12-Mar-2004
The Radio Arc #2
Author: CleverYoungThief
Rating: R
Warnings: Religious stuff that may be considered offensive, language, gore
Archive: GWA
Genre: Supernatural (Solo POV)
Timeline: Pre-series L2
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Don't sue. College kids are like L2 kids; we got nothin'.
Feedback: Please?
Notes: Just because this is another Solo POV doesn't mean The Radio Arc will be all about him (or about Duo, for that matter). It was just a coincidence that the next part of the series was a continuance of the first vignette. Also, these are just my writing practices-things I can write in fifteen minutes or less, to keep from getting rusty-so they won't have any effect on how quickly my series fics come out.
He burns it all. He always did.
Before the sirens could get there, or the soldiers. He comes back with a gas can of stolen gasoline. Where he got it, fuck if I know. All the cars are electric or thermonuclear, except the vintage ones. But he was always a mystery walking. And a damned good little thief.
"Go away," he says clearly when he came up, and I'm so startled I almost shit myself. That is, I would have if I was still capable, that is.
Going to burn it, then?
"Yeah... " He says, and then looks up, eyes gleaming in the darkness, with tears or madness, I can't tell and not sure I want to. After all, I'm tied to this place. Or to him, I'm not sure which. I don't want to be if I have to watch him go insane.
But then again, I've done some pretty bad shit in my short little lifetime.
Maybe this is hell.
Wouldn't start talking to yourself, kiddo. People will think you're-
(crazy)
a few beers short of a six-pack.
Duo laughs, softly, but there isn't any humor or joy in it. It's that scary laugh, the one that made me want to keep him away from the other kids, in case they caught a whiff of that... whatever it was... and cast him out. That stillness that makes a heart stony when it comes to death, I guess. He has that. He always did.
"I am crazy," he whispers, walking over the ruined remnants of the church, slinging the gas can back and forth, letting the sharp-smelling gasoline slosh onto bloodied bodies and broken wood. The smell of the gasoline burns my nose. Or maybe I just imagine it does. Who knows if the dead can smell anything, anyway? I don't know what's real or not anymore.
Sitting there watching a little kid about to set a bonfire of stained glass, stone, wood, and the dead, I don't really have grounds to disagree with him. Besides... he is talking to me.
"I hate you!" he shrieks suddenly, and his voice goes shrill for a moment, piercing the night like a blade, and I shrink back from it, even though I think he isn't talking to me. I can't help it. This is Duo, our Kid, our fucking ray of sunshine in a dark corner. Thinking that they could have turned him into this makes me feel like killing someone, if I still could.
He's all alone, standing in the middle of a gasoline-soaked ruin, and I'm close enough to see the blood flaking on his skin. His face is wretchedly white in the darkness, above that black thing with the white collar, that thing he's worn since he got to this place. I don't know if he ever believed in all of that religious shit.
But then again, you could never tell with him. And that twig cross...
Duo...
"Go away! Christ go away!" he screams, that hysterical sound in his voice like a note almost high enough to shatter glass, and I back away again. He really is a kid on the edge of everything, and I don't want to push him over.
... I can't.
He stops suddenly, like I hit a switch. The plastic gas can he was carrying hits the rubble with a hollow banging sound, the remenants of the gasoline sloshing quietly in it. I can still hear sirens, but they're not headed this way. Nobody cares.
"I can't do this."
I know he isn't talking about burning the church. He will. I know he's talking about everything else. I know what he's thinking of doing.
That's not the kid I know. The kid I know wasn't scared of anything, not fucking anything. Especially not them.
He's bleeding, but not crying. Not anymore. He was always such a tough little brat. But whatever is left of that brat is tied to him with weak string, and when it gets pulled away, I'm not sure what'll be left underneath.
But I heard a little of it in his voice. That shrieking fire-and-brimstone thy-judgement-come voice.
Shinigami.
He looks up, as if he recognizes the name. As if it's his own.
He wanders out of the rubble and death, staggering like a blind man, with his small, bloodied hands outstretched. I want to help him, Jesus... I've never wanted to help anybody so bad in my life. But I can't.
He's on his own now.
Once he's clear of it, he rummages through the pocket of his pants, coming up with a pack of matches with a blue dog on the front. I recognize the strip bar that dog stands for, but I can't remember the name of it. We used to get handouts-all of us-at the back door. I never knew strippers could be such sweethearts.
He pulls a match across the rough strip at the edge of the pack, and it flares to life, a single candle in the darkness. There's a complete silence now, one long enough that we could say a prayer. But there aren't any left.
And then the flame is spiraling into the dark, landing in the ruins, and it's gone for a moment. Then that candle flares to life, resurrecting in a rush of heat and light, throwing crazy shadows along the walls of the decrepit buildings, and I thought-for a second-I could almost see my own.
I could almost see one for all of us.
The heat forces him back, and he throws an arm over his face. But I can still see the fires reflected in his eyes. And I know I'm in the presence of one of the most dangerous people I'll ever have a chance to meet.
"I can't find him," he whispers softly, almost too soft for me to hear. "I tried so hard here, and I still couldn't see. I looked everywhere, and I all could see was death."
Who?
" ...God."
Fuck God, I told him, at the same time thinking, Some great guardian angel you turned out to be. ... Be your own god. Be god of the things you know.
His eyes widened a little at that, in the dark, and then a small, strange smile crossed his face. And that's when I knew exactly what kind of a god he'd be. He'd be the god of grenades and the saint of trip-wires. Kalashnikovs and switchblades and forty-fives, oh my.
Shinigami.
" ...Yes," he whispered, and that word... boys and girls...
...that was a prayer.
owari
(:./cyt/radio2)
