11-Apr-2005
Title: Burn
Author: Sol 1056
Rated: PG-13 for violence, language
Pairing: none for now
Warnings: spoilers for the entire series
Notes: This is a response to Muffie's challenge: "what would have changed had the child Heero killed (in EW) been a little boy like Duo, instead of a little girl like Relena?" Not saying I'll do an adequate job of addressing that, but I'll try. I'm watching the series from start to finish, so the chapters may be short as I try to get back into a sense of things.
There's no homework when you're dead.
Currently, that alone is reason enough to be disappointed--and perhaps angry--with myself. There are also, I would hope, no classes. No twittering girls, no self-righteous boys intent on defending the honor of some girl who probably doesn't even know their names. Or does, and doesn't care.
I keep feeling like I should pinch myself, only to remind myself: you should be dead. You can't pinch yourself when you're dead. Such random thoughts are the extent of my amusement right now; amazing how fast one comes down from a high.
And nothing brings you down faster than ignorance. That's what it is, really. Innocence, too. Four days ago I was running errands, keeping to the side streets in the fourth sector, my head down, rather than call attention to myself. Last-minute things, and with everyone busy prepping to smuggle Wing out of the colony, my only job was to stay out of the way until it was time. The clerk at the store had a drawn, pale face, worrying at his lower lip as he counted my credits and hurriedly shoved everything into a bag for me. Too close to curfew, and they shoot people on the streets. No questions, no chance to explain, to lie, to have a reason.
In class today, the boys were laughing about staying out late to see the widescreens--those are videos, I think--and coming home after curfew. That word caught my ear. How could it not? But they were only grounded. Not shot.
Part of me envied them. Part of me felt sad, that they were so ignorant as to think such a danger--no going out again tonight--was the worst they could face. And part of me said, quite sternly: what do you care? You're dead.
Everything's in place. Shortly I'll leave for the military port, and take down Wing on my own. Destroy the evidence, and then... me, too. It's a relief, knowing that. I pace the room, stretching, arms over my head, stop, bend until my nose is against my knees. The muscles groan under my skin. Not used to the gravity, but I'm adjusting.
A flash of blue sky out the window makes me think of that girl's eyes. Rel... something. Relena. The popular girl in school, and I've already dueled one of her suitors. Another moron. Is that the most important thing to you? I wanted to ask, but I didn't: whether a pretty girl cries? But then, when was the last time he saw a pretty girl's brains blown out across concrete and steel? Doubtless only in those widescreens. And then he and his friends can say, it's not real.
The world is so big down here, sometimes I catch myself wondering if maybe that were true: it could be real somewhere else, and not here, and the world is large enough to hold both.
And then I think of Wing, and my obligations, and I know it's not true. Not for me, at least.
Someone told me once that in stories, when someone's about to die, he always sees his life flash before his eyes. I've either had a truly boring life, or just a short one, but I suspect it's simply been repetitive. I see gunfire, and soldiers, and more gunfire, and mechanical parts, and blood. My life's drenched in blood, but now I'm drifting in salt water.
Odd. The water's a damn sight more cold when you're not in a pressure suit. I consider swimming. But it's one thing to swim in a tank with water rushing past you, knowing if you stopped and stood up, the water would come to your waist, and I'm not even that tall. It's another thing knowing that the water continues, down and down and down.
I fell down and down, coming to earth. But for that shuttle and the military cruiser, I could have had a clear path and followed directives. The salt water gets in my nose, and I cough instinctively, inhaling water. My body feels heavy, numb from blood loss, pain, and the lack of oxygen.
How many seconds? Or has it truly been hours, days? Not much of a life, I suppose. Just a purpose.
I'm rocked by waves, slamming across me, lifting me up and letting me fall. An explosion, and I relax. Wing's destroyed. I've fulfilled my purpose. It won't be used to massacre people. Now I can fulfill my own goal: freedom.
Opening my eyes into the dark blue, I wonder why I'm still thinking. Maybe these are the last brain waves of the dying. It's a nice thought, except for the fact that my last week of life consists of nothing but run-ins with people almost as stubborn as my teacher. I'd snort, but I'm too busy inhaling water.
What kind of military officer sacrifices a multi-million dollar mechanical suit just to take another one down? And what kind of girl extends a birthday invitation to a boy who leveled three grown men and stole an ambulance? And what kind of boy shows up in civilian black, and shoots me--twice, damn him--in defense of another civilian? Neither of them belonged at a military port. I won't even get into the idiocy of the girl--Relena, right--binding up the gunshot wounds when a second ago I was about to shoot her myself.
I'll figure that out in my next life, if I'm lucky. Right now I'd like to get on with the business of dying. It's a relief.
Cold, and wet... but long overdue.
End Part 1
(:./sol/burn1)
