Author: CleverYoungThief
Rating: R (so far)
Warnings: Shounen ai, yaoi, angst, gore, language, Heero's sense of humor
Pairing: 1+/x2
Archive: Gundam Wing Addiction
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Don't sue. College kids are like L2 kids; we got nothin'.
Notes: The timeline for this fic is almost episode for episode with the series, though that will probably change as I go along (and I'm adding in scenes of my own). This arc is entirely in Heero's POV, and I may do a side-arc for Duo later.
Army of One Arc Part 1
"It may be none of my business, but I suggest you find a less painful way of committing suicide, buddy!" The braided boy walked over to me and put my arm around his shoulders, helping me walk. "I may not be your friend or nothin', but right now I'm the only thing you got, pally," the boy muttered. His face looked a little pale. I think I shocked him badly, whether he wants to admit it or not.
If I had been born a little wittier, I might have considered asking him what his preferred method of suicide was, but I have never been prone to snappy comebacks. Instead, I let out a noncommittal grunt.
My leg hurt. Of course it did, it was broken; but nothing hurt worse than the first time I ever experienced such a serious pain. Nothing compared to the first time. We walked along the beach, making our escape, slow as it was. I fought the momentary urge to look up, to see if the girl was looking down after me. I fought it easily.
He helped me to a ship. I was a bit skeptical of our getaway vehicle, but I kept my misgivings to myself. Beggars can't be choosers. I hadn't any idea who the boy was, but he helped me. His arm was strong around my waist, helping me stand.
As we walked, I looked over at my new.... "ally". If he was a soldier, and he piloted a Gundam... what in the hell was he doing with that hair? It couldn't be strategic... it could only be a disadvantage. And his clothes were those of a priest. But the boy was no older than me.
He led me onto the salvage ship. We were greeted by an old man, who spoke with the braided boy at length. I didn't feel like speaking at all, so I kept silent. It was late by the time we got there, getting dark, and the boy led me directly to a bunk room. He took off his shirt and walked over to the mirror, letting his hair down and brushing it through. I sat on the bottom bunk, watching him.
"You never did thank me for saving you. What's your name, anyway?"
"Don't have one."
"What do they call you then?"
"Heero Yuy."
The boy laughed, a deep-throated laugh that seemed to come up from the tips of his toes, and I turned my head away from him to smirk a little. The name of a pacifist given to a terrorist. It was kind of funny. People say I have no sense of humor - especially Duo - but I do.
"What's your name?" I asked.
The boy laughed again, a silvery sound. "Don't have one."
"What do they call you?" I had not been paying attention when he and the old man spoke before.
"Duo. They call me Duo Maxwell. Also known as the God of Death around these parts. I may run and hide, but I never tell a lie."
That was good enough for me. I laid down on the bed without turning down the covers, or undressing out of my clothes, covered in dried blood. The places where the boy had shot me ached, and my fractured leg was worse, but both were faraway pains. I guess I had been blocking it out, but I couldn't remember doing it consciously.
I closed my eyes. I could feel the braided boy's eyes on the back of my neck, felt him wondering whether or not to say something to me, but in the end, he decided against it. I heard him, rather than felt him climb up to the top bunk, sprawling across it.
Lying there, I touched the marks on my wrists were I had pulled myself free of the restraining cuffs. The skin of my wrists was chafed and ripped.
I remembered the first time I had ever worn straps like that. And I slept.
~*~
"Heero," they said. This was not my name, but since that first time, that first day, I was called nothing else.
With two soldiers in front of me and one behind me, I was marched down the hall of the compound. I knew there were other "potentials" like myself, held behind every door on either side. I wondered whether they could hear the sound of our footsteps echoing down the corridor, my bare feet smacking on the tile, the imposing thud of the soldier's boots. I had known about the stories, the rumors about the rebels of the colonies, who were going to save us. About the colonists that were being secretly trained to stand up to the Earth's tyranny. But I would have never imagined I would end up among them.
I listened to the tense breathing of the soldiers in front and behind me. I was young and small and defenseless, nothing left but fear.
I closed my eyes and marched in a straight line, hands at my sides. I smelled disinfectant, heard the terrible hum of machinery that in my years as a colonist I had never noticed before.
"Stop," came a voice from behind me. I obeyed.
"Open your eyes, Yuy."
// That's not my name. // I couldn't open my eyes. I was too afraid. Too afraid to even answer.
"Open your eyes, soldier, before I pry them open and staple your eyelids to your fucking forehead."
I held my breath and opened my eyes reluctantly. I was standing in a very small room with a stainless-steel table bolted to the floor. The floor was so white it was almost blinding from the glare of the fluorescent lighting overhead. Black leather restraints laid across the table.
"Take off the jumpsuit."
"Where's Odin?"
The soldier looked at me. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about, kid. Strip." He pushed me to the floor and pushed the muzzle of his rifle to my chest. I stared back up at him.
"Stop looking at me."
"Where's Odin?"
"Get on your feet, Heero Yuy," the soldier said as he looked down at me along the barrel of the rifle. I wondered if he was going to kill me there, watch my blood run in vivid red along the spotless white floor.
// Heero Yuy is dead, // I thought, but I stood up and stripped anyway. I was cold, inside and out. I could barely breathe, I was so terrified.
"Get on the table," said another one of the soldiers. I looked up and could see myself reflected in his eyes, a half-breed Japanese boy staring up at him wordlessly.
I started to walk towards the table, but my knees buckled in terror. I sank to the floor.
"Get your ass up, soldier," he said, a touch of irritation tainting his voice.
I could feel the blood roaring through my veins, my heart pounding in my ears. "Iie. No."
The soldiers forced me onto the table and strapped me face-down with the restraints. The only movement I could make was turning my head from side to side. I could see the silver belts circling the soldiers' waists. I knew from their uniforms that they were not soldiers of the Alliance. I could see their hands on their rifles, waiting for me to give them the slightest excuse.
"Put the mask on," the leading soldier said. A black hood was pulled over my head. I was blind and even more vulnerable than before. I twisted and thrashed and writhed against the hood and the restraints, against their cruel laughter.
"Yamatta!! Stop!!"
One of the soldiers slapped my bare ass as an answer and I could hear all three of them leave the room. I heard the door click shut behind them, heard the lock activated, hear the thud of their boots as they walked down the hall.
I was blind and alone. I waited in the dark. For an eternity, it seemed. I whispered my name, my name, the names of my parents, Odin's name. I whispered this new name they had given me, the name of the dead pacifist I had helped to kill, let it roll around in my mouth. I was afraid that my terror would erase my memories, like it had erased the memories of my parent's faces, the sound of Odin's voice. Exhausted, I lay my head against the freezing metal and waited.
I waited until the door opened again and I heard the soft squeak of leather shoes, four shoes for two people, and four wheels. A cart, a table, something. It bumped gently against the table I was lying on.
"Hello, young Mr. Yuy," said a voice, male. It was accented, cultured and refined and smooth and ominous as the clean white sterile walls of the room.
"Don't hurt me," I said, softly.
"I would certainly do my best not to," the voice replied, as if the idea was absurd. "Ten years old, are you?"
"Hai."
"We don't need the local," the voice said to another person in the room.
"No anaesthetic?" the other person asked uncertainly, a younger man with a deep voice. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," said the cultured man as he flipped through a book or something. I could hear pages turning and wondered what he was reading.
"Are you police?" I asked. Both of them laughed. "No, Heero," the man said. "We're doctors."
"Don't hurt me," I said again. I begged. I was afraid. The doctor placed his hand on my head. It was not a tender touch. His hand was heavy, without calluses. I did not trust a soft hand. Odin had never had soft hands.
"Son," he said, even though he was not my father, "We're going to do what we have to do, and we'll do it as quickly and as painlessly as possible. That's the most I can promise you. Now, you need to hush while we work."
I could hear the rattle of metal against metal. I didn't know if I heard tools scraping against a metal tray or surgical instruments being sharpened. In my mind, I could see the needles and knives, the saws and the hammers. I could see the cruel eyes of the doctors, the rest of their faces hidden by white surgical masks. Behind those masks, I knew there must be scars, open wounds, and jagged teeth. Behind those masks, I knew there must be more metal: aluminum staples holding skin together, steel sockets containing the eyes and blades substituting for teeth. I was terrified.
"This is going to be a little cold," said the male nurse.
I felt an icy cold liquid roll over my left hip, then my right hip. I was so frightened and cold that it could have easily been my own blood. I tried to jerk away.
"What was that?"
"Antiseptic," said the doctor. "Now, please, be quiet. I've told you once."
"What are you doing to me?" I asked. I lifted my head. I struggled against the restraining belts. I would never be able to handle restraining belts for the rest of my life.
"Stop moving," said the nurse.
I felt a strong hand press on the back of my neck as it pressed my head against the table. I could not move. The doctor leaned down close to my ear.
"Heero," he whispered. "That is your name, is it not? Heero?"
"Hai," I replied, scared to say no. The pressure on my neck was painful.
"Heero," he said. "I know this is all very frightening for you. I wish there was something I could do about that. But there is simply nothing that can be done. Now, if you refuse to be quiet, we'll have to gag you. And you don't want that, do you now?"
"Iie," I whimpered.
"Then I suggest you keep your fucking mouth shut, soldier," he said. I heard the anger in his voice and something beneath that, a kind of resignation, a weary acceptance of his role.
"The ten gauge?" asked the nurse.
"Yes," replied the doctor.
I wondered what kind of weapon the doctors were talking about. I felt two sets of hands on my body and fought the urge to surge up against the straps.
"You're going to feel some pressure here," said the nurse.
I felt a hot pain as a needle slid into my left him, through skin, through muscle and into the hip socket, into the center of the bone. Be more than that, I felt the pain deep in my stomach and in my spirit. I felt the needle bite into me, heard the loud hiss of the hypodermic syringe as it sucked out blood, marrow, antibodies and replaced it with something better, stronger, faster.
I screamed out softly in surprise and pain, and my cries sounded like prayers.
"Shhh, shhhh, Heero," said the doctor as he pushed the needle deeper into my body, as the nurse pushed another needle deep into my other hip. "You're doing a brave thing. You're going to save the world."
~*~
I woke naked and alone in a bright room. I could see now. I was unrestrained. I never remembered falling asleep. I figured I must have passed out along the way, which was probably better. Either that, or they had done something worse to me, something that required anaesthetic.
I stood with difficulty and stared into a wall of mirrors that were really windows. I hurt all over. There were small stitches up the inside of my arms, across my shoulderblades, down my legs, up my chest. I could feel them. The stitches themselves were gone, the skin healed that had been sewn back together, and I wondered how long I had been sleeping. Long enough for stitches to heal. I had bruises in my wrists, from IV. My muscles were sore and my tendons felt tight, like guitar strings that had been freshly tuned. My bones felt heavy. Beyond the glass, doctors and rebel soldiers watched me. I watched them, even though I couldn't see them. I was afraid, and silent.
The doors opened. A squat doctor came through the door. It was the doctor I had imagined. One of his eyes had been replaced with something that looked like a jeweller's scope. One of his arms was a terrifying clamp, and he walked with a limp that made me afraid to see what was beneath his pants leg.
He looked at me. He saw me.
"You're just a boy," he whispered. Then he shouted up at the ceiling, raising his clamp arm in an exasperated gesture. "He's just a boy! Look at him!"
The doctor was right. I crouched low, trying to hide what I did not have. Before I had not been embarrassed. Now, being looked at, with my eyes open, I was embarrassed.
"He's been tested," said a disembodied voice. "He's ready. He's been enhanced. Fortification and Nanotherapy 1."
"Fine," the doctor said. He kneeled next to me. It took him effort, with whatever was wrong with his leg, but he did it. He lifted my face and looked into my eyes.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"I don't remember," I said. I think I said it in a sob. I would never remember again.
He wiped the tears from my face with the fingers of his one hand. I flinched back from his touch. He rubbed them together, as if they were different in some way than normal tears. Maybe he knew how precious they were, how rare they would become. I cannot remember crying after that. Except for the girl and the dog. But that was the only time.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked.
The doctor kneeled beside me and put two fingers to the side of my neck. "Your heart is beating way too fast," he said, cupping my cheek. There were calluses on his hands. I could feel them, rough against my skin. His voice was as rough as his hands, and both were equally soothing. Anything was better than the cultured doctor with his needles and his soft hands and his accented voice. "Calm down." The smell of Dr. J, mecha fuel and warm metal, immediately symbolized to me compassion and comfort, and remained a source of consolation to me the rest of his life.
"We are going to save the colonies, boy." He saw that I was frightened, scared and naked and alone, that I had lost my only friend and that I knew nothing about what was going on, and he drew me to my feet. He pulled a set of generic military issue fatigues from a bag he had brought with him. "Get dressed in these." I put them on, relieved to be clothed again. When I was finished dressing, he pushed me towards the glass which was supposed to look like mirrors but was not. "This is him, gentlemen. This is the Perfect Soldier."
I trembled, looking back into the glass. I stared into myself. I didn't see a soldier. I saw the surrogate son of an assassin, a boy who was playing war and suddenly forgot he was just playing.
Doctor J kneeled next to me, whispered in my ear. I would hear those commands, like the words of God, for the rest of my life. Even when we were separated by thousands of miles, even when I read my mission objectives from text on a computer screen, I still heard his words as he shoved a gun into my small hands. I gripped it tightly, holding it the way it was supposed to be held.
"I'm sorry," Dr. J said. "But we have to do this. You have to do this."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"You're supposed to shoot. You were raised by Odin Lowe. You do know how to shoot a gun, don't you?"
"Yes," I said. I knew what Odin was. He'd explained to me. He'd shown me how it was done.
"I'm sorry it has to be this way," Dr. J repeated. "This shouldn't be happening to you."
"When you make your first kill," he said, "pretend you're alone. Pretend you're someone else. Don't let them touch you. Don't let them make you cold. Don't let them change you. Don't let them hurt you."
I looked down at the gun in my hands and remembered briefly, so briefly, the feel of Odin's hands when he touched my face, when he whispered his secrets to me. And then it was gone.
On the other side of the glass, they were watching me. They were always watching me. Waiting for me to screw up. But I never screwed up.
I was perfect.
~*~
I woke up from the dream as I always did. I shot straight up in bed at the sound of the first gunshot with a noise between a grunt and a gasp, forgetting that there was a bunk on top of mine, and deftly cracked my skull against the mattress frame above me with a thump.
I fell back against my own mattress, groaning softly as I held my head. // Not so perfect after all, // I thought, suppressing the urge to grin ruefully.
A cascade of chestnut hair appeared from the top bunk as the long-haired pilot Duo stuck his head over the side. He had obviously taken his hair down. His voice was hoarse and bleary with sleep. "...What's wrong? What're ya trying to beat your brains out on the bottom of my bunk for?"
Instead of answering, I recovered from the mishap with as much dignity as I could pull together and laid back on the mattress, folding my hands behind my head. I used to be afraid of sleeping on my back, afraid of leaving my stomach and torso vulnerable. Now, I was not afraid. I was never afraid. There were worse things out there.
Duo jumped down from his bunk and looked down at me. "You don't talk much, do you?"
I looked up at him. He obviously wasn't going to go away until I answered him. "No."
"I think the whole strong silent type act is really just a way of keeping people from getting too close to you. You should open up more. You're too intense. Like you got a stick up your ass or something."
"It must not be working."
"What must not be working?"
"My attempt to keep people from getting close to me. Either that, or you're immune."
He sprawled across the end of my bed like a big lazy cat, resting his cheek against the cool sheets. Completely ignoring my sarcastic remark. Dammit. I attempt to have a sense of humor, and it never seems to work out. "So, what did you scare up about then?"
"Yume."
"Yummy?"
I sighed silently. "Dream."
"Oh. Yeah, I have those sometimes." The boy had an ironic grin on his face. He crawled up alongside me. I tensed, not knowing how to react. I wracked my mind for a proper reaction and couldn't think of one. Why was he--?
Duo stretched out, rolling onto his stomach and folding his arms beneath his chin. I was still trying to figure out if he was mocking me when he looked over into my face, still smiling a little. "Hard to have bad dreams when you aren't sleeping alone," he explained. "I'm a light sleeper, buddy. I gotta get up early in the morning and look for your damned mech. If you can't sleep, I can't sleep. So go to sleep." He looked into my face for a few seconds, then yawned and laid his cheek over his arms, closing his eyes.
What--?
The steady quality to his breathing told me the Deathscythe pilot had already fallen asleep. I watched him. Observing the way his hair spread across his arms like a curtain, catching the light and glowing with a soft fire. His face was peaceful, and the play of light and shadow across the musculature of his back as he slept seemed classical. He could have been a fallen angel sleeping there, or a young god. There was no denying it. My new "partner" was undeniably, androgynously gorgeous.
Which doesn't change the fact that he's a dimwit chatterbox and a fool who risked his life for a soldier he didn't even know and had been even recently trying to shoot, but I digress. Besides, he must have liked me on sight. He didn't shoot to kill, after all.
I stared back at the top of the upper bunk, my arms still folded behind my head. The sound of Duo as he slept, too light to be snoring and too loud to be breathing, was comforting. It seemed that I had picked up an ally, whether I wanted one or not.
I had never wanted one before. A soldier like me has no needs for companionship. I felt more like I had adopted some sort of big sensual pet against my will. Here, kitty kitty kitty...
Dammit. Out of all the grim, scarred-up, die-for-the-mission allies I could have gotten stuck with, I got stuck with the Chippendale's reject who is more concerned with my personality problems than he is with OZ's next move.
As I closed my eyes, I allowed myself the luxury of a small smile. Maybe I would have to put up with Duo Maxwell, but as I thought on it, I came to conclusion that things could definitely be a hell of a lot worse than having to watch over such a beautiful idiot.
I went to sleep. American moron or not, Duo had been right about one thing. It was hard to have bad dreams when you're not sleeping alone. If I dreamed after that, I didn't remember it.
TBC...
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