27-Aug-2000
Oops. AKI no baka. Didn't post the complete [to date] version.
Title: Pity not Icarus
Author: AKI
Characters: 2, 1, R, etc.
Comments: This went somewhere I was not expecting it to go. But the world of GW fanfiction is wide and forgiving; I trust you will be lenient with the oddities of this piece. ^^;; Duo can be considered as grossly IC.
C&C: Eternally welcome. ML please!
Archive: Tyr please! ^^
There were many many chairs, and many many spaceports. After a while they all began to look alike and feel alike, so that no matter where he went he never got anywhere. It was about that time, four years after the war and two years after he started running, that he decided it was time to stop.
It was another chair, this time facing the window, where he could see the floodlights creating a stark grey plane that thrust into surrounding blackness. No more, he thought. Parts of him were deadweight with weariness, courtesy of no appetite and sleepless nights. He looked at the flights arriving and leaving and felt that he could not lift a finger. They called his flight number and he didn't budge, didn't turn his head. Twenty minutes later the shuttle had boarded. Thirty minutes later it had left. He was still sitting there.
His exterior looked like his interior: numbed with fatigue. It was a while before the thoughts began to move, percolating slowly to the surface like the bubbles of a flat carbonated drink. The first thought was that he could not sit there forever, that he would eventually have to move. His eyes rolled to the side, seeming to shift the weight of his head, and saw that the time was 20:00 AST; in an hour the restaurants would be closing for the night. As he sat there he wished that he could be rid of his troublesome body and the care it required. It was less a thought of suicide than the desire to be free of the need for food, for drink, for shelter. But he had been trained to preserve his strength for the moments when he would need it, and now he obediently dislodged himself and went in search of nourishment.
After the meal he sat down again, and succumbed to his habit of discussing things with himself.
What are you doing?
I don't know.
Well, then, what were you doing?
I was--running away.
From what?
I--don't know.
I thought you didn't lie.
Fine, then. I was running from the war.
The war is over, you know. It was over before you started this.
Mnn, I don't think so.
Why?
I can still see them in my sleep.
It was war. People get killed. You of all people should know that. Besides, you had a reason.
Don't they all?
That doesn't make it any different.
Oh doesn't it?
He stepped into the central plaza, waited for the monorail to take him someplace where he could stay the night. Tomorrow he would have a plan. The rail arrived and he let himself be jostled with the current of people flowing into the doors. At the first stop he got out and began looking for accommodations. He wandered the street, until a sudden burst of sound and illumination caught his attention. It was an announcement about the latest Transportation Committee election, being broadcast to his right from a large viewing screen that rose above the ragged rows of shops and homes. Someone bumped into his left shoulder and he stumbled, his eyes never moving from the flickering light.
Do you remember that?
It can't be... But it is. I didn't even know the name of this place the last time I came, and here I am again.
Do you remember how you felt when you saw it?
He did. It was one of the things that he wanted with every fiber of his being to forget, and which he remembered with unforgiving clarity.
Even now the darkness and the garish lighting of the store windows made him shudder with a trace of helpless rage. But now there was no mecha for them to destroy. He had sent Deathscythe Hell after its original with his own hands, and felt no regret for having done so.
All weapons of war should go that way.
Aren't you proud of what you did with it?
Should I be?
You helped to save the Earth.
That wasn't me. That was him, him and her.
You can't say his name, even now?
He walked into the room and heard the door slide and seal with a faint pneumatic hiss. The air held a conspicuous absence of odor, as if it had been filtered too many times. It made his nose dry. He rubbed at it absently and set his bag down. He went to the window and drew apart the curtains. From his room he could still barely see the screen, still flickering with its telecast of interplanetary occurrences. He let the curtains drop and sat down on the bed. After a while he pushed off his shoes and lay back.
What next?
Go to sleep.
And after that?
I don't know.
Why don't you just go home?
Where's that?
Go to Cinq. Go to a colony. Go anywhere, just pick a place and a name and let yourself rest for a while.
Cinq...
He sat up suddenly. He had gotten rid of his old clothes, changed his name and given up his association with the government but he would never pass for a civilian as long as he maintained his pilot reflexes.
There had been a faint sound at the window, one that didn't belong to the street. But minutes passed and nothing more happened, and he lay back down. The thought of an intruder was non threatening. He had nothing worth stealing, and was perfectly capable of defending himself from the average class of burglar.
He couldn't return to Cinq, and yet he could think of nothing else. Cinq was what he was running from. The new government was situated there, the government that had offered him an honorary post with the Preventers or a position as liaison to the colonies and a lifetime pension. Members of that government recognized him from time to time and would salute him as they passed. He had accepted none of it, and after two years he had left. He wanted nothing from the war, nothing of the war. He wanted to get as far from being a soldier as he could.
He wanted to walk on the street and look at things like anyone would.
So he went further and further away from the Terran Orbit and tried to find a place where he could do that, and instead he had been chased out of each place by shades. It would be an old pile of rubble or a new cemetery. This time it had been a screen, enormous and glaring in the night sky. Everywhere he went the war followed him. He turned onto his stomach and closed his eyes.
There was a knock at the door. He waited for it to realize its mistake and go away. The knock came again, and this time it was louder. He could feel the urgency even through the pneumatically-sealed door. He swung his feet over the bed and went to open it, swaying a little. The door opened and he blinked owlishly at the person who stood just outside, face dimly lit by the corridor wall lamps. Then he gasped, and staggered back.
"You--!"
He gaped at the figure in the hallway. It stood motionless, yet the shadows cast over the body and face lent it a dusky solidity. He thought for a moment that it was real, that he was not seeing things, but that when he blinked it would vanish and he would step back into the room. The incongruity of it struck him even as he closed his mouth. The eyes watched him, very much as he remembered them. They were closed even while they were open. He drew a breath, found nothing to do with it, and released it again. Then he swung open the door. "Why don't you come in?" The question was almost bright.
What are you doing?
If he's real, he'll come in and we'll take it from there. If he's not I'll go on a long vacation, ok?
With every ounce of will remaining he turned his back on the door and stepped, heavy with deliberation, towards the light switch. Then he turned around, not knowing what he expected or wanted to see. The issue became irrelevant; in the bare light from the ceiling panels it was plain that he was not alone.
For better or worse...
Your guess is as good as mine.
Now that the fact was established questions filled his mind so quickly he could barely construct a coherent order. "So. What brings you here?" Despite the light he had half-expected nothing in response, but as he watched the lips parted and formed words. They were slow and stiff, or perhaps his mind was still half-asleep.
"I needed to talk to you."
His heart beat faster than it had in four years. "Former pilot, war hero, the great Heero Yuy, needs to talk to me?" This would have been the moment to mock-faint, but somehow he didn't have the energy.
"Dare I ask why?" Sarcasm was much easier. It was closer to the inexpressible bitterness he felt. He did not know where it had come from.
Heero looked back at him, yet he felt as if he were seeing not his body, but the way it had lain on the bed: limp, small. And not just the bed but the room and not just the room but the hundreds of rooms, the numerous flights, the countless steps he had taken on the road to nowhere. Under that closed stare that saw everything he got angry.
Damn you. Who are you to come and find me? Who are you to come and look and see...?
"How did you find me?" All pretense of casualness gone.
Heero didn't drop his gaze. As far as he could tell he hadn't even blinked. He only repeated, "I needed to talk to you," as if that were the answer in its entirety. Who knew, maybe with Heero it was. His shoulders sagged and he felt his weariness closing in on him again.
You see, not even he can help you.
"What for?" It was only two words, but he was surprised to see Heero flinch ever so slightly. Only people who knew him would have noticed it. Only people who knew him as a pilot would have recognized it as such. It was the tiniest narrowing of the eyes, the miniscule tightening at the corner of his mouth. He saw it and wondered, for a moment forgetting the question.
The eyes were a one-way mirror again. "I have a mission for you."
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. Heero watched him, saying nothing as he laughed, doubled over, clutching his sides, leaning on the table. It was a ridiculous thing to say.
What did you expect, really? This is Heero.
Oh, but this is too rich...
"Okay," he gasped finally, and wiped at the corners of his eyes. His laughter had not broken the tension. It only tightened it, bound it to his muscles and made it painful to breathe. "You never change, do you?" There was no response. "Heero, the war is over. Done with. They've finished fighting and and they're not singing about it anymore, didn't you know?" Still no response and he was getting angry. "Damn it! It _is_ over. Leave me alone!" He clapped his hands over his ears, as if expecting Heero to shout back at him.
Then slowly he brought them down, feeling somewhat abashed. "I'm retired now, didn't you know?" he added with a crooked grin. Heero was still looking at him and with a sigh he surrendered. "So what's this mission?"
Heero told him.
Tell me I did the right thing.
"How was he?" She knew that he had found him. She knew, he thought, a great deal more than he had given her credit for.
"He was... not well."
"Surely not too bad? He's very capable of taking care of himself." Her voice held a note of anxiety.
"His health is good."
"Oh." She laid her hand against the camel-hair couch and thought. Her eyebrows always pressed into a slanted line when she did and now was no exception. "Did you tell him about the offer?"
"...No."
She looked up at him seriously. "Why?"
"He would have said no."
A sigh escaped. "I thought as much." She sat down on the couch and propped her chin on her fist, a gesture so girlish that it recalled to his mind the fact that she was, indeed, very young. "Then what did you say to him?"
"I... gave him a mission."
She shot him an incredulous glance. "You what?"
"It was the only thing I could do." He felt his hands stiffen and forced them to open. His face when he had looked up and asked him why he wanted to talk! It was as if a pit had opened at his feet. It hadn't been what Duo had said but the way he said it, as if it didn't matter. As if it were already too late.
"Is it as I guessed, then?" she questioned. "With the war over he must have a difficult time adjusting. Perhaps he's too bored without his piloting. He must be feeling a bit lost..." She looked at him. "Heero?"
"Aa."
Tell me that I did the right thing.
She watched him leave from her window, studying his back as he walked down the long gravel path. He carried himself as strictly as usual. She looked at him harder, and could not shake the impression that he was thinner. Frequent medical profiling, her request after he had revealed that his training could result in abnormal developments, had proven that his weight and height remained consistent. Yet there was something that made her feel that he was slowly growing less substantial. She closed her eyes. She believed in him, he was that strong. All the pilots were, him in particular. She believed in him.
And thought to herself, now that he has found Duo perhaps it will get better.
The steps were slightly sticky and as he descended them in a spiral he went over the argument that had followed. Why me, he had asked.
Because you were a pilot.
What has that got to do with it?
Because no one else can do it.
You can, you can kill anyone if you want to.
This can't be done with killing; we won't get the information out of him this way. We need an insider.
Covert, huh? Shame you couldn't find Trowa for the job. Well, I've had practice.
His lips had twisted at that point but he was only thinking about it for an instant. Then he had looked up, a quick look so he would not have time to consider. I'm on it, he'd said. And now he was almost at the bottom of the stairs.
She came into the room, a sheaf of papers in one shapely hand. He did not have to look at that hand to know that the nails were long and smooth, the fingers white and firm. "Do you think it will be too dangerous?"
He stopped typing. "What?"
She set the papers on his desk and faced him. Her eyebrows were raised. "You've sent him into the heart of the strongest underground organization that currently exists. I know we need to break up the crime ring; the Preventers report that their activities are severely damaging our efforts at reconstruction. And now they're saying that it could even be a front targeting the new government." She dropped the papers on his desk and sat on the edge, taking the weight from her feet. "That's why we had to call you in. But..." she trailed off.
There was silence for a moment, then the typing resumed.
He exhaled. Breathing was more difficult than he had anticipated; it had been a while since he had seen this kind of environment. The poorly lit den was crowded and the odor from too many bodies mingled with the smoke and pressed against his lungs. He made his way slowly, pushing around people and ducking their eyes. His contact was sitting against a wall on a low bench. He looked at Duo through half-lowered lids, then stood and grinned with two rows of brown and crooked teeth.
"Well well. You're younger than I thought."
"Not that young," he replied indifferently. He could have been a thousand years old.
"Sit down," his contact said abruptly. "Young is good," he added, looking at Duo from under a film of wrinkled skin.
"Why?"
"Oh good, you ask questions. Last time I got a man he never asked questions. I assumed he knew everything, until he proved to me that he knew nothing."
"How?"
"He got himself killed."
He knew he was being watched from under those dry, papery lids and kept his eyes on his drink. It was not hard; he felt the eyes from a distance, as he felt the entire bar from a distance. He was watching the scene unfold in his mind. "I don't plan on doing the same, old man. What's so great about being young?"
The man laughed, a surprisingly deep laugh that didn't fit well with the teeth. "Besides having a body that still works for you?" He dropped his voice suddenly and the lids peeled upwards, leaving his whites in a startling rim. "You're better off starting early. This operation might take a little time, if Juu's plan doesn't work."
This time he looked back, not a look that might have been construed as a brash challenge, but an offer. The beginning of the bargaining. "Juu's plan?
The words and figures were mixing, spreading, running through his eyesand leaking through. He could not hold them in his head. He was conscious of a certain awareness in the back of his mind. He had used it during the war to remain alert and focused on a task at the same time. Now he was unfocused but the seperate awareness was painfully open, registering sound or absence of sound with equal intensity. When the telephone finally rang it was if it had exploded. He walked the distance calmly, very calmly but when he gripped it his knuckles were tight.
"Name."
"Same old civil self, I see."
"Is it clear?"
"No one's tapping it for more than a second."
"Are you..." he hesitated, but fortunately Duo broke in before the gap became apparent.
"Yes, I'm already working on it."
He stopped clenching the phone. "What have you found?"
There was silence from the receiver. Then, "Heero, something funny is going on here."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out."
"Duo--"
"Don't worry, I won't bungle it. I think you'd better not count on too many more calls, though. Getz keeps a pretty tight grip on new recruits."
"What can you tell me?"
"Nothing yet. This is big, that's all I know."
"How big--"
"I have to go."
Click and the line went dead. He let his hand put down the phone, then returned to his desk. He was all right. Duo would be fine. He would be useful. Then the conversation came back to him and suddenly he pulled up another screen and began checking the main database log.
Relena would argue with him, but after a decade of training in sabotage and guerilla warfare he knew better. Big things only showed up in tiny traces and he started at the top of the list methodically, looking for irregularities during transfer. He would leave the personnel profiling to the Preventers. In the back of his mind, the awareness went quiet but not dead.
There was something wrong. He couldn't quite place it, yet there was definitely something amiss. It shouldn't have been so easy to penetrate the organization. It hadn't been that easy: the background he had constructed was perfect; he had painstakingly constructed ties with various anarchist groups, converted his wartime experience to something suitably low-key, and bought his way in under a plausibly financial backing. Even still, he had expected more resistance. Two weeks after he had begun the operation and already he was going to meet one of the prime movers? It was incredible. It made little rivulets of sweat run down his back and caused his shirt to stick to his skin under his jacket. They had subjected him only to an interrogation under truth serum, which he had been trained to withstand. But he could not have been the only agent with such abilities and it made him wonder, made his nails dig into his palm in his pockets.
"That's better."
He looked at Getz and saw, as usual, only the drooping eyelids.
"What?"
"You're better off showing a little fear in front of them."
"Why's that?"
"'Cause so far you seem like a smart kid and I'd hate to start thinking you were stupid."
"...Where angels fear to tread, huh."
"Ain't no angels around here."
"That's true."
Geffer frowned. The third employee to call in sick in a week. He'd suspected a virus but they were all in different branches. He snorted through flared nostrils. Stupid of the government, to have invented the free sick leave. Maybe it took care of more paperwork but the empty chairs wound up slowing down the whole works. Where was he going to find trained data processing replacements?
He faced the chair and took his hands out of his pockets. Present yourself well--the words came back to him now, spoken by the old Doctor--and don't let them think you're hiding anything. Hard, hard thing to do, he thought, when you're facing this kind of implacable calm, the kind born of total confidence, and you have so many things to hide.
"Getz tells me you're looking forward to being part of the operation."
He fought the urge to swallow; his mouth was dry. "Yes, sir."
"We don't usually let people in; I'm sure he's told you that."
"Yes, sir."
"However, due to your unusual...skills, we're making an exception in your case."
A response seemed uncalled for and he stood there, staring at the chair back.
"Our last infiltrator showed a bit too much hesitation and met with... an unfortunate accident."
Well, he thought, the sweat starting to gather on his forehead, at least they weren't creative. In fact compared to OZ their ultimatums sounded downright friendly.
"So all we ask is that you undergo a little test of loyalty," came smoothly from the chair. Here we go, he said to himself. Precisely at that moment Getz stepped to his elbow. From then on things proceeded in slow motion. Very clearly he saw the needle, a drop of moisture swinging pendulously from the end. He saw the wasted arm moving to deliver it. He saw the clear possibility of grabbing the skinny wrist and snapping it back, kicking the man in his stained snagged mouth and vaulting over to the desk. He would never be as fast or good as Wufei in hand combat but he knew he could have done it and even as he was still considering the needle came down, Getz pushed the plunger and he was staring at it sticking out of his arm stupidly.
Then his heart stopped.
Heero's eyes flew open.
It only stopped for an instant; then everything stopped. With a soundless flare his sensation flung outwards, expanding and crystallizing everything as it encompassed his sensations, his mind, his sense of being.
His body convulsed in an involuntary jerk and he stumbled out of bed, across the hall and into his office. Once there he began looking around things like a blind man.
It went on forever, the expansion, and somewhere he knew his body was frozen to the carpet in a silent scream but he was going with the light, outwards, upwards, past any bounds of human comprehension.
Finally he came across the phone and he grabbed it. With unsteady hands he dialed and it seemed an eternity before it was picked up.
"Hello?" a voice questioned sleepily.
"Noin."
"Heero." Immediately she was attentive.
"Where's Dekim Barton?"
Finally there was nothing left at all, only the light.
There was a baffled silence on the other end. Then, Noin spoke in a small voice.
"Heero...he's dead."
TBC
(:./aki/icarus)
