⇀autonomous
@ccxsen
Maybe, if he hadn’t tried running from his responsibilities, he might still be here.
It’d taken all Taeyong had not to reach out and strangle the council member right then and there.
He acted carelessly and selfishly, and he has, unfortunately, paid the price for it.
They’d handed him a medal of valor, a reward for years of bravery from his brother, then immediately tainted it with words of his cowardice, of betrayal. A harsh, jagged seven letter word came out of their mouths like venom, acidic and burning, piercing Taeyong to his very core. He’d nearly bled himself from the way his nails dug into the worn flesh of his palms every time they so much as hinted at it. He’d already started imagining what it would be like to see those flapping, pursed mouths split in half at the end of his sword.
But he did nothing. He was weak. Nineteen years old, still a rookie (You were lined up for a promotion, perhaps to Quicksilver. A birthday gift. But now, how can we be sure your allegiance isn’t as...fragile, as your brother’s was?), and too weak to kill his brothers’ murderers. He’d inclined his head, dark hair casting shadows over his eyes as he told them what they wanted to hear, that horrible seven-letter word ripping him open from the inside out: his brother was a traitor, he had traitor’s blood, and he was nothing but loyal to the League.
He wasn’t stupid. Perhaps he wasn’t the most levelheaded in situations of conflict, or the most strategic when it came to fighting alongside his often cumbersome teammates. But he certainly wasn’t stupid. He’d spent the months since his brother’s funeral (no coffin, no urn, no body to give away to ash and dust) searching for answers, discreetly, silently, certain if he were to make even one tiny misstep, it’d mean his death. Dublin. Junyong had made it all the way to Ireland, and was probably on his way back, before he was caught.
Sit tight. I’ll come back for you once I get some answers. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.
Taeyong didn’t know what Junyong found in Dublin, but the rumors still lingering in whispers among the bolder of heroes were enough to give him an idea.
Taeyong didn’t know who he could trust anymore. They couldn’t have found and caught Junyong without someone he’d trusted giving his secrets away. He couldn’t go to just anyone with the knowledge that his brother had been ambushed, murdered, executed, by the very League they fought for; one wrong move and he’d be next.
He burst into the training room he knew would be empty, save for one hero training through the dead of night. Other rookies didn’t dare intrude on Sen, afraid of inciting his notorious lack of patience with novice heroes and the wrath that ensued. Sen had been Junyong’s closest friend. He’d been there for Taeyong’s first transformation, standing next to his brother, the pair of them smiling at how similar his hero garb was to both of theirs. If anyone still held memories of Junyong that had yet to be tainted by the League’s lies, it was Sen.
“It was them,” he spat breathlessly, his rapid, desperate gait tugging up a small burst of air that pushed the hood from his head and revealed his troubled expression, “The GB--those bureaucratic fucks on top--they killed him--”
He stopped himself then, suddenly aware of where he was, of how his voice carried through the empty training facility, of the heat prickling his eyes in response to the first time he was revealing this suspicion out loud. He’d stopped just short of mentioning Dublin, of conspiracies to snuff out rebellion and independence and autonomous thought. Even if he thought he could trust Sen, he couldn’t be as sure of the extent his trust should go.
“Junyong hyung--” he added, once he’d caught his breath, once he’d staunched the rage quelling in his chest long enough to gain control of his voice, “the League killed hyung.”
