Posted: 9/26/00
Revised: 11/11/00
Titled: War Song
Author: Jay / carboxylated@yahoo.com
Archive: All those with prior permission are welcome (and hugged profusely) to archive this.
[Note: all fics accessible @ http://www.geocities.com/fenris_wolf0]
Category: Partially AU, angst, deathfic.
Timeline: AU, also GW
Pairings: 1+2
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is quite sadly not mine, but in fact the
property of Bandai, Sunrise, and other large corporations and companies
I have no affiliation with. (Again, quite sadly.)
Warning/Rating: R. Abstract. Angsty. Deathfic.
Feedback: Hit me!
Note: This is what happens when Jay watches movies like 'Saving Private
Ryan' and sees Matt Damon cry. I also want to make a note-- everything
is another timeline (or the same, sort of) for Duo, Trowa, Quatre, and
Wufei-- they are different points in history. Heero retains the current
AC 195/196 timeline, and Pat and Henry come in at around AC 245/246.
It's weird. I worked hard on this, so I appreciate your feedback doubly,
because it's the only short fiction that I've really poured myself into.
I also want to note that while Wufei and Quatre are not in a 'war,' per
se, it *is* conflict-- well, just please don't nitpick. ;-) Oh, and I'm
not actually Miss Patriot. But... hey, Matt Damon crying affects me in
weird ways.
i.
"I said, I don't want to *fucking* go, okay?" Pat sneered, tilting his
head away from the strained faces of his parents.
His father was red-faced and ashamed. "Young man, you are not to address us in such a--"
"Such a *what*, pops?" The boy pushed his question away with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "I don't want to visit the senile old man."
"Your grandfather," his father retorted angrily, "fought in the Eve Wars, and you're damn well coming to visit him today."
His mother swayed above him, soft voice pained. "Please, Patrick? Please? We can watch the fireworks together. You used to love the fireworks."
"Yeah, yeah." The boy shook his head, disgusted at his defeat. "I'll go."
The grass was frosting around him. Duo Maxwell tentatively touched his skin, wincing at the contact of fingers brushing freezing flesh. He smiled woefully, a twisted kind of grin, rubbing his stomach in a vain attempt to assuage both cold and hunger.
"Private Maxwell!"
He leapt to his feet. "Sir!"
"At ease, boy." Captain Dudley tried to refrain a sad smile from gracing his lips at the sight of the slight boy, a youth of fourteen. He paced around, feigning inspection, and then nodded briskly. "Do you have family back home you'd like to write to before tomorrow's battle?"
Duo shook his head. "I'm an orphan, sir," he replied, voice slightly tremulous. It firmed, however, before chirping: "I lived in Philadelphia, sir, in an almshouse. If I may, sir--" Here he paused, seeking permission to continue. It was acknowledged with another sharp nod. "There was a woman of the church there, sir, by the name of Helen Kingsley, and I would be much obliged if I could--"
"Permission granted, private."
The boy's violet eyes shone. "Thank you, sir!"
Captain Dudley began to walk away, but he hesitated, turning his head to look over his shoulder. "Duo?"
"Yes, sir?"
The question was soft. "Why are you fighting in this war, boy?"
The boy stood firm in the biting October air. "I'm fighting for liberty, sir. I'm fighting so that Miss Kingsley can keep running that house back home. It would be a shame, sir, don't you think, if those children had nowhere to go."
"From the mouths of babes," muttered Dudley. "Very well, Maxwell. For the children, then."
Pat veered on the road, steering precariously. Wind brushed his hair back, through the roof of his Jeep, a present from his parents for his eighteenth birthday. The music was blaring, whipping through the air. He had a video communicator in the dashboard; it was on, a face of a boy his age on the screen.
"Hey, Pat!"
"Henry, bitch, what's up?" Pat greeted.
"Where the fuck are you, man? We were going to get some beer tonight, head into the woods, watch the fuckin' fireworks."
"Parents, man, fuckin' forced me to visit my dad's old man in the home," Pat said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry man. He was a vet in the Eve Wars. Some shit about the fiftieth anniversary."
Henry chuckled. "Bitchwad, it's tonight. That's why they do the fucking fireworks in the first place."
Pat shook his head, absentmindedly. "Is it? Never knew that, man."
His lips tasted dirt.
But it was either to muddy his uniform, or to stand and die.
Trowa Barton decided that vanity was the death of too many men, and he pressed himself further into the ground. 88-millimeter shells were dropping over them, while an officer of some kind was screaming into the radio, reporting casualties from German guns.
He tried to forget death, even shouldering his gun. Point, click, snap, eject. Point, click, snap, eject. Beside him-- he couldn't fathom distance, however-- someone screamed.
America was sacrificing its sons on the altar of war.
He was no one's son, though. He tried to remember a familiar face-- something about home, something safe and secure, that war could not take away from him. Nothing came to him, but the whistle of bullets and the screaming of men. He was eighteen and he could not remember his father's name.
The elderly man sat in a chair, illuminated by the sunshine. Pat took a deep breath, and walked into the room. "Hey, gramps!" His voice was falsely sincere and warm.
"Patrick!" The old man beamed like a fool, Pat thought, inwardly smirking. "Patrick, my favorite grandson, Pat, come here, let me see you, come here."
Obediently, he walked into the room, preparing himself for the inevitable assault of questions and inane chatter. Instead, his grandfather gave him a sad look. "Where are your parents?"
"They're coming," Pat replied. "I got a car last month. my birthday, you know."
"Oh, yes, of course. You're. how old, now?"
"Eighteen, gramps."
"Ah, eighteen." His grandfather gave him another ineffable look. "I was your age in the Eve Wars." He nodded to himself. "White Fang's bid for power. what. fifty years ago. It doesn't seem like fifty years." His voice was tired and sad.
Patrick pasted another synthetic smile on his face. "Tell me about it, gramps."
"I must object," his father's voice was impatient and sharp. Quatre cocked an ear, but did not turn from his piano.
"Winner, I have no time for this foolishness." The voice was clipped, like a soldier's. "You will talk to the people, yes? We will see the Jewish peasants gone by spring."
"I will not talk." His father again, stubborn. "I will not! Alexander, you have lived in this village too, your entire life. And now you speak of casting out people who have been your neighbors. No, I refuse."
"Winner," the voice growled. "Don't be a fool. These are orders-- direct orders! From Moscow, no less."
"I will not."
The door slammed, abruptly. Quatre's fingers paused over the keys of his piano, and he turned, slowly, peeking out into the main hallway. His father stood, facing the door, fists clenched at one side. He turned around, and shook his head at the sight of his only son.
"I loved this country," he said, voice thick. "God help me, I loved this country."
Pat snuck out into the hallway, leaving his parents and his grandfather in the room. It was beginning to darken, now.
He swiped a card down the slot of the video communicator, and quickly punched in a number.
Henry's face appeared on the screen. "What up, man?" He drawled, lazily.
"Man, I can't take this shit anymore," Pat shook his head, frustrated. "Get your ass over here."
Henry snickered, and threw a mock salute. "Yes, sir! Captain Stick Up Your Ass, sir!"
"Whatever," Pat rolled his eyes. "You got a pack of lights? I'm dying for a cigarette."
"Yeah, I'll bring 'em. Maybe some beer, if the aged ones decide to get off my ass for a while."
"You will not go," his father said, simply.
Chang Wufei shook his head, looking up from the sign he was painting. "I am determined to go, ba."
"What kind of son would rebel against his father?" He took a step forward, frowning at his son. "Will you dishonor our family?"
"The world changes around us," Wufei replied.
"China has changed," his father hissed. "China has changed, but your generation is ungrateful for Mao's work."
"It has not changed enough," Wufei said. His father took one more step forward, before striking his son in the mouth. Wufei looked up, dazed, tasting blood on his tongue.
"You will dishonor us?" His father demanded. "You will dishonor the Chang name?"
"I will, then," Wufei bowed his head. His father spun, walking out of the small room angrily. The young boy looked at the sign he had been painting. 'Law, Not Authoritarianism,' on a banner of red.
He would be going to Tiananmen Square, this afternoon. It was June 3rd, and the sun gleamed palely over Beijing.
Heero Yuy touched the control panel of Wing Zero with something like affection, before shaking his head. His thoughts steeled. This was war.
His memory fumbled for a time before this-- before the endless battles. Why did he fight? What did he have to fight for?
Trowa fought for himself-- his identity, the teetering brink of existence between Nanashi and Trowa Barton. He wasn't sure if the other pilots knew about this, but he at least did. He also fought for a pair of aquamarine eyes, Heero mused, which in turn fought for his lost father, the lost ideal of peace and pacifism, for the dream of a desert oasis somewhere on a beautiful Earth. Wufei, who fought for justice, for his dead wife, for his sense of honor and duty-- for his colony, in the name of the Dragon clan.
Heero fought for something more fragile: he fought for that next second of peace, separate from gunpowder, separate from the past and future atrocities mankind would inevitably commit and regret. He fought for a single moment of clarity, away from the choking fog of combat, in which he could gaze into a heartshaped face and wash the acrid smell of gunpowder away, losing himself in an indigo haze.
ii.
Pat sauntered back into the room, but stop, discomfited by the tears
staining his grandfather's face.
"Gramps?"
His grandfather gestured for him to sit down. "It's nothing, Patrick. Just an old man."
"Ready, private?"
Duo looked up, from polishing his musket. "I'm ready, captain," he replied, promptly.
Dudley looked at his young soldier. "Lots of redcoats out there," he commented, gently.
The young boy nodded smartly. "We're fightin' for something greater, sir."
"You look happy to be alive, Maxwell."
"Well, sir," Duo looked up and gave his captain a smile. "It's my birthday. Fifteen already, and a revolutionary. There's nothing that could make me prouder."
The man next to him fell, suddenly, splintered bone peeking out from the mess of splattered meat.
Trowa tried not to shudder. But each new day stripped away a layer of his soul; it was already worn thin, to just the barest of membranes between sanity and madness.
German and American blood mingled in the ground, staining the earth.
There was a face in the sights of his M-1. A German boy his age, pale and rosy in the frays of morning, blond hair swept over an angular face. Part of his heart twisted, but the soldier in him clucked: not even wearing a helmet? Some cold inner demon laughed. The boy asked for death.
His index finger squeezed the trigger.
Patrick gave Henry a quick high five, before extracting a cigarette with nervous fingers. "Fuck, this is so stressful," he spat, giving his lighter a quick whirl, before puffing away contently.
He had come home from school to a crying sister and an empty house.
Iria sobbed brokenly, as she clasped her brother's hand. "Quatre! Quatre--"
"What happened?"
"Papa-- they took papa away to--"
One of their neighbors, Isaac, a taciturn Jewish man strode up behind Quatre. "Be strong, boy." A pause. "Your father was a good man. they raided your house."
Quatre felt his throat constrict. "Papa. father is.?"
"They arrested him, Quatre. They'll kill him by dusk."
"Papa," he murmured, mostly to himself. His sister's hands tightened on his. "Father."
The People's Liberation Army.
Wufei choked back a sarcastic smile. He was in the heart of the crowd, but he could hear the slow rumbling approach of the army, the measured pace and footfalls. He could hear screaming on the outer fringes of the crowd, and sudden gunshots.
Meiran stood by him, holding up his banner. "Pigs." Her voice cracked. "Pigs. they-- Wufei! Why?"
They stood in the swelling, milling crowd.
His honor.
"I will not falter," he said aloud.
Her hand gripped his shoulder. "We will not falter."
It was the same thing. Heero sighed, wretched from his moment of peace and violet eyes. The same futile declarations of war, which resulted into the same dying, screaming in space. And he thought it would be over.
He walked out of the room, ignoring Duo's voice. "You really love her, don't you?" The words mocked him, along with the tinge of hurt and envy in that voice.
"I love her peace," he murmured. He gave his rambunctious lover a fleeting look. These moments never lasted long. He would fight for the next one.
Pat and Henry settled on the grass, waiting for the fireworks. Henry tossed a cigarette stub carelessly over his shoulder.
"So, fifty years of peace," he commented.
"Shut up, fuckhead. You don't know what you're talking about," Pat sniffed.
iii.
They had stood firmly.
But the army pressed on, inwards, until he stood face to face with a boy his age, gripping a gun with white-knuckled fingers. Wufei smiled sadly. It was like looking into a mirror. His hands tightened on his banner. He had a dream for China, a dream of democracy, a dream of--
The boy fired. Wufei felt the banner slip from his fingers, as he prepared himself for the lancing pain.
Instead, Meiran screamed and fell to the ground. The banner fluttered over her, bleeding red on red.
Wufei was on his knees, fingers brushing her face, voice refusing to work, eyes tearing. Her face was a twisted grimace of pain, but never reflecting regret. She looked down at the cloth that covered her.
"Do you think that-- these words are worth one's life?" She asked, voice gentle.
"I believe it," he choked. "I believe it."
She smiled, slightly. "Then it's a beautiful day to die." Her eyes closed.
Wufei stood and turned, facing the muzzle of a gun. The boy opposite him had haunted eyes.
He raised one hand to his heart, searching the skies. "I pledge allegiance to the flag, of the United States of America," he whispered, in rusty English. The boy tilted his head, but his index finger crept to the trigger. He continued. "And to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God."
Pressing down on cold metal.
"Indivisible."
His cheeks, stained with tears.
".for liberty, and justice for all."
The gun fired, and he fell to the ground.
He was a small figure clouded in a halo of dust, clutching the unfamiliar form of a gun.
His father would be angry that he even had such a thing. He had taken Isaac's.
Quatre ran, desperate, ignoring the cold against his skin and the pricking fire of rage against his bone. He would make it-- he would save his papa. His fingers slid against the cold metal. He would save him, even if he were damned. Even if his father would be terribly ashamed of such a son. He would do it.
A shot rang out and his heart stopped.
Refusing to let his legs freeze, he ran out, hope choking his lungs, hope that it was nothing, hope that his father was alive, hope.
Hope that died the moment he saw the crumpled figure, filling his throat with despair that was ripped out by a horrified scream as he stumbled, ignoring the four men surrounding the body. Surrounding his papa.
"Alexander!"
One man turned. "Boy," he said. Quatre recognized the voice in the hall. His trembling hands brought up the gun, but seemed to refuse to operate.
"Your father's son," Alexander remarked. "And such a pity, too."
"You were my neighbor too," Quatre whispered. A single bullet sliced through the silence.
Quatre hit the ground.
Alexander looked at the dying child at his feet. "But I am Mother Russia's son," he replied.
It had torn today.
His soul had torn, rent in filmy ribbons of lost faith.
And the war was over. Trowa cried amidst the cheers of men. The war was over and he had no life to return to, his soul ripping at the seams to escape somewhere over the German countryside. He might as well have laid down to die in that foxhole. The price of liberty and the price of freedom were bought by the blood on his hands.
In the back of his head, a nameless German soldier died, again and again, the grim cavity of his skull collapsing.
His eyes had seen war, seen the brutal killing of men, seen the infantry dwindle and swell, all bathed in the scent of blood and sweat. There was nothing now. Not even the hum of planes, or the hideously reassuring battle cries.
Somewhere in his camp, someone began to sing.
He hadn't missed with his first shot. Or his second shot. Or his third.
Dudley grinned. Redcoats died so easily.
But his smile sobered. So did his men, too.
Suddenly, there was a whistle of air and he fell, pain radiating on his right side. His eyes closed and opened. Dudley gritted his teeth. Died so damned easy.
"Sir! Captain!"
"Private Maxwell," he replied, voice hoarse.
"Sir, we need to get you a medic--"
"Duo."
The boy quieted. Somewhere in the background, a battle was being fought.
"Duo," Dudley repeated. "Are you proud?"
"Proud of what?" The boy's voice quavered.
Dudley closed his eyes. "This war."
Duo made a helpless sound. ".yes, sir. I'm proud."
Dudley smiled, fiercely. "It's good to hear." He was silent for a moment. "This is a birth of a nation, you know."
"I know, sir."
"And our children, and our children's children, and so on, they'll live in peace."
"I hope so, sir."
"Duo?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Do you think they'll remember us?" Dudley's voice was wistful.
"How could they not, sir?" Duo said, softly.
The end.
The end that he had fought for.
He was sixteen now, the prime of youth. Heero blinked away tears. Youth. He had sacrificed his youth to attain this end-- this moment of peace; something that might stretch into centuries.
Or something that might shatter at dawn, tomorrow.
"Hey," a soft voice edged him out of his thoughts. Duo hovered over him, worriedly. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." Heero closed his eyes. Peace bought for such a great price. He squeezed Duo's hand, and they both disappeared in an inverse coup de grâce.
Pat and Henry watched the fireworks that commemorated the fiftieth anniversary of the Eve Wars.
On another point of the universe, a child stood on a patch of land where part of the American Revolution was fought. Two lovers kissed where the Autobahn once stood. A Jewish man prayed with his family, in what used to be Moscow. A child listened to the story of Tiananmen Square, as his father's voice rolled with pride at a young boy's last stand. And an old soldier stared into the stars, watching the fireworks blaze into flowers and light.
Pat took another drag of his cigarette, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't get this fucking holiday."
[fin]
::sticks out tongue:: This time, DUO will drop his pants and dance for
feedback.
Duo: Nani?!
Jay
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