#omg Cas' Tseng and my Tseng hating their dads tho

[gcldfanged]

🖋 Tseng

Send me a 🖋 and a character you’d like to see me write, and I’ll give it my best shot! [ACCEPTING]

Trigger warnings: homicide, genocide, gore, blood.

Back in those days, the people were destitute. Everything was in scarce supply, save for the Revolution's passion and anger.

Gods, the anger- So pure and good, so just and dogmatic.

So arrogant.

His father wanted to join the Revolution. They trudged for seven days through winding dirt paths and fields to the nearest encampment- Father, mother, son. He was handed a rifle with a single bullet, to shoot and kill one of the young gweilo cadets they'd lashed to a tree waiting at the forest's edge. Even then his fingers struggled to find the trigger.

'He's just a boy, give me a man to kill.'

The guard's expression went stony and coiled an arm hard with steeled muscle around his father's shoulders, pointing: 'Don't you see? That's why you must kill them. Even a foreign boy can stand on the field of battle as a soldier-They are taught from birth to hate, to destroy- All of the Revolution's enemies are like this. That is why they are evil.'

His mother used to be a famous actress before the war. Now she stood as just another peasant with dust smudged against her high cheekbones, her perfect face a mask of cold and austere beauty.

She snatched the rifle from her husband's arms and swung it to her shoulder.

'Just one bullet? Is it really that hard?'

She pulled the trigger and the crack was deafening, the bullet ripping a long red tear straight through the foreign boy's neck like a jagged smile- But he didn't die.

His mother marched right up to where he lay spasming on the ground and grasped barrel of the rifle like she was about to dig a hole for a fence post, bringing it down again and again until his skull cracked open like the shell of an egg.

They rode a convoy back the house in silence. His father never spoke of it again.

Eventually, it became too dangerous to stay inside the cities. Reports buzzed in through the static of the local radio system, accounts of the fighting having reached the capital.

A line of soldiers were fanned out facing a huge crowd. The air was filled with countless shouts: ‘Defend Wutai, down to the last man! Death to the Fascists!’

Even as the tanks closed in around the young and the elderly, students and farmers, rich and poor- The survivors packed together like sardines, you could hear them singing.

They were singing to the background of gunfire.