Author: Chauni

E-mail: ChauniMaxwell@mechpilot.com

Website: http://www.oocities.org/asukalangley2nd/

Warnings: Language, Duo's POV, hints and itty bit angst.

Notes: This was written for the “In Time Line” contest for SDDI, and was written in my journal, so sorry about the evil layout.

Transitions

It's weird that I'm shaking, that I'm staring at myself in the mirror with eyes that aren't mine, gripping the porcelain of this rented sink that thousands have done before me, I'm sure. Hotels...as impersonal as you can get, no matter how hard they try. The gleaming walls glare cream at me, and I want to dirty it, to run my hands over the tile, hands that had shot, had wounded, had taken care of...someone who was just like me.

Cobalts are smoldering from the depths of shadows caused by my hat, and they still don't look like my eyes, or feel like them. Hell, when was the last time I was like this, such a freakin’ wreck? Been awhile, hm? Shit, couple years at least.

I let go of the sink before I leave damn groove marks in it and sit on the edge of the bathtub, my clasped hands hanging between my knees. My gun is poking me in the hip; call me paranoid, but I carry the piece of shit with me all the time now. Of course, I just like to think of it as "survival skills"; after all, I'm still alive and kicking, ain't I?

I catch a couple spots of maroon on my arm, and after a moment, realize it's that guy's blood, dried down a nice, fragile brown color. Transfixed for a moment, I quickly itch it off, as if afraid it's going to burn into my skin and leave some evil crest scar or something. I watch as the flakes drift down to the tile, down, down, down, to rest on the borrowed cream, down towards my feet, down towards Hell.

Shit! Gotta get out of this mentality, 'cause it's not doing me any good.

I push myself up from the tub while one hand grabs the battered brim of my hat and tosses it through the open door and onto the stained shag carpet. I guess I could've picked a nicer place to stay at than this shithole, but I didn't want to raise suspicions, and well, it matched how I felt.

I can feel the kickback of my gun still reverberating in my hands as it spit fire at him, driving bullets into his flesh in an explosion of technicolor. It runs up my arm, up through my shoulder like aftershocks of earthquakes, never stopping, never forgetting. The girl’s cries still ring in my ears along with the sound of my gun, over and over and over again. The smoke continues to waft up in front of my mind’s eye like it was no big deal.

Nope...no big deal.

But he is just like me....

The bastard's still alive too; I can feel it like some damn psychic sixth sense or something. It beats at the back of my head like thousands of insects, gnawing, eating, landing, buzzing. It drives me crazy, and the only way to sate it is to pull out the dusty laptop I had..."borrowed" from some guy in a cafe I had been in, and check my e-mail.

Hm, even a Gundam pilot can't get rid of spam, it seems. Shit, why the hell do I get so much damn porn mail, when I don't even go to the damn sites? Well, not often anyway.

But there it is, the one message that caught my eye, encoded a dozen times over, all specified for me.

One word, screaming in lucid military green, over and over and over again, as it is painted in red on my memory.

Assassinate

I drop the top of the laptop over the keyboard, only after I infect it with a virus that’ll wipe out all files and utterly disable this piece of modern technology. Not one to take chances, I also throw the hunk of junk down against the floor, watching as plastic and circuitry scatter down into the carpet.

Just another stain, another piece of destruction caused by me.

So, I have to kill him, to take care of what I started. I am pretty sure it was all a matter of information leak, but I knew this guy, just by staring into those damn blue eyes: this guy would not break.

Call me rebellious, but I'm not one to go ahead and follow orders blindly, and I'm pretty sure G knew that when he gave me this stupid order.

Gathering up my stuff, parachute, magazines, guns, and everything else, I load up my shit to take with me. Search and recovery.

He's strapped to a table, blood running down his upturned palm and long splayed fingers to drip onto the floor. It reminds me of the flakes that drifted down from my arm a couple hours ago, that fell so slowly like feathers or something. He can read my lips, can see what I'm saying (I can tell by the way he "not-looks" at me), and my mind's made up then, all doubts "woosh!" out the proverbial window.

He's valuable, an asset.

Special...

Closing my eyes and shaking my head roughly, I get rid of that ancient voice for a moment, and set around to blowing holes through walls and all that fun kinda stuff. This boy needs rescuing, and it seems that I was elected as the wonderful knight in shining armor for the day. Lucky me.

There's a degree of disbelief in his eyes, as if he just expected to die or something. I have no doubt that if I hadn't come around, he would've bitten off his tongue just to choke or bleed to death.

Maybe...I should let him. But I know, know he was...special.

He cuts his own restraints and we run through the flaming makeshift doorway like some circus act.

Somehow, somewhere, I became the angel of mercy or something, 'cause I am doing my best to save his unappreciative ass. But never did I regret my decision, 'cause I knew...knew I was doing the right thing, and no one, not even him as he set his goddamned broken leg could ever change my mind when it’s set.

That night on the ship, I sent an e-mail back, just one glaring green word that I hoped would be burned into G's mind like his was in mine.

Alive.

The End