12-Apr-2005
Title: Burn
Author: Sol 1056
Rated: PG-13 for violence, language
Pairing: none for now
Warnings: spoilers for the entire series
It's one thing to be not-dead, but not-dead and captured makes for a bad day. The straps are too tight, and I can't get leverage; I've got to focus on keeping everything as steady as possible. Breathe slow and deep, keep the muscles relaxed, even though my thigh and arm hurt like a bitch. When no one comes, no alarms go off, I open my eyes, wary.
Yeah. Thought so. There's only one place they'd take me if they had any idea I'm dangerous. Guess I know what they think of me, as if the restraints weren't enough of a clue. Pulling on the straps just bends the table. A flicker on a nearby screen catches my eyes, and I nearly blink, nearly forget myself for a split-second, somewhere between surprise and simple annoyance. I'm not sure why I'm letting myself feel irritated, but the reason is staring at me across a view-screen with a smug look on his face like he damn well planned all this.
I'm halfway tempted to mouth back at him, isn't it bad enough that you shot me? Now you've come back to chat?
Never mind. Not worth it. I close my eyes, ignoring him. I'm not here to socialize, no matter what kind of game he's playing. I'll figure a way out of here, somehow. A minute passes, two minutes, and then suddenly the wall of the lab is blown away, taking my plans with it.
To say this day blows, on the whole, would be an understatement.
I'm not sure why I followed him. I'll take advantage of it, if I can, but the minute I plunged out that window... it's glorious. I can't fly without Wing, but that's fine. The wind buffets me, beating my skin until numb. I feel dizzy.
But it feels right, too. Let go.
The ship is steadier than I expected. I keep thinking of the waves around me, pulling me under, and the dark blue that became black. The kid--Duo? strange name--is bringing up his Gundam from the ocean floor. I take a few minutes to check the crack in my right femur. I can feel it moving about with the muscles, but it'll heal. I just need to keep it aligned while the nanobots work. An hour, maybe two, it'll bear my weight, well enough.
Hell, you'd think Duo's never seen anyone set his own bone before. Definitely a civilian. I don't see reason to give him a second glance, not with his attitude. He acts like he's doing me a favor, and tells me I've got to trust him. Fool.
No, the only thing I trust is rising up from the ocean floor, head and shoulders cresting the waves in the ship's open belly. I stare down at Wing, and I can only think: there's no way out of this. We're tied together.
I back up to let Duo lift the Gundam the rest of the way, laying it down so it can be dragged into the ship's hangar. He's intent, moving the mechanisms and chains with what is either long-practiced ease or someone who's just damn good with mechanical things. Not my worry; I focus on Wing, and try to sort through what's happening.
Why did I pull the parachute cord? Just a sudden impulse, I suppose. But I snapped it again, and let myself fall, and I still couldn't die. Duo said as much, and perhaps he's right, though I've no intention of telling him that. He's wrong that I'm too hard to kill.
It's not that, at all...
The water pours off Wing, and I stare at the damage, listing the work needed. A machine for genocide. I'm the pilot, and some kid thinks he can get pissed at me for not wanting to see this through? Just how much of a fool is he? This isn't some school field trip, some holiday to wherever kids go when they don't have class.
Unless, of course, you're on holiday with Death.
I glance over at his all-black clothes, and turn away, annoyed again. He can play if he wants, but not in my sandbox.
I'm not sure what a sandbox is, but it sounds good.
He's back. I'm busy, but that doesn't seem to matter to him. It seems, in fact, that little matters to him except his own curiosity. At least he doesn't seem to need my participation in the conversation, although my brain can't help it.
"You don't even have replacement parts," he's saying.
I glance over at his suit, and think of the fact that he'd been bringing mine up from the depths, with no idea of who I am. I've seen enough hangars, and met a few Sweepers in my time. He was doing salvage.
He's still talking. "No way you can repair this."
Watch me, you civilian. I keep typing, running diagnostics. Primary systems must be fixed first. Tertiary can wait, and I knock off a list of the secondary systems that are must-have, versus nice-to-have. Doable.
"Machines aren't the same as bones, y'know."
But Wing has a skeletal structure just like a body, so the analogy isn't entirely off-base.
"I saved this guy's life," he sighs, melodramatically.
I didn't ask you to.
"What was I thinking?"
Good question.
"Antisocial... "
I'm not. I just don't like idiots, and most people are.
"Uncooperative... "
I'm not exactly in a line of work that requires playing well with others.
"Unpredictable."
What?
"God, I hate this guy!"
Likewise. I stumble over a command, and retype it. Perhaps I don't hate him; that's too strong a word. He's just in my way. He's still talking. Another word and I'm going to--
"If I were you, I'd hate my personality--or lack of it--so much I'd probably want to kill myself, too," he grumbles.
That's enough. "Hey," I say to him, raising my voice to be heard over the machinery going in the background.
He twists around in shock, like he's forgotten I'm even there. Not like he really required a second half of the conversation, anyway. His eyes go wide and round, but his tone is pure sarcasm. "What, change your mind? Too late," he drawls. "I'm not helping you."
"Shut up," I tell him, amused despite myself, and not really sure why. I think it's the dramatic flair, as if everything he says is at the edge of an extreme. I flatten my voice further. "I'm working here."
There's a split second where his eyes go just a bit wider, and I feel almost proud of myself. Before I have a chance to register the feeling, analyze it, figure it out, Wing's alarm beeps.
New mission.
He intended salvage. He was in the right place at the right time to protect Relena, but his purpose was salvage. Most of the ship's gone on to sleep, and I've done all the internal repairs I can. I stare across the hangar at his suit, and an idea occurs to me.
The only one I can trust, right?
Fine. I'll trust you keep your machine in good shape and that its parts will adapt easily to Wing's systems.
I nearly smile.
There's something graceful about welding. The sparks, arcing out across metal and showering down around my feet. Metal melts and runs together, fading until the lines are simple seams, then become a whole unit. I've never been a poet, but I can take pride in caring for Wing. He's mine, after all. Somehow having a massive mechanical beast makes up for never having had anything of my own for the first fifteen years of my life, or however old I am. I guess fifteen; that's what J told me.
Fifty-percent complete on the primary system repairs. I've been working for six hours; another five and I should be done. Leaving at dawn... I do the calculations even as I adjust the gundanium plating and begin the next seam. Good. I'll make the mission deadline.
I'm not sure why I bother, really. My choice was to prevent genocide, not assist. But if I can't prevent it, and I can't even manage to take myself out of the damaging picture, then I might as well play the game.
It's the only thing I've ever known, after all.
My fingers stutter on the arc-welder, and I take a moment to shake the strain out of my muscles. Too long awake, and my body's exhausted. Maybe another twelve hours. That's enough time to get there, take out the target, and then find a safe place to sleep for a few hours.
I wonder what's the only thing Duo's ever known. I have no idea. I've been on the ship for seventeen hours now, and not once has he said a word about himself, or his missions--if he has any other than salvage--and for a moment I pause, shutting off the arc-welder to inspect my progress. For all I know, that mobile suit is his purely because he found it, the same way he found Wing. No, most of Duo's words have been complaints, and most of those were about me.
I take that back. All of them were about me.
Setting down the welder, I trot across to Duo's suit, eyeing the knee joint. If I can get those bolts undone, that would be a major improvement in the flight controls for balance. Duo is obnoxious, mouthy, overly dramatic, but he still makes me think of the innocent children at the school. No focus on anything but making noise and goofing off. Letting someone else fix his mobile suit? Idiot.
I snort, and begin working on the lower knee-bolt.
Maneuverability is down by ten percent, but that's manageable. Now if I can just get the verniers to gear up in sync, with the auto-balance still needing another hour of work. Doing it manually isn't easy, but that's just a matter of concentration.
The ship's coming to life, just as the sun rises across the waters. I can't look; the blue-pink is too bright, scattering light and dazzling me. Focus on the engine. I twist the throttle, preparing for a low-deck take-off. For a split second, I think of the mobile suit I stripped, and the fact that for all his noise, Duo didn't push the issue of Wing being mine. J spoke of the Sweepers; what they find, they keep, quite obstinately.
If Duo found his suit and has claimed it by that means, fine, let him keep it as a ruined toy. He won't go far until he's found the parts to repair what I've taken. Maybe that's a good thing. If he's a civilian, he shouldn't be fighting anyway. He should stay safe, away from the fighting. Away from death. Away from genocide, and away from me.
I let up on the throttle, and Wing's engines scream with delight. I don't look back.
The shuttle explodes, and I can't help it. I laugh, because it's just so stupid. So utterly pointless, gloriously so. I've just dealt out the one thing I want so much for myself.
How fucked is that?
So I laugh, and a part of me wonders if Duo would find it funny, too.
End Part 2
(:./sol/burn2)
