They call him V. No one knows his birth name, himself included. But he prefers V, a single letter he can shelter behind. A simple identity for a simple soul. Even his uniform is plain, a white jumpsuit that he takes pride in ironing every morning, clean cuffs and crisp folds.

The uniform is probably his favorite thing about the Union. The idea of belonging somewhere, being a part of something always makes him feel secure, and what organization more impressive than this?

Founded at the dawn of the new millennium, the Union is a privately funded government system that trains and conditions young adults, called Primes, to enter the world. In this cut throat society, failure is not an option, and the Union prides itself in producing the most acknowledged and enlightened individuals on the planet.

V is lucky to have the Union. The Union is lucky to have him.

Or at least, that's what the taped voice of the woman tells him every night before he drifts off to sleep.

He walks down the bustling academy hallways, books in hand. A bobbing sea of white uniforms and dark hair as hundreds of like-minded Primes pace to their respective lecture halls and testing centers. A lattice of order and discipline, all conscious of their surroundings despite the blank stares, sliding past one another without so much as a brush of shoulders.

Mid step, V pulls out two glossy white pills from his pocket and tips back his head to swallow them dry with practiced ease. His nutrients for the day since he won't have time to take his meals. With all the studying he has to do to ensure his top position in class rank, food is the last thing on his mind.

Quantum Mechanics, Combinatorics, Accelerated Language, Anthropological Behavior...

The Union puts his needs first. The Union is generous to gift him his medicine so he can focus on his studies.

The testing session is a breeze, he finishes with thirty minutes to spare, pencil drumming against his paper in boredom. It had helped that he had memorized the whole periodic table for the exam, right down to atomic weights and nucleus count. He had memorized his whole textbook, really, every single word buried within his long-term memory, still just within reach.

He's dismissed when the surrounding Primes start to grow anxious with the tapping, and he forgets that most of them are frantically trying to finish when he lets out an annoyed sigh and the scraping sound of his metal chair fills the chamber. With his early release, he decides to head to the basements to put in an extra hour of training before his scheduled time.

//

A five-minute elevator ride later and the doors slide open to reveal the training area. A handful of other Primes are drilling and sparring on the matted floors, the sound of thrown punches and breath leaving lungs bouncing off the concrete walls.

V is never one to have a partner. He prefers to be alone.

He walks to the far side of the room where several sandbags and dummies are set up for stamina and endurance training.

Along with their grueling coursework and conditioning, Primes also have another responsibility. With the implication of the Union more than a decade before, many of the young adults that were originally meant to be under the system as well simply ran away. The idea of conformity and control too intimidating. It's unknown where these individuals went, though rumors of their rugged dress, language, excessive violence, drinking, and make them dangerous in the pendulum of balance.

Cowards, V calls them.
Rogues, the Union calls them.

Once set out into the world, Primes must in addition find Rogues and rope them back into the Union, where they'll be conditioned like everyone else and produced back into model citizens. Reset the human mind.

The array of weapons laid before him makes the skin below his left eye twitch. He reaches out to run his finger over the edge of a blade, a shiver running through him. With a quick motion, three knives bury themselves into the mannequins and he manages to split open a sandbag. The blades fly through the air with a hiss, hitting mark after mark dead on until the tray is empty and he lets out a sound of displeasure. He hates how quiet it is when he goes to collect them, the stares of his peers prickling the back of his neck and he feels the twitch return. Their silent judgement fuels him to work harder, always has, always will. Whether it be in the classroom or down here training, V loses to no one.

He keeps at it until a fine sheet of sweat covers his body, limbs screaming in protest and his bangs sticking to his forehead.

"Prime #757, to the Headmaster's office immediately,"

That stops him, dropping the knives with a loud clang and he exits the facility with mechanized steps.

//

"You're late, 757," comes the crisp voice of the Headmistress from across her desk, hands steepled on the table top.

"I needed to shower," V blurts out and mentally scolds himself. Anthropological Behavior is his worst subject and he always seems to forget the indiscreet rules of conversation. A blush colors his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, "it won't happen again, ma'am."

The Headmistress makes no notion of having heard him and the cold mask resting on her features remains unbroken.

"I called you here because I would like to propose your Discharge,"

His heart starts to hammer in his chest, empty gaze fixed on the woman in front of him.

V is going to be sent out into the field.

"Your marks, mental endurance, and perseverance are exceptional. You're the strongest candidate the Union has,”

It’s the best compliment he’s ever received, yet the Headmistress sounds unimpressed, level. Like she already stated the same thing to an earlier Prime.

“What would you have me do?” he asks. The words have barely left his lips when a manilla folder is slid across the desk to meet his fingertips. He glances back up at the Headmistress before thumbing open the folder to reveal glossy headshots, clipped to several files providing profile information.

Jeon Jungkook.
A knowing smirk and tousled dark hair.

Park Jimin.
Dangerous glinting eyes, alluring and predatory.

Jung Hoseok.
Sharp, defined features. A deadly glare.

Min Yoongi.
A look of distaste snaring his lips in a grimace, smug posture.

Kim Seokjin.
At ease, overflowing aura of charm.

Kim Namjoon.
Ringleader. Authoritative tilt of the chin and malicious eyes.

Rogues. All of them.

"These boys are The Armored Seven," states the Headmistress, the name rolling off her tongue like poison, "they're delinquents, setting off smoke bombs in the city and vandalizing property. They're a disturbance and the Union's top concern,"

"I see only six," V deadpans and again his lack of filter makes his face heat up. A look of irritation flickers across her face and she jabs a well manicured nail in the direction of the photographs fanned out before him.

"Luck, 757," she hisses, "the only reason we've been unable to detain them thus far is for that reason alone. Their name just emphasizes their good fortune,"

He glances down at the faces staring back at him. Makes sense.

"And you're to apprehend them,"

"Alone?" his tone is remote. It's nothing he can't handle, but it would surely make things easier if he had backup.

"Of course. We've been watching you for a while now, 757. We know you work best alone,"

A tickle of dopamine sparks the back of his brain. Very true words indeed.