24-Oct-2000
revised: 19-Jun-2001
I realize that the *last* time I posted something of this, it was a teaser for the same chapter. Now it's just a longer teaser. ;D
Posted: 06/19/01
Author: Jay / carboxylated@yahoo.com
Archive: Gundam Wing Addiction (Tyr), Desolation Angels (Ashura, if she
wants it)
[Full fiction index @ http://www.gwaddiction.com/]
Disclaimer: Mobile Suit Gundam Wing is not mine, but belongs to Bandai,
Sotsu and Sunrise. ;_; The characters and timeline have been borrowed
for my own fiendish fangirl ends.
Title: The Dollhouse
Category: Yaoi/shounen ai, AU, horror
Timeline: AU (Alternate Universe)
Pairings: 1+2, 3+4, 13+5
Rating/Warning: R. Violence and more than your daily recommended use of
madness.
Feedback: is good.
Note: HA! Proving that threatening the author with bodily harm unless
she writes another chapter is only effective if you want said author to
get scared, eat tremendous amounts of ice cream, and watch the Angry
Beavers for... uh... ::counts:: half a year! Actually, the truth is--
here, you can insert a sheepish grin on my part-- I'm just really,
really, really lazy. And I like ice cream and the Angry Beavers. ^_~
/... .../ = thoughts
/Don't be scared,/ a child's voice whispered, soft and infantile in the silence.
He'd only closed his eyes for a moment.
Mariemeia extended her hand, offering her small palms to Duo in a gesture of comfort. They fisted together, and he stared at her wordlessly.
/I won't hurt you,/ she continued earnestly. She seemed so normal-- it was almost disquieting. The cropped, copper hair dipped over her eyes like a curtain, and she smiled slightly. The pull of her lips reminded him of Treize.
He realized that she wasn't actually talking, merely staring at him with candid eyes, but he heard a voice nonetheless. It reverberated in his skull, but not unpleasantly. When he fumbled for words, his mouth never moved; the sound slid across the space between them easily.
/Where are we?/
/You can talk to me, like I could talk to them./ She tilted her head in a curious gesture. /Can you talk to them?/ Mariemeia hesitated and then tightened her grip on his hand. /Can you see them?/
/See who?/ Duo answered.
A low chuckle drifted through the empty space surrounding them. /Us,/ a chorus of mixed voices answered. He looked around, squinting; the light here was hazy, rendering forms vague. There were small dark patches, like wisps of smoke, over his vision. They sharpened for a moment, and he saw their faces, blank and bleak. They dulled after a moment, sliding back into the blinding white.
He shuddered suddenly, remembering the cells and the blood-painted walls, crimson peeling like a hideous skin.
An angry female voice lifted from the disembodied murmur that remained, the spite tangible in the syllables of her words. /The Dollmaker has to die./
/Dollmaker?/
Another voice rose from the low growls. /Dollmakers, Doctors, Dolls, Developments.../
Mariemeia's voice was quiet and serious. /The doctors./
/Why... why did you come to me?/ he asked finally.
Mariemeia's glance radiated pure sympathy and pity as her tiny hands clutched his harder. /We all came here./ She paused and then continued faintly, /I won't let him hurt you./
There was a gleam in her eyes that he couldn't recognize; it was either the tears of a child or the glaze of the insane. She was dimming, dulling; her lips seemed translucent suddenly, the rose pink seeping into the white.
/You hurt Quatre./ His own voice seemed dim, as if he was rapidly evaporating.
Her nails dug into the back of his hand as she insisted, /They have to see./
/See what?/
Blue lights flashed before his eyes. His last recollection was Mariemeia's stern promise, echoed by a mass of hollow voices. /That the Dollmaker has to die.../
Duo's eyes snapped open, hands curled into fists. Slowly opening his fingers, he stared at the curve of half-moon cuts along the edge of his right hand. The viscous red was just beginning to seep through, a phantom pact sealed in blood.
Resting on his chest was a scrap of blue paper; printed on it in red, neat block letters was, BEWARE THE SERPENT. M.
He shook his head and tried not to think about what the ink was.
Duo wasn't exactly sure where he was going; he only knew that he wanted to be out of the suddenly oppressive air of the house, and he found himself wandering in the back gardens again, meandering through the pebbled paths.
He had tracked through the maze-- bear right, turn left, go straight, bear left, dead center-- to find the iron door that was immersed in the hedges slightly ajar. Grasping one of the heavy rings, he pulled, the door groaning as it creaked open. He peered inside and looked at the crooked rows of headstones. With more than slight unease, he entered and walked towards the sitting form at the far side of the cemetery.
Wufei was sitting cross-legged in front of a grave, staring at the headstone as yellow paper fluttered from his hands to the ground.
"Her name was Meiran," he said.
Duo stopped in his tracks. "Pardon?"
The Chinese youth lifted his head. "I said, her name was Meiran. She was my wife." His lips curved into a sad smile. "I suppose I loved her." He stared at the yellow paper that decorated her grave. "A long time ago," he said slowly, "in China, they laid this kind of paper on the graves of the dead."
The question escaped his tongue before he could swallow it. "When did she die?"
"Two years ago." Wufei closed his eyes. "Two years ago today."
"I'm sorry," Duo whispered. He stood awkwardly and then joined Wufei, sitting on the ground and running his hands over the grass. "How old were you?"
"Sixteen. It was arranged when we were four..." Wufei's voice trailed off and then picked up again. "We knew each other then, too. We knew for twelve years that one day we would be married some day." He stared at the headstone, his gaze remote and detached. "We buried her in her wedding dress. I don't think Meiran would have liked that break from tradition [1], but she looked so beautiful in red silk... I thought, maybe, if she ever woke up, she'd still be that bride at sixteen..."
A buzzing rose in Duo's mind. As his vision dissolved into white as he blinked in the sun. The air smelled like tealeaves and for a moment, the sky was nothing but a rippling, crimson brocade, edged with gold-threaded lotus flowers. The barest imprint of a face was framed in the clouds.
He blinked again and the red was gone. He could taste iron in his mouth, like bad water or maybe blood.
End Part 5 teaser
Note:
[1] Traditionally in China, the dead are buried in new clothes.
Jay
Please send comments to: carboxylated@yahoo.com