17-Apr-2005
Title: Burn
Author: Sol 1056
Rated: PG-13 for violence, language
Pairing: none for now
Warnings: spoilers for the entire series
Wednesday morning on the way to class, I hear someone behind me. I keep my head down, ignoring the fools around me. I at least make sure to carry a book or two, though there's no reason to take notes. But behind me in the main school building, a girl asks, "are you lost?"
It felt like something I'd read in a book once, and discussed with J. He said it was just brain wave patterns, not actual memory or dreams. Something you've seen or heard before, but you haven't.
"No," a guy replies, down the hall, and I could hear laughter in his voice, but with an edge, hidden like a sheathed knife. "I never get lost." He might as well have been saying: stay away.
I turned around, quickly, but the hallway was crowded. There was no sign of Duo.
Just brain wave patterns.
Or maybe it wasn't; I somehow ended up with physical education classes twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays. Shuffled into a locker room, handed another uniform and hustled out to play some ridiculous sport that's a waste of my time, and only sets me on edge. I don't want to be here. I have things I should be doing.
Then someone shouts my name, and I look down the court; just as quickly, Duo throws the ball my way. For a moment I almost recoil with the force, and the moment hangs there: Duo's frown, the taunting curl of his lips, and then three classmates are converging on me.
I snap out of it. I don't have to want to play the damn game to refuse to have the ball taken away from me, nor am I going to be shown up by Duo.
The teams rotate, and my team--Duo's team--gets to sit out the next game. I only want peace, quiet, to be alone, but Duo's hand is on my shoulder, holding me back. He says something, laughing again, but with that edge. If only those girls on the bleachers had the sense to hear the weapon in his words, but they don't, and I don't want to.
I walk away.
I find myself trying to blend in, be less secretive, even though I won't admit Duo's advice might have use. I doubt it'd work for me, anymore than he thinks telling people to get out of his way would work for him. The days are too long, the waiting drawn out by lecturing teachers, boring lessons, twittering girls in the hallway and the slam of lockers and the beat of footsteps between classes.
Then one night he stopped by my room during study time. I'm not sure whether to scowl at him--he breaks the rules so easily--or send him away. I'm trying not to draw attention, and consorting with someone who strolls the halls whistling during post-dinner study hours seems like a certain path to trouble.
"Thought I'd study here," he says, leaning against the doorjamb with a smug smile.
I glance up and down the hallway, and glare at him. "You should be studying in your room." I start to close the door; his foot slips in, blocking it.
"And get in trouble for being out in the hallway without a pass?" Duo shrugs, lazy, but his eyes glitter.
"Not my problem," I say. "Move your foot."
He cocks his head, listening. "Ah, someone's coming!" With that, he shoves the door open, then closes it smoothly behind him, his ear to the door. Footsteps move past, a heavy tread of the hall associate, and Duo grins. "That was close."
I watch as he dumps his books on my bed, and settles down, pulling out a chemistry book. I can't believe it. He's actually doing homework. Ridiculous. I sit back down at my laptop, determined to get back to work, but throw one more disdainful look at the book in his hands.
"Relax," he says. "Of course I wouldn't waste my time on their crap." He holds up the book, to let me see the title: Inorganic Chemistry. He drops it, with a sharp grin. "Stole it from the university library across the road."
I snort. Stole it. Another risk.
For several minutes the room is silent, until Duo reads out something he seems to think I'd find interesting.
"If the Sr2RuO4 crystallites were to be identical and perfectly aligned with their C-axes parallel, the pellet´s resistivity would exhibit the same anisotropy as a tetragonal single crystal of Sr2RuO4," he recites, with a pleased tone. "The resistivity along the AB axis of the pellet would follow the RAB curve in figure one-point-seven, while the resistivity along the C-axis would follow the RC curve."
He holds the book up, turning it around so I can see the figures. He taps on one of the figures and grins over the edge at me.
"Cool, hunh."
I'm not entirely sure what he's talking about, so I frown at him. He just laughs.
"You're not studying, Heero. Can't fool me."
He settles in more comfortably, slouched against the wall, and toes off his school shoes one at a time. One more pointed glance my way, and I turn my back on him to stare at the lines of code scrolling across my screen. I'd hoped to make progress on decrypting the OZ transmissions, but it's hard with Duo humming at points, or the steady swish of pages turning, or just the sound of his breathing. I wonder if I breathe that loud. I hope not. It's annoying.
"Check this out!" Duo sits up, reading excitedly. "The interactions between subgrain domains of ferromagnetic and ferroelectric polycrystals further complicate behavior." He pauses, looking as though he's just discovered a new type of cheap ammunition with twice the power. "Subgrain domains form because the energy density associated with the magnetic flux density exerted outside a sample is decreased if domains with opposing magnetizations are created." Duo leans back, closing the book but keeping his finger in it to save his place. "Shit like that is just amazing, don't you think?"
I point to the laptop. "I'm busy."
"You haven't typed anything in ten minutes."
"You breathe too loud." I stare at the code. I will figure out the back door, if he'd just be quiet for long enough so I can concentrate. A wrong move, and they'll find me poking around.
"I what?" Duo laughs, that rough bark, serrated edge, and I tense, waiting for a gun to appear. He grows quiet, and flips the book open, eyes fixed on the page. "So," he says, in a quieter tone, "what's with you and the Foreign Vice Minister's daughter?"
I hit three keys at once, and have to back up quickly, moving out of the live system rather than let his distraction cost me a hack. "Nothing," I tell him.
"You tried to kill her, and she shows up here," Duo observes. "Hardly nothing in my book."
"Which you should get back to reading," I answer, curtly.
"Touché," Duo touches his forehead, an odd gesture, nodding his head at the same time. It looks like a movement of respect, but he turns it into something that ridicules me. When I glare at him, he smiles, that casual look across his face that doesn't match with his narrowed eyes and low voice. "She's following you. Don't you think OZ is eventually going to notice that where she goes, things get blown up?"
"I doubt they'd peg her as a pilot."
"No, but they might look around to see what's prompting her into such erratic school attendance." He speaks calmly, unperturbed, but I can hear the warning. "She seems like a sweet girl, but..."
I tighten my hands into fists. I don't want to talk about it. I've been back and forth on this one. I want to kill her; I should kill her. Her willing silence isn't enough. I should... but I think of it, I think of putting a gun to her forehead, and pulling the trigger and... I can't. I close my eyes, and Duo falls silent for a few minutes. I hold my breath, hoping he'll leave.
Instead, the bed sheets rustle, and I hear the book placed with its companions. Duo moves again, then speaks, closer but softer, a half-whisper.
"You like her?"
I shrug, with one shoulder. I'm really not sure. I don't even know her, really.
"But you won't kill her."
I don't move.
"So you're human."
That gets my eyes open, to glare at him. Of course I'm human!
Duo rolls his eyes, and shrugs again, nonchalant. "Just checking. Next mission, we'll clear out of here. In the meantime--"
"We," I repeat, stubbornly, unwilling to let him think he slipped that one by.
"Yes," he says, his brows coming down in a serious expression that looks out of place on his face. For once his tone and look match with his eyes. "I've been checking schools south of here. There's two connected to important OZ bases, which will put us close enough for a few hit-and-runs."
"We're not working together," I tell him. The words sounded firm, and final, in my head, but Duo's reaction makes it seem like I'd just asked a question. Why does he do that?
"Yeah, we are." He gathers up his books, shoving them into his bag. "But I should let you get back to work hacking the decryption. Let me know if that works for you. I'm running low on cash myself."
I'm not sure whether to slam the lid down, or punch him.
"Relax, Heero." Duo throws the bag over his shoulder and moves to stand behind me. "Being that tense is gonna shorten your lifespan."
Now I'm contemplating punching him <I>with</I> the laptop. I want him out of my space, out of my room. My fingers curl around the edge, but he only places a warm, calloused hand on my shoulder. I want to shake him off, walk away like I did before, but I don't because I'm at the desk and seated, and there's no place to go. He leans in close, looking at the laptop's screen, the screensaver scrolling endlessly, a string of zeros and ones.
Duo whispers under his breath; I can feel the heat of his breath on my cheek, then he laughs. "Don't... touch... my... lap... top... Duo... Maxwel..." he reads. "You spelled my last name wrong. Two Ls. I'll drop by with the information on that school tomorrow before math class. And don't worry about the pretty girl, Heero."
He squeezes my shoulder gently before pulling away, and I turn to give him a puzzled look before I realize it. Duo shrugs and puts his hand on the doorknob.
"You leave her to me," he says, and then he's gone.
I hate lunch. I hate standing in line for tasteless food, when I'd dreamed on L1 of fresh fruit and green vegetables. I hate the way the students jostle me, making me clench my hands around the tray tight enough to crack plastic. The training barracks were never like this; I ate too early or too late to be in the rush of mechanics and engineers at the Center.
"Hey," Duo says, just before he puts a hand on my elbow, pulling me out of line. "Got enough for both of us." He moves away, dropping his hand, and heads through the morass of students, as if perfectly certain I'll follow.
I study the line of students over my shoulder, then dump the plastic tray--now with a crack running along one side--and follow him out. It's just easier than calling more attention to myself by having him yell my name across the crowded cafeteria, telling me to hurry up. And he will, too. I can't get him to stop, and it's easier to go along.
Outside, he sets down an apple at the seat across from him, and bites into one of the sandwiches. There are four on the tray; he hands me two.
"Growing boys," he says around a mouthful of ham and cheese. "Eat up."
Obediently--but not without a scowl on principle--I eat. Duo watches carefully, making light conversation about some girl in his chemistry class, about the hall associate's bed being short-sheeted, about the question of whether bouncing a fighter jet off a colony hull could create a shockwave to take out the radar systems.
What goes without saying is that I'm in his debt. It rankles, but not so much as I thought it would. Two missions now we've completed together. Two missions in which he's said, first come, first serve. Two missions in which he's arrived before me, and before our agreed start time. And both missions in which he made no move to deliver the final blow, to take out the intended target.
I wonder if he gets missions from anyone, or if he really is some Sweeper who lucked out and retrieved another abandoned Gundam. No, he moves in that Gundam like it's an extension of himself. He just doesn't act like it the rest of the time. It's annoying. It's puzzling. It's reassuring. Let someone else draw the attention. Duo's certainly welcome to the role.
"Say, Heero," Duo drawls, before pouring out half his fries and pushing the plate towards me. "You think you might ask that girl in math class to go to the dance?"
I don't want to even dignify that with an answer, but think twice and retaliate as best I can. "You can."
"Naw." Duo grins. "Too lumpy." I blink at him, and he waves a hand, dismissively, before picking up the next sandwich. "So this is turkey," he says, under his breath, then shrugs. "She's kinda, y'know, all curvy. Like an old mattress. But she checks you out all the time. As a bonus, she's not transferred schools yet to stay near you, either."
I lower my chin, angry, but not sure what to say. Relena's appearance this morning wasn't welcome, but I'm learning to let him take care of such incidents. He brushed her off, gracefully, but pointedly, in ways I just can't seem to manage. She's as impervious as he is; I imagine only one of them could get the other to back off--neither of them ever seem to listen to <i>me</i>. Between the two, though, I'd rather be near the one currently carrying a thirty-eight at his right ankle, two blades at his hip, and if I'm not mistaken, a third one in the sole of his left boot. It clicks just a little when he walks fast. I ponder telling him that, but his eyes narrow, and I set down the sandwich, waiting.
"No," he whispers, leaning across the table to point his finger at me. He knows I hate that. He must. But he just chuckles, low; it sends a warning shiver down my spine. "I wouldn't make you ask her out. Guess you prefer them rich, hunh."
"I don't prefer them at all," I retort.
Duo's eyes go momentarily wide, and then he looks somewhere between startled, amused, or perhaps impressed. I'm not really sure what's his deal, but I'm not going to ask. I'll live with knowing I caught him off-guard--a hard thing, I've found--and be happy with that.
The ends do not always justify the means.
J said that only once before, after he'd trained me for four years. He sent me out on my first solo mission, in the real world, and I'd succeeded by their terms and failed by mine. I refuse to remember the details; it's overshadowed by the months afterwards, pain and burning determination and a nagging sense of wrongness. I won't remember; living through hell once was enough, and I've no reason to bring it back, but his words make me shiver.
"The ends do not always justify the means, my boy," he'd said, seated on the bench by my cot.
He'd remained there while I gritted my teeth, holding my arms still, breathing shallowly so the nanobots could fix the bones properly. If they couldn't, I'd have to rebreak the bones myself, and try again. So I lay there, focused on a single screw bolting a ceiling panel over my bunk. He was silent, and my labored panting filled the room. He remained until I fell asleep; when I woke, he didn't speak to me for three days. Not in anger, but a silence born of something I'd only realized at that point. I was his means. What end would justify me?
My mistakes are soon in the past. For all that I had hoped I could redeem myself, prove myself again as I had as a child, J's words have swept those chances away. I release my hand on the throttle, and Wing's arm falls, beam saber held loosely in its grasp, still glowing. The unknown suit opposite Wing backs up, shifting uncertainly. It moves in a jerky motion, and I sense it's angry about the words filtering through our systems.
Fire missiles upon a colony if the Gundams do not surrender, yet the colonies have not answered. Only J, and only him, not me. It's some small compliment, a final brush of his human hand across the back of my wrist, the barest touch to reassure me as a child that I'd done a good job. I am not surrendering. He is.
But I'm still the means, and I am not justified.
Taking a breath, I release the flight-buckles, and open the cockpit, then gather up the self-detonation device. The Gundam will not be surrendered; its knowledge is not for OZ. I don't need J to explain, because I know. There is no Wing Gundam without me behind its controls, and with only me surviving, a new Wing Gundam could be built. Even I will break, eventually.
It's a relief. At least I don't have to keep fighting to make up for my mistakes, more days and nights of hell, knowing nothing can be undone. No more thrashing in my nightmares and ignoring everything in the daylight. The Gundam will not be surrendered. And neither will I.
I accept this mission. The self-detonation clicks, and for a split second, I hold my breath, wondering, waiting.
Then the world ends.
End Part 4
(:./sol/burn4)
