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"Sinnerman"Written By: L.
Valensi Disclaimer: The characters are copyrighted to
BANDAI and all others responsible for their creation. Rating: NC 17 Pairings: 1x2 Summary: Duo and Heero were in the same unit in the war. Heero was killed and Duo is searching for those responsible. « » Marks words spoken in a different language
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx while Jesus is saving, i'm spending all my days St. Vincent, “Jesus Saves, I Spend” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx His gloved knuckles tapped impatiently on a table made of dark, exotic wood. Behind him, men and women in uniform black suits meandered busily, as if they were unable to see him sitting across another man, discussing something of great importance. “They can’t see you, Odin. The walls are one-way mirrors.” he said, brushing back his long, blonde hair. The man named Odin sat listlessly across from him, fiddling with a white card. The blonde eyed it with interest. “He was able to strike the deal that night with the Iranian we set up,” replied Odin. Odin gently placed the card on the blonde man’s desk. “Was there any evidence of him being present at the scene?” said the blonde, taking up the card and carefully placing it inside a ziplock bag. “No, none that I could find. I searched nearly everywhere. Were the police able to find anything?” “Unfortunately, no. Just a thousand untraceable bullets.” “I am certain that there are two parties that make up the God of Death. It may be that the one we are targeting now is just being used as a front.” At this, the blonde glared icily at Odin. “Are you uncomfortable with an assignment of such a delicate nature, Agent Lowe? We can always replace you if you can’t handle it,” said the blonde as he examined an open folder, smiling almost cruelly at the information it held inside. “Although, it looks as if you’re enjoying it very much. Are you sure you want to surrender so early in?” Odin’s expression remained unchanged. “Just voicing my observations, sir.” “Your role is to follow orders, not have opinions. This isn’t Hollywood, Lowe. Remember that the next time you report to me.” “Very well, sir.” “Good. Now that that’s settled, then I have more orders for you concerning our plan against the God of Death. Your presence at the meeting will not be needed, but nevertheless I need you to be on watch in order to identify any persons involved.” “Understood, sir.” “Furthermore, you need to familiarize yourself with his tactics so that we will have the upper hand the next time he tries to deal with terrorist organizations from Iran.” “Of course, sir.” “This may be our only chance for an encounter with this man. We cannot let him know that he’s been blacklisted or we will never be able to catch him. Are we clear, Agent Lowe?” “Crystal,” replied Odin curtly. xxx A woman with hair resembling a starless sky waited silently beneath a thick orchard of scarlet oaks. She watched from behind wire-rimmed shades as the sun splashed the sky with the colors of dusk, only to be hidden behind the cold steel body of an unmarked light-sport aircraft. With the wind blowing back her short midnight stems, Agent Lucrezia Noin turned to her partner, Sally Po. Both women observed the miniature plane landing among the oak trees with a certain amount of trepidation; after all, they themselves were tangent agents overseeing the God of Death mission that had started nearly two years ago. This would mark the first serious encounter they would have with the elusive God of Death. They had a right to be nervous; if this meeting were to go awry—that is, if the God of Death were to realize that their intention was for entrapment—it was likely that the entire operation would end in failure. From the intelligence they had on the matter, the God of Death had the means and anonymity in the system that would make a complete disappearance feasible. The man—or several men—had absolutely no identity, no paper trail; not a single fingerprint was ever left at any scene. All the witnesses they had interrogated claimed that they never saw his face. Each description of the man who had come in his place was different: sometimes a dark man who spoke perfect Arabic, sometimes a pale man who spoke perfect Russian, sometimes even a slight man who spoke perfect Chinese. The entity known as the God of Death had a league of vessels that was unpredictable and ultimately undetectable by any records the government had. They were currently relying on mercenary hackers to find a presence of him on the internet, but even that was proving to be difficult. It seemed to them that the God of Death belonged to an underworld of information they had no way of getting their hands on. Things were especially more difficult, considering that the war in the Middle East had taken a turn for the worse despite the long-awaited capture of bin Laden by her superior then, and now, Lieutenant General Zechs Merquise. Two years, thought Noin, two years and this is the first time we’ll get any concrete evidence on him. She hugged her arms protectively from the cold in full recognizance of the God of Death’s troublesome existence. Agent after agent, all selected from the best our country has to offer, and yet here we stand with literally nothing on you. Agent Noin was not easily intimidated, nor was she easily perturbed by her enemies. She’d survived worse than chasing after a gunrunning political assassin, but never one she couldn’t see, hear, track, feel—anything. She couldn’t fathom how one man could evade every intelligence unit in the country with such panache. She also couldn’t understand how easily he would give into his country’s demands. Wasn’t this the man allegedly responsible for providing arms to American enemies? Wasn’t this man responsible for ruining the lives of countless men, her peers, fighting for their lives in a sea of sand and bloodshed? “Where is he now?” said Noin offhandedly, pulling herself away from the grief her thoughts were causing. Sally shrugged, removing her sunglasses and pocketing them. “I’ll assume he’s where he’s supposed to be, given that our target is exactly where he arranged to be. I checked in on Zechs and the others a while ago and we’re all in place.” Sally frowned as the propeller whirred slowly to a stop. “How can this guy have so much money and yet we can’t track it?” “He probably asks for everything in cash, like all good mystery men do,” “Even men with money trust banks, Noin.” “Yes, well, he doesn’t. And speak of the devil… here comes the God of Death, Sally. Stay alive.” “Oh, you’re being funny now?” said the tall, husky-voiced Major with a smile. They approached the descending, darkly-dressed figure with measured steps. Both of them were unable to breathe as they watched their target step out aircraft. Before them stood the God of Death: a young man of no more than twenty-one years, primly dressed in a butler’s uniform and a bowler hat, half of his distinctly Eastern European features hidden behind a mat of shiny hazelnut hair. In one gloved hand, he carried a slim, black titanium briefcase. Both women unwontedly balked at the sight of him. They were essentially thinking the same thing: this kid is responsible for the armament of thousands of terrorist factions in Iran? After a while, Noin and Sally swallowed back their surprise and approached the still-standing young man in the bowler hat. “Welcome, Mister…” Noin bit her lip, realizing she hadn’t even thought of a proper address. Once the young man’s gaze settled on her, Noin’s apprehension was suddenly aroused. He gave her a stiff, artificial smile, inflaming her unease even further. “No need for formalities with me, Agent Noin,” said the young man, tipping his hat in greeting to her. “I assume you and Agent Po are going to take me to Lieutenant General Merquise now?” “That’s right. Agent Noin and I will escort you into the premises. Be forewarned that you will have to submit yourself to a superficial inspection for any hazardous material or weaponry,” answered Sally sharply, omitting pleasantries altogether The young man nodded; Noin noticed his expression shift almost seamlessly from cheer to cool vacancy. The two women led him into the protected facility through the entrance hall and to the building’s security station. As the young man was patted down by a pair of subordinates, Noin voiced her worries to Sally. “Is it me, or do you feel as if something’s a little off with this guy?” she asked, her brows furrowing. “Like, how is it that he knew our names already?” “What did you expect, Noin? Vito Corleone?” said Sally. “This is the man who calls himself the God of Death, and for all we know, he very well could be, given that there’s no information on him anywhere we search. Even his clients are baffled by him, and they’re the closest we’ve got to actual witnesses.” “You’re right.” Noin sighed, observing as he shook hands with the uniformed officers and picked up his briefcase. “I just can’t shake this paranoia. I feel like he’s laughing at us for buying into his charade.” “Somehow I doubt the God of Death is a prankster, Noin,” Sally placed her hand on her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Don’t get so worked up. Zechs will take care of everything.” The young man, bowler hat and all, moved toward the women with that same odd smile. “Shall we?” Noin and Sally nodded, leading him to the elevator and around a maze of starch-white, fluorescently-lit corridors. They stopped in front of a set of double doors in a wide hallway. Noin knocked loudly on the door, and a faint voiced instructed her to enter. Sally aided Noin in opening the doors for the young man in the bowler hat, who entered casually into the sparsely decorated office of one Lt. Gen. Merquise. The man that sat behind the old wooden desk looked as if he was pulled out of a Gentleman’s Quarterly advertisement. His long, blonde hair flowed freely about his decorated service uniform. The olive khaki served him well; it not only fit his Olympic build like a glove, but it brought out the stern iciness in his blue eyes. He looked to the trio standing in his doorway and greeted them with a firm smile. “Welcome, Mister…” Upon hearing those words, the young man unceremoniously seated himself in front of Merquise, much to Noin’s and Sally’s chagrin. “As I mentioned previously to your subordinates, there is no need for formalities with me, Lieutenant General,” he said. Zechs gestured for the two officers to close the doors and exit the room, which both women did with haste. Once the doors to the outside world closed, Zechs saw it fit to reply. “And so it is the same with me. You may call me Zechs, for the sake of ease,” he paused and smirked at the expressionless man in front of him. “And you are…” “Not who you expect,” answered the young man quite coolly. “I am the God of Death’s intermediary, Nanashi.” “No-name?” asked Zechs rhetorically. “Your name means that you don’t have a name?” He couldn’t help but laugh a little. Nanashi, however, was not moved to react to his knowledge of the Japanese language. “Isn’t this going a little too far to protect your privacy?” Nanashi smiled at him but didn’t reply; instead, he placed the briefcase on Zechs’ desk and unlatched it open, revealing a flat-panel computer screen. Zechs gave Nanashi a questioning look; but, instead of a reply from the young man, the screen before him flickered on. “We are all flawed with idiosyncrasies, Mr. Merquise,” said a distorted, high-pitched voice, coming from the screen in the briefcase. “Protecting my privacy to ridiculous degrees happens to be a tic of mine.” Zechs’ lips thinned into a straight line, trying surreptitiously to hide his displeasure. “Is there something bothering you, Mr. Merquise?” asked the God of Death with a noticeable hint of amusement. “Is this form of communication unsatisfactory for you?” “My apologies, Mr. Death,” said Zechs, “But, you see, it’s hard for a man of action like myself to deal with something I can’t see.” “Actually, I can’t see,” said the God of Death glibly. “You know, I’ve realized that lately the world seems to have a problem with not being able to see. But, you see, I’m quite alright with it. But far be it from me to come unprepared for such a request.” Zechs’ leaned back into his chair, awaiting the dealer’s compliance.The screen flickered from black to painting of a swarthy man covered in ribbons of white sheets holding a sword. Zechs’ hopes wilted as he realized he was staring at a painting of Thanatos, the Greek demi-god of Death. Zechs was not amused in the least. He glared at Nanashi, as if the middleman were acting as a visual feed to his master. “Sir, I don’t believe Mr. Merquise appreciates the painting,” said Nanashi to the briefcase. “Is that so? Well, we’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?” “Thank you,” Zechs gratefully nodded to Nanashi, who politely faded back into the background of the meeting like the statue he was. Zechs waited patiently, assuming that the weapons dealer would finally submit to the demands he had made—unfortunately, Zechs was met only with a rather grotesque image of Anubis. “This is unbelievable,” muttered Zechs under his breath. He leaned in closer to the briefcase, his countenance firm but noticeably seething. “Listen to me carefully, Mr. Death. Neither you nor I are here to play these stupid mind games. Now, I have shown you the respect owed to you, and either you show me the same or you can see yourself out the door and find yourself on the blacklist of every country in the free world. Do we understand each other?” The screen flickered once more—first to black, then finally to a picture of the grim reaper. Zechs lips twitched irately; he looked ready to bare his fangs at the man behind the screen. “I’m sorry, Mr. Merquise. You seem to have misconceptions about the way business works around here. I only take orders, not orders, you understand?” said the God of Death. “For one, you are doing business with me. And I do not depend on you for any of my business. In spite of how much you yell and scream, I won’t be intimidated by you. If you want something you can see, by all means, go ahead and hire another man for the job. I assure you they won’t provide you with the same guarantee of efficiency, affordability, and anonymity that I will.” Zechs sat quietly for a moment, his hands folded across his lap. The air around him stewed in the fumes of his irritation. “Okay, Mr. Death,” said Zechs, as composed as he could bring himself to be. “You win this one. You’ll have to forgive my rude display of emotion; it’s not every day I’m reverted back to child’s play.” The God of Death laughed. “I do have that effect on people, don’t I? Nanashi will tell you. But compared to the things people say before they die, your indecency was like… like an inaudible whimper.” Knowing fully that the God of Death was taunting him, daring him to regress into adolescence, Zechs exhaled deeply and massaged his temples. “Well, then, Mr. Death,” he said, feigning complete ignorance of the dealer’s previous statement, “Shall we discuss the arrangements then?” “Point and shoot, buddy,” said the God of Death with a hint of an emotion Zechs could not identify. “I’m listening.” Zechs placed in front of the screen a neat stack of manila envelopes. “Inside these envelopes, you’ll find information regarding a counter-terrorist faction in Iran known as White Fang. These men will be your clients.” “So the government really is employing mercenaries with our tax money after all,” the God of Death joked. Zechs’ lips twitched once more, an acerbic aftertaste of anger still left on his tongue. “The government of the United States employs what is necessary to win the wars we fight,” replied Zechs, “The group known as White Fang is locally respected, as our information will tell you. They were an integral part of bringing down al-Qaeda bases on the Kuwait border.” “And yet our honorable businessmen refuse to sell them arms?” The God of Death scoffed at the notion. “That’s rather rude.” “But you won’t refuse, right?” said Zechs, placing his hands on the table as if the man behind the screen could see him. “There is little that we know about you, Mr. Death, but one thing we do know is that you are responsible for aiding these counter-terrorist measures all over the world. We almost suspect you to be a soldier of the United States, what with all your honorable, yet illegal, exploits on behalf of the country.” A lengthy silence followed Zechs’ comment. Deep below the building’s surface, Odin, Noin, and Sally observed them with great anxiety. Noin massaged her temples, uncomfortable with the God of Death’s lack of reply. “Calm down, Noin,” said Sally, arms folded. “It’s only been twenty seconds. He’s not gone.” “Yes, well, a lot is hinging on that stupid comment,” said Noin, irritated by Zechs’ tactlessness. “I can’t even believe he’d risk going that far, letting him know that we’re onto his business deals with terrorists. What could he possibly be thinking?” “Lt. Gen. Merquise says nothing without cause,” commented Odin tersely, eyes glued to the three figures under surveillance. Meanwhile, back in Zechs’ office, the God of Death abruptly broke his silence. “Well, what do you know; you do know a lot about me after all. Seems like you have me all figured out,” he said. “But you know, Mr. Merquise, sometimes a lot of information is detrimental to you intelligence guys. Pretty soon you won’t be able to tell truth from lie.” The God of Death’s laughter was more jarring to the ears than Zechs ever remembered gunfire to be. He laughed so carefreely, so cheerfully; it was as if the voice itself was grinning ear to ear because it had won some sort of prize. It sent chills down Noin’s spine and even Sally was bothered by the sheer sound of it, precisely because it made them feel as if they were part of a game bigger than the one they had set up. The realization that they were being watched was perhaps the worst feeling an agent of intelligence could ever feel—because it would mean they had lost control of the situation; that the hunter was now the hunted. And it was exactly that sentiment that rang in the laughter of the God of Death. “We’re not so foolish as to be completely in the dark about those we choose to work with,” replied Zechs with complete conviction. Noin breathed a sigh of relief as Zechs’ reserve. “All my trust in you to do this job well, Mr. Death, if not for patriotism, then for the grand sum of twenty million we are offering. So what shall it be?” “Well, that all depends on how well Nanashi is escorted from your office back to the plane,” answered the God of Death. “Don’t bother tracing him. If you do, the deal’s off the table. We’ll talk when I’ve seen the papers. Khoda hafaz, Lieutenant General.” Almost as if he were controlled by the voice itself, Nanashi stood up the instant the screen turned off and placed the manila envelopes into the briefcase. All observing were stunned by the Nanashi’s swiftness; as if the whole meeting had been a dream, Zechs found himself staring at the same exact Nanashi that had entered his office, bowler hat in place and briefcase in hand. “Shall I show myself out or will Agent Noin and Po be escorting me out?” “We’re not barbarians, Nanashi,” Zechs cleared his throat and pretended to contact his two subordinates although he knew full well that they had preemptively made their way back to his office. He replaced the phone on its receiver and signaled Nanashi to seat himself. “Please, take a seat while we wait for the agents to arrive.” “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Merquise, they are already here,” said Nanashi, smiling. “Thank you for your time.” Nanashi opened one set of doors and acknowledged the two women approaching him. They looked back to Zechs, who was undeniably fuming behind his desk. He motioned for them to follow Nanashi, who was briskly heading to the exit. As soon as the three figures turned the corner down the hall, Odin Lowe sat himself in the seat before Zechs. Zechs, absent of any trace of anger, contemplatively tapped his knuckles on his desk. “I doubt he suspects anything,” said Odin assuredly. “Brevity in departure is his trademark. You did very well. We have a visual of one of his accomplices and a possible voice pattern.” Zechs acknowledged the agent with a brief glance, but he did not immediately reply; he was replaying his interaction with the God of Death in his mind. He hardly even felt Odin’s exit, or heard the heavy creaking of his office doors as they closed. Zechs felt only a stinging loneliness as he idly stared outside the window and watched as the God of Death whisked himself away to an undisclosed location which they will likely never find. Funny, thought Zechs, I already feel like I’ve known you for years, Mr. Death. And in observing the plane merge with the night, he saw in his dim reflection the dusty memory of a war that never stopped for him; sparing no second for his desperate search for the bridge to answers hidden beneath rubble and conspiracy. xxx They were impossible to forget. From the very first day of basic training, both young men were found by their peers to be otherworldly warriors—as if both were pulled from the battle of Thermopylae and time-warped into the present. They were smaller in comparison to the rest, and everyone could tell that they were younger than what was allowed—yet they never said a word, because they were afraid. They were afraid of the looks in their eyes of the two boys when they held a rifle up to shoot; afraid, because they knew neither had anything to lose. And that, above all, was what made them forces to be reckoned with. There was no doubt in anybody’s mind that Heero Yuy and Duo Maxwell would be among the Corps’ fastest rising stars. There was no doubt that, together, they would wreak havoc in the Sand Land with a pair of M40s and a crate of ammunition. There was no doubt that they would be among the survivors of the wreckage that seemed only to get worse as they years progressed. They replaced a childhood of broken homes, abandonment, and emotional trauma with an adulthood of justified violence and patriotic righteousness. Instead of tears, they sweated to live another day as proud Marines. And they lost full nights of sleep for it; bled for it; trained themselves even as they ate for it. And when they arrived on the never-ending sandy shores of Iraq, they traded all their hopes and dreams for it. Zechs had heard rumors about the two, but he had never considered himself the type to take favorites. All his men had their merits; they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t. They could do what he needed them to do—they could point, shoot, and hit their targets. There were things at stake for the men who entered the Marines, especially concerning the Iraq war. They were first in and last out. But he saw none of it in their eyes. Usually, he could pinpoint what would make a man break, because he’d seen a lot of it. He was quick to spot the souls on the edge of desperation, stuck in the limbo between fear and insanity. Those were the souls that had something to lose. Not these two. He noticed it from the very first day of their on-site training. Neither man left the other’s side unless they absolutely had to, as if they were the twin sons of night arranging a clandestine mass simplification of the American enemy. They trained together, day and night, while they awaited the day they would rain fire upon the enemy. Their mechanical precision was to the point of recklessness; taking even the simplest training maneuvers to their physical maximums. Zechs knew Yuy to be the more reckless of the two, because he often pulled stunts that could have potentially incapacitated him, such as bloating himself with water and refusing to hydrate for the rest of the day to simulate distressed war conditions. However, Zechs never worried, because it seemed that no matter what Yuy did, Maxwell always had his back. He was there when Yuy finally collapsed from dehydration, five water bottles and a cold compress in hand. He was there every time Yuy needed to cover up his unhealthy addiction to irresponsible activities. And likewise, Yuy was there for him. The other Marines, just normal boys who needed an alternative direction other than a minimum-wage job at McDonald’s, envied their ruthless dedication to their positions. It was these other men who watched them climb the ranks together during only their first deployment, who watched them get sent away together to receive SERE-C training at Naval Air Station Brunswick. By the time they returned to Fallujah, Zechs had been promoted to First Lieutenant and had become their platoon leader. They were assigned to the same fireteam—and rightly so. Zechs could remember clearly what he saw and felt the day they arrived: paternal pride, if you could believe it. Before, they had almost been men in the bodies of children; now, they looked like the lethal Marines they were. Their eyes were filled with something Zechs could not identify on sight, because it was neither desperation nor emptiness. Their eyes like tigers, burning blue and violet underneath the blazing sun, were undeniably consumed with hunger. Their recklessness had been chiseled by their time in SERE into perfect cunning rebellion against predictability. But they had not lost an ounce of their own characters: Yuy kept his somber reserve and Maxwell his impish grin. They were two halves of a modern, gun-wielding Achilles, and their remarkable abilities on the field complemented their squad with fearsome grace. During a rest period on a reconnaissance mission into Karbala, Zechs happened by Maxwell and Yuy’s team in conversation with their squad comrades. “You know y’all are crazy, right?” said a much-developed Otto, whose accent and thick, black glasses were the only remnants of the gentle southern boy Zechs had first met. He shook his head at Maxwell and Yuy, who were cleaning their rifles together on a couple of empty crates. “The last time I came to check on you, y’all were tryin’ to kick each other’s ass, and I come back from jackin’ off for forty minutes, and y’all are still here. Don’t you ever have any fun?” “Come on, Otto, you know these guys,” said Mueller, a green-eyed German emigrant in their fireteam. “This shit is what they do. They are not here to bide their time until they go home to their moms and girlfriends.” “Speaking of which, maybe you should think about joining us, since you don’t have that to go back to either,” joked Maxwell as he finished cleaning the barrel. Mueller and another team’s assist, Walker, laughed, knowing fully of Otto’s “girl problems.” Even Yuy smirked a bit. Otto rolled his eyes. “Hardy har har, Maxwell. I don’t see no women in your life either. Maybe if you weren’t such a fag, you’da landed one by now, too.” Maxwell mock scoffed at the comment. “Say again, Otto?” He said with notable gravity, simultaneously cocking his rifle and pointing it directly at the southerner. “I didn’t quite hear you that time.” Otto’s eyes bulged out in fear of the man pointing the gun at him. “Whoa, whoa, hey… you know I’m just jokin’, Maxwell,” Otto chuckled nervously and put his hands up in surrender, yet after a minute still found himself staring at the threatening tip of Maxwell’s rifle. “Put your gun down, Duo,” said Yuy, surprising everyone around him. He finished cleaning his own rifle and looked up to meet Otto’s anxious and grateful stare. He smirked. “Otherwise we’ll lose the most embarrassing person in this squad.” Maxwell’s face contorted into one of amusement and the circle of Marines sputtered with laughter. Otto glared maliciously at all of them, which only fueled their derisive guffawing. “What the hell is this, gang-up-on-Otto-day?” said Otto accusingly. “I’m the nicest fuckin’ guy here and y’all are just out to get me!” “Don’t get your panties all in a wad, Otto,” said Walker, wiping sand and tears of hilarity from his eyes. “That’s what you get for messing with the terrible two.” Maxwell paused, throwing Walker a questioning look. “The Terrible Two? What the fuck kind of Marvel hash-up is that?” he asked with tinge of sarcasm. “I think we deserve better than the terrible-fucking-two.” “Yeah,” snickered Otto, “Y’all should be called the Fuckin’ Terrible Two instead.” “I’m sorry, Hannah Montana, I don’t think anyone asked for your input on this,” retorted Maxwell. Otto’s face turned red. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that!” “Yeah, how about you give me a nickname instead?” said Mueller. “How about The Flash? I can throw grenades faster than the hajis can pull their triggers, for sure.” “Can’t you be a little more creative, Mueller?” said Walker. “Sure I can,” replied Mueller, “Texas Ranger.” They laughed together; however, they stopped once they saw Heero’s flat expression. An awkward silence played out before Duo suddenly put his arm around Heero. “You know what a good name for this guy is?” he said, ruffling Heero’s hair. Heero punched him lightly in the stomach to fend him off. “Ow! …Anyway, this guy’s name should be Wing Zero.” “The fuck is that, Maxwell?” asked Otto, abrasive as ever. “It’s fucking genius, that’s what,” said Duo. “Look at it this way: a unit is like a body. Mueller, here, is the grenadier. So he’s like the arms of the operation.” “That’s true. He carries all the heavy arms,” said Walker. “That’s it!” said Mueller. “That’ll be my name. Heavy Arms.” “Alright, already, egomaniac,” said Otto. “How ‘bout Texas Ranger here?” “But I already like that name for him,” said Duo. “Fuck you, Maxwell, you are changing that fuckin’ nickname if I have to shove a rifle up your ass,” said Walker. “Alright, alright. So you’re the assist. You’re practically the basis of our team because you carry all the ammo. Without you, we’re basically screwed if we run out,” Duo mused for a little longer. “So you’re like our rock.” “Ha!” said Otto. “Walker’s about as sturdy as a fuckin’ sand dune. Guy’s a wuss.” “So what about Sandy Rock?” joked Mueller, which was even more amusing given his slight German accent. “How about Sandrock?” said Duo. “That sound good to you, Walker?” “Sandrock,” mused Walker. “Yeah. I can live with that.” “And finally,” continued Duo, “we have Heero, our scout, watching over us like a guardian angel. He’s first to rise, last to fall, like a pair of wings. Thus, Wing Zero.” “Why the Zero?” asked Mueller. “Wings come in pairs.” “Because he’s nothing without us,” said Duo. “Gotta make that clear.” “Wait, what about you, Maxwell?” asked Walker. “What’s your code name?” “Well, why don’t you guys enlighten me this time?” said Maxwell with a small smile. “Shinigami,” said Yuy out of the blue. “That should be your name.” The other Marines stared at him wide-eyed with shock, as if he’d performed some sort of unbelievable magic trick. None of them—not Maxwell, not Zechs himself—could believe that Yuy would break his silence in order to play one of Maxwell’s little games. Zechs picked at his ear, wondering what word it was that he had just heard. It was a foreign language unfamiliar to him; it sounded eastern, but, still stuck in his own personal surprise, he remained unsure. He inched around the edge of the tent, hoping that the audibility would improve. “Shi-ni-ga-mi,” said Otto in his drawl. “Now what the hell does that gibberish mean, Yuy?” “It means death god,” he said, “Because out of all of us, he takes the most lives.” The rest of his comrades paused at the words, finding them unnatural yet profound, especially coming from Yuy. However, Maxwell smiled deviously, as if he’d won some sort of prize. “That’s a little dark,” commented Maxwell with an airy shrug after a long silence. “But, it fits me like a glove. Don’t you think so, guys?” Otto snorted. “Please, Maxwell, you’re like sunshine on a rainy day,” he said. “There ain’t nothin’ dark ‘bout you.” Maxwell chuckled. He threw back his head and clutched at his heart. “Oh, my, Otto,” he said with a horrific southern twang. “I do believe you’ve just made me the happiest little boy this side of Iraqistan.” Otto rose up and took Maxwell in for a well-deserved noogie. The resounding laughter of the men was the only noise that Zechs could hear apart from the whistling of the winds through the high dunes in the surrounding area. xxx “Mm…” hummed Duo, his eyes fluttering open despite the heavy fatigue clinging to them. With clouded vision, he reached out to a body next to him, praying with all his heart that it wasn’t a dream. He wanted the stinging heat of the Middle Eastern sun. But what he wanted most of all was for Heero Yuy to be just another dugout away from him. “Hee…” he began to say, but when lucidity hit him, the shapely jaw and dark blue eyes shifted just enough for the face across from him not to be Heero. It’s not Heero, thought Duo sadly. It’s still him. He looked back at Duo with those flippant eyes as he buttoned the last button of his pewter grey shirt. When it dawned on him that Duo was indeed awake, he stopped dressing immediately. “You’re awake,” he said quietly. Is he being considerate? thought Duo. “I’m sorry if I woke you; I was trying my best not to. But I have another appointment to keep, so…” Duo merely gazed at him as if he were stupefied and sleepy at the same time. He ignored Duo’s dumbfounded reactionary silence and resumed dressing himself. After a short moment, Duo said, “What kind of appointment is it?” He raised a brow at Duo as he paused in the middle of putting on his socks. “Not like this one, if that’s what you want to know.” Duo chuckled, rolled over to his side, and put an arm around his waist. Duo didn’t let go though he felt the other stiffen at his touch; instead, he nuzzled the small of his back, sending shivers down his lover’s spine. “What kind of business are you in, anyway?” queried Duo. “I’m sorry I never even bothered to ask until now.” “There’s a lot of things you haven’t bothered to ask about me,” he snapped caustically. “Why start asking now?” He attempted to break out of Duo’s grip, but the braided man didn’t budge. “Doesn’t it make you happy that I want to know?” asked Duo, pulling himself up to meet the other man face to face. Duo leaned in to kiss the crook of his neck and whispered “Like, for instance, what your favorite color is, or what your favorite kind of food is, or more importantly, what’s your name?” “That’s… not important… for us… Duo…” hissed the other man as Duo bit sucked on the skin around his clavicle. He tried weakly to push him away, but Duo forcibly remained as close to him as the clothing would allow. “Maybe it would be less of a game for either of us,” said Duo breathlessly into his ear, “if you would just give me your name?” He laughed corrosively, this time pushing Duo off of him with more gusto. Duo released him and sat back on his elbows, watching his blue-eyed lover wrap his scarf around his neck. In spite of his own protocol, he looked back at Duo, whose lascivious stare wore down the best of his defenses. The two of them gazed at each other for a while, each expectant of the other. “If you really insist on calling me something,” said his lover with as much levity as he could harness into a sentence, “then call me Tsubasa.” “Tsubasa,” said Duo, letting the name roll off his tongue like a long-forgotten song. “What language is that from?” he asked, but there was a certainty in Duo’s expression that told Tsubasa he already knew. “Sorry. You just hit your limit on questions for the night.” replied the blue-eyed man as he grabbed his leather messenger purse and made his way toward the door. Tsubasa glanced back at Duo, who was observing him with those alluring, adoring eyes that frightened him. It was as if he was being encased into the very moment in time that Duo’s eyes landed on him—as if he was being mistaken for a memory of a man he was not. But Duo only smiled mischievously back at him, as if he’d won some sort of prize; or rather, smiled like Tsubasa had just been granted a prize. It was a prize Duo had been unwilling to give away, to keep locked inside of him. He was beginning to warm up to the notion of giving Tsubasa the benefit of taking Heero’s place in his life—or at least, entertaining the thought of “moving on,” in his own obsessive way. Tsubasa left without another word, and Duo merely sat back and watched him walk away. His smile gradually faded as he fought against the haunting call of reminiscence. In the end, all his efforts were futile; he found himself lying on his bed, eyes closed, traveling back through the dreams that pervaded him each night—the faint smell of roses amidst the fog of tar fumes, the warmth of him pressed against Duo’s chest as he sheltered him from harm like a guardian angel… Try as he did, he couldn’t replace the image of Heero Yuy with Tsubasa. Everything about them seemed identical, but still they felt like two vastly different continents separated by Duo’s inability to dissociate his past from his present. No matter how much Tsubasa felt like the real thing or reminded him of the real thing, the fact remained that he wasn’t the real thing. And you never will be, he thought. For a moment he felt as if his chest had caved in completely and crushed his heart beneath the ruins of his soul. But he opened his eyes and he was still alive. xxx Despite his best attempts at a good night’s sleep, Duo was unable to get even a wink. The hours seemed to pass quicker than Duo had ever known them to move; by the time he decided to shift positions, it was already dawn. Duo looked at bright turquoise glow of the numbers on the fifteen-inch screen of his alarm clock. He groaned and rolled off the edge of his California king-sized bed (much too large for such a lonely man, but he could afford it). After lounging around, he decided to finally to divorce himself from the comfort of his thousand-thread-count sheets. He slid into a black silk robe and made his way out of his meagerly-decorated, darkly-colored bedroom. Trowa should be back soon, but he probably isn’t home yet, he mused to himself as he waited for the two titanium doors to open up in front of him. He then headed downstairs to make himself breakfast, assuming his butler hadn’t yet returned from his business trip. But as soon as Duo was halfway down the long set of stairs in his inconspicuous Morningside brownstone, Trowa made his way through the iron-clad entrance of their home, bowler hat and all. “Honey, you’re home!” exclaimed Duo as he continued down the stairs. The butler ignored him and proceeded to hang his hat and his pressed black trench onto the coat rack placed conveniently by the door. “I was just about to make breakfast. You hungry, Tro?” Upon hearing Duo’s offer, Trowa raced to the kitchen. In spite of the four-hour flight he had just suffered through, the young man began busying himself with preparing breakfast. “Tro-wa,” whined Duo, “I said I was going to make breakfast.” The butler sighed as he whisked a bowl of eggs. “I know, sir. That is why I am making breakfast.” Duo frowned. “Are you trying to imply that I can’t cook, Trowa?” “No, sir, I’m very aware of your ability to cook.” replied the butler. “Good,” said Duo, “So let me cook, then.” Duo went towards the large, steel stove in the middle of the kitchen. But when he tried to remove the skillet from its hook, Trowa’s hand slapped his away. “Ow!” said Duo. “What was that for!” “To be quite frank, sir, I would rather be mauled by a pack of rabid lions than allow you back into the kitchen,” said the usually-reticent butler. Duo heard a ding and before he knew it, Trowa had handed him a perfectly-toasted slice of bread on a plate. Duo shrugged and began nibbling on the piece of bread. “Suit yourself,” he said, falsely offended. As the butler deftly sautéed an assortment of lean meats and vegetables in a skillet, Duo procured from the other room the black titanium briefcase Trowa had brought back with him. He input the security code and it automatically unlatched before him, revealing a stack of government-issue manila folders and a flat-panel computer screen. Duo removed from within the envelopes various documents and folders containing information on the counter-terrorist faction introduced to him as “White Fang.” The government had provided him with photos of the U.S.’s White Fang liaison, a man named Sogran, and a few of his subordinates. They also provided a list of White Fang’s local accomplishments, interviews with citizens, and their role in the anti-al Qaeda movements in Iran’s borders. Trowa plated the omelets for Duo, looking even prettier than he’d ever been served in the finest French restaurants. Duo grinned broadly and hungrily ate the omelet as he continued to review the documents. Trowa shook his head and proceeded to eat his own serving all too primly. “What do the documents say, sir?” asked Trowa during a pause from eating. “Nothing important,” replied Duo. “but exactly what I expected.” He put the documents aside and began to open another manila envelope. Inside it was a contract of conditions for the deal—which was that Duo would supply armaments to the White Fang faction on behalf of the U.S. Government. More important to note was the confidentiality clause stipulating that if he were to breach it, he would be arrested on grounds of treason. “Take a look at this, Trowa.” Duo handed the papers over to his butler, who properly pushed his plate aside in order to better assess the contents of the contract. Duo happily finished up his meal as the other read each line with great concern. “What do you think?” “I think this contract is about as trustworthy as the Lieutenant General,” he said with conviction. Duo’s ears perked up at the mention of the man who was now brokering an entrapment deal with him. “And how is the devil?” asked Duo with a small smile. “He sounded like a stuffy old man from where I was sitting, which wasn’t surprising in the least.” “This was a dangerous move on your part, sir,” replied Trowa. “I think Lt. Gen. Merquise knows more than he was letting on that night.” “Zechs is too wrapped up in this war to be bothered with someone like me,” said Duo. “And, anyway, he’s right. I’ve been brokering these deals with counter-terrorists in rural areas without protection for as long as I’ve been out of the war. I’m surprised it even took them this long to approach me with a contract. What would a high-profile military man and the CIA be out to get me for?” “Perhaps that is because you began by supplying arms to filthy scum after the gun laws were repealed?” “Correction,” said Duo as he gulped down the rest of his orange juice. “filthy scum also responsible for the reconstruction of community buildings and the filtering out of harmful drugs from key areas in the South Bronx.” “Then perhaps it was because you killed terrorists on their personal watch list?” “Well, I mean, come on, Tro,” said Duo, exasperated. “They had it coming.” “Suit yourself, sir,” said Trowa, “I advise you only to keep your eyes and ears open. The government takes only its own side for good or bad, and you know that better than I.” “That’s precisely why I have you around, Trowa,” Duo chuckled and briefly embraced the butler, who attempted to hide his embarrassment with indignance. “I’m a butler, sir, not a guide dog,” muttered Trowa. He shook off his master and began to clean up, but Duo took him by the hand and led him rashly out of the kitchen. “Leave it to the maid,” said Duo, leading him down a set of stairs in to a small subterranean room filled with various cabinets, electronics, and computers (it was, as Duo liked to refer to it, his miniature Batcave). In the darkly lit chamber safely concealed from the humble abode above it, Duo sat Trowa down in front of a large computer screen with a window containing an unopened folder. “Sir, I hardly think you need my assistance with opening a folder,” “You’re just a big ol’ ball of negativity this morning, aren’t you?” joked Duo as he massaged Trowa’s shoulders tenderly. “Don’t worry, Trowa, you’re off for the rest of the day as soon as you get this done. I need you to decode this file I retrieved while you were gone. I accidentally stumbled by it during my usually-fruitless investigations. I have a feeling it’s something important this time.” Trowa demeanor became grim at his master’s instruction. He understood that Duo was, of course, referring to his continuing investigation of ex-partner Heero Yuy’s death. After all the years he had been in Duo’s service, he knew one very concrete detail about Duo Maxwell: this man from his past—this Heero Yuy—was the greatest source of pain in his master’s life. Though Duo refused to ever talk about him seriously, Trowa had deduced a long time ago that every choice his master had made since he got out of the war involved this mysterious entity. Nothing that happened after him—not his job, his new friends, not even Trowa himself—could fulfill the harrowing emptiness only Trowa was privy to; the emptiness that consumed Duo’s every waking moment. To Trowa, it seemed that his master was merely wading through a dream; that his life had ceased to be his own but was governed by the specter of Heero Yuy. And the worst part for Trowa, who loved Duo dearly, was that even he knew nothing about Heero. He was Duo’s most trusted confidant, his only family, his partner—and yet, even from the second they first laid eyes on each other, he was doomed to forever be superseded by a ghost. In spite of it all, Trowa remained loyal and subservient to Duo, trying his best to ease his master’s suffering any way he was able. It was the least he could do for the man the man who rescued Trowa from the darkest pits of hell, despite his own inability to save himself. “Very well, sir,” replied Trowa. With the gentle clacking of the keys in the background, Duo’s intense observation of Trowa’s technical maneuverings faded slowly into daydream. He was sure he’d fallen asleep standing up, which would no doubt annoy Trowa more than this morning’s antics seemed to. He was tired, himself, which was probably why Zechs Merquise’s face—the one he knew—kept swinging in and out of Duo’s visions. His breath was caught in his throat and he felt as if every movement was now beyond his control. All he could do was shut his eyes tight and wait for it to be over. “Maxwell!” he yelled, almost muted against the endless gattling overhead and the stream of enemy grenades exploding in unexpected places. Zechs scurried towards him, his porcelain complexion marred by Iraqi soil. “I’m going in to take out their tanks.” “Lieutenant, that’s not a good idea!” shouted Duo. “They’ve got us overrun! Everyone’s busy trying to pick off as many of them as they can before backup arrives!” “I know that, Duo,” yelled Zechs. “But we’ll be dead before they get here if I don’t do something. This is the only opportunity we have.” Duo paused, adrenaline coursing throughout his body. All around him, soldiers were getting blown away or attempting to save themselves from the carnage. Otto had been yelling at the top of his lungs for hours, firing round after round to the guerilla faction’s ground troops. Mueller and Walker were stranded inside a building, fending off as many men as they could. As Zechs gazed at him with pleading eyes, much like a martyr would, Duo knew precisely what had to be done. He accessed his radio and said, “Wing Zero, over.” The man on the other line gave a crackled reply. “Fuck the snipers in the building above the tanks.” “Over and out,” said the voice in the radio. Zechs turned around just in time to see an enemy combatant tumble screaming out of the crumbling stucco building’s window. “Go, sir,” shouted Duo with a roguish grin. He gave the lieutenant a thumbs up and a wink. “We’ll take care of ‘em.” “All my trust in you to do so, Corporal,” said Zechs with the stern smile Duo would remember for years. “Sir?” said Trowa, breaking the spell of the war cast over Duo. Duo blinked and looked down upon a slightly worried Trowa. “It’s done, sir.” “Well?” said Duo, his arms crossed. He pretended as best he could that he hadn’t just spaced out next to Trowa, who had probably more reason to fall asleep than he did. “What’s it say?” Trowa stayed quiet long enough for Duo to know that whatever was contained so well in the file was unusual. The butler turned to him, the startling emerald of Trowa’s visible eye sending a shiver of concern down Duo’s spine. It was during moments of essential severity that Trowa reserved his unease, which now was being displayed pointedly. “I think it will yet another sleepless night for us both, sir,” said Trowa, turning his attention back to the information in front of him. He clacked away on the keyboard, pulling up an image of a little known Russian ex-terrorist who was a member of the anti-American group named the Order of the Zodiac—OZ, for short. “It’s Trinoi Levinski, sir,” explained Trowa, opening another file containing the man’s meager government biography. When OZ’s dreams of widespread Russian fascism were thwarted, they turned their attention to the Middle East and began supporting the anti-American movements that had come to fruition during the long years of the war. Levinski, at the time, was rumored to be the leader of Russia’s largest black market arms suppliers for these pocket terrorist factions. Oddly enough, they had even, at one point, attempted to kill Duo; but, as they found out, it was quite impossible to kill a ghost. Soon enough, the members of OZ found themselves running for their own safety when their funds were drained by the fifteen years of war. Since the capture of bin Laden, there has been little OZ activity if any at all; most were refugees hiding out in little-known Russian towns. “Was it OZ?” asked Duo grimly. “Did they order the attack?” “No, sir, OZ was never directly involved in any large-scale attacks on the military,” Trowa proceeded to print the information. “But if anyone would know about anti-American factions in the Middle East during the time of the attack, Mr. Levinski would. Even if OZ is now a defunct organization, their remaining ex-members should have all the information you need.” Trowa gathered the documents into a single manila folder and handed it to Duo. “And despite his best efforts to remain hidden, Mr. Levinski has recently been spotted wandering the streets of Prague,” he said with a knowing gaze. Duo stared emptily at the computer screen and the face it held within. “Shall I start a review of security tapes around the area?” offered the butler carefully. “Don’t be silly, Tro,” said Duo with a pensive smile. He ruffled Trowa’s perfectly-kempt hair and took the folder from him. “I said you’d have the day off, and so now you do. I run, I hide, but I never lie, Trowa. Now get out of here.” He disappeared around the corner of a false wall, heading to the back of the room, which had resting on it several disarrayed television screens and keyboards. Trowa stood there, silently grieving for the great pathos of his master for a long while, before he went back upstairs to get some well-deserved rest. xxx “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit,” said Duo subserviently, “Amen.” “Good evening, Duo,” replied the priest. “And how are you this week? Have we more to add to your body count?” Duo laughed, his countenance easing slightly. “You know, father, I love it when you’re glib. It’s so unnatural coming from a guy like you.” “A guy like me,” echoed the priest. “And what do you mean by that?” “Well, you know, a priest.” “Being priests does not automatically discount us from being just as human as you. We’re not aliens; we have the same feelings you do, Duo.” “Somehow, I doubt that, father. Your path takes you from a completely different direction than the rest of society.” “Oh?” The priest chuckled. “And what would you know about the life of a priest?” “More than you’d think,” replied Duo. “My father was a father.” The priest paused. “So, is that why you have returned to the Church? In memory of your father?” “No. Funny enough, it was the reason I decided not to come back.” “Was he a bad father, then?” “No. He was a great father,” said Duo with a hint of nostalgic sadness. “and also a great father. When his church was set on fire, he even went down with it, like a captain and his ship.” “So what was it that changed your mind?” “Honestly, father?” asked Duo. “Of course honestly, Duo. Must you ask every time?” Duo chewed his bottom lip. “I think if you hadn’t been my priest the day I decided to come back, I probably would have left all the same.” “That’s very flattering, Duo,” replied the priest with a smile in his voice. “But I’m just as good as any servant of God’s.” “Don’t fool yourself with humble lies, father,” said Duo very seriously. “My life is significantly affected by these confessions, as much as I hate to admit it to myself. From the very day I met you, you asked the questions I’ve needed to answer. And not once did your voice judge me for the monster that I am.” “I am no judge, Duo, and you are no monster.” “Yes, you are. And yes, I am. You’re here to judge in place of God because it’s you who knows him best. And you’ll listen to the horrific stories of people like myself and go to sleep at night, weighing your own conscience while you think of a way to save the monsters—to save me.” “I do only what I am able.” “Me too.” “No, you don’t, Duo,” said the priest. “Perhaps it is my turn now to impart upon you my personal—my human—understanding of you, because you seem to be so blind to your capabilities… I know there is much you have not told me, but it is obvious to me that you continue to dwell heavily on a past that, for you, remains largely unresolved. When you are in this house of God, these chains are loosened, but they possess you nonetheless.” Duo leaned back into the confessional’s wall and stared blankly at the door in front of him. The very timbre of the priest’s voice seeped into the open edges of the mask he wore so well and caught him in a way only one other person ever did; it drifted into his mind and met his denials in the face. The voice was a melody, a taste, an aroma that unearthed the long-lost feeling of comfort. “You are haunted by something, Duo. It is why, even with me, you must ask permission to be honest. You have lost control of yourself and your actions, and I believe they are driven by something external from you. And if you do not find a way to break his hold—his spell—you will never find peace. In the end, you will just be an empty shell of a person, waiting ever patiently to waste away.” xxx In the back of the room, Duo watched several screens flicker with the slow-moving bodies of tourists and Czech pedestrians. They were like spirits roaming an old land destroyed by modernity, feet traipsing delicately on the hard cobblestone that lined the interior of Prague. As the sunlight shifted frame by frame, Duo’s hands likewise systematically arranged a symphony of weapons in preparation for his next move. After the attack had subsided (greatly in thanks to Lieutenant Merquise’s successful demolition of enemy tanks), Duo and the rest of his platoon was flown back to base, finally safe from harm. Once they arrived, they were immediately shipped to sick bay to get cleaned and have their wounds treated. Fortunately, Duo’s team had only minor abrasions that needed attention. As he and Heero sat together watching mutilated bodies get maneuvered around about them, Duo said, “I almost wish that was me.” “Why?” asked Heero. “Because they get to go back to their normal lives, choose another path.” “Look at them, Duo,” said his partner. A Marine who had his leg blown off was wheeled off to the emergency station, his pained screams making Duo sick to his stomach. “They will never live normal lives. Is that really the road you want to take to get out of this war?” “You know me, Heero,” said Duo with a laugh. “I’ll take the path of least resistance—the road less traveled by.” Heero observed with him with a severity reserved for moments when he knew Duo was lying. This was one of them. TBC !NOTES! Good lord, that took a while to get out. This
chapter spends a lot of time moving things forward slowly, I’m
sure you noticed. The build-up, in this case, is necessary; such is
the curse of the kind of AU I chose to write. As you can probably
tell, the section involving the government part was the hardest to
write, as I have no idea how any of that goes down. A lot of this
story requires from the reader a great willingness to suspend their
belief, even though I tried as best as I could to ground it in some
sort of reality. All of the names of soldiers and kind of extra characters
are taken from the anime itself (White Fang/OZ members). Thanks for
reading!
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