fix her. She was not so whole. Not so wholly intact. When she looked at herself, she did not see someone worthy. When she looked at herself, she did not see another person from the kind that this man so detestably spoke about.
Bridget Owens believed all that the man had said. And more. She believed all that she thought about herself, too. She believed all the words that came from her mind, all the words to describe her being and demean her more than she already demeaned herself on a daily basis. These were the words of a dozen different strangers, a dozen different classmates, a dozen different acquaintances, a dozen different people, along with those she thought of for herself. She believed, with a whole heart, that she was a hypocrite. That she was horrible. That she was terrible. That she was every bad, unlovable thing on everyone’s book. (It was quite difficult to live with one’s self when one thought in such a way, really --- but, even this, Bridget thought she deserved. Shouldn’t a hypocrite deserve the worst way one can live?)
And so, because it was this way, it did not end in the way that Bridget would have liked it to end. She did not smile. She did not give him a warm greeting. She would not flirt! And this man would not flirt back, even if she did! There were no similarities between them, and they would not be friends. (Bridget Owens did not have friends, and she did not usually make friends, but in this particular case, more so because this other man and her were nothing alike. And also, he was a meanie. It was already proven that he did not like her.)
Instead, Bridget looked at the lopsided grin on his lips (for about two seconds before she looked away), and attempted to stammer out a reply to his question. Or questions, rather. (The last of them, she did not wish to acknowledge. It only reminded her of what she already knew, of what she already felt. That she was, indeed, a hypocrite, as this man was so keen on pointing out.) Instead, Bridget looked to the floor and shifted from foot to foot as she turned red in the face because the man intimidated her. Instead, Bridget was Bridget, and she could not even manage a smile that might warm up the man’s heart. (In either case, she doubted it.)
After a moment of swallowing the lump in her throat and fidgeting with her fingers, (and an immediate look of shock), Bridget finally managed a real reply. A proper reply. “I’m not--- I’m! I’m not stalking you!” Her voice was tiny, as always. Her voice was tiny just as she was tiny. “I’m not following you, I promise I’m not. I’m--- I’m---.” And then, something dawned on her. It dawned on her quite like a sunset: slow and overwhelming. (Though not as beautiful.) With a small frown on her features, and an even smaller voice, Bridget asked, “Are you--- Are you following me? Is it because of what I--- what I---”
She could not bring herself to complete her sentences.
