01-Apr-2001
Disclaimer: Mobile Suit Gundam Wing is not mine, but belongs to Bandai, Sotsu and Sunrise. ;_; The characters and timeline have been borrowed for my own fiendish fangirl ends.
Title: Crying Wolf
Category: Angst, darkfic, yaoi/shonen ai
Timeline: Post-EW
Pairings: 1+2
Rating/Warning: R. This is dark, dark, dark, dark, dark, DARK. There's
heavy Duo-torture; come *on*-- no one who calls himself the "God of Death"
can be *that* well adjusted... Anyway, but to persuade to read it, I will
say that there's no main character death. Potential Duo-bastardization?
Feedback: Craved, desired, wanted, coveted, yearned for, wished for,
and longed for. C&C will be repaid with dancing G-boys, my endless
adoration, as well as a nice slice of karma.
Note: This is for Jenni, who conceived this amazing idea and did me
the honor by asking if I'd like to try my hand at it. ^_^ Her loss! Bwahahahahahahaha!
This is probably very confusing (in the 30x30 and R.E.M. tradition).
It's sort of like Faulkner, à la "As I Lay Dying." O_o;;;; I blame
watching too much X-Files.
/... .../ = thoughts
//... ...// = flashback (versus surrounding text)
"Man is ice to truth and fire to falsehood." - Jean de La Fontaine
"We are never deceived. We deceive ourselves." - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
My name is Duo Maxwell. I run, I hide, but I never lie.
There were two colonies of the L2 colony cluster, one lying on top of the other. Between the two lay thick plates of riveted, tarnished metal, and, ever so often, the support beams would groan and creak ominously, but they never fell. The huddled masses of L2-0 would watch their tin sky warily, as if suspecting that it would all drop one day, leaving them crushed between sheets of titanium.
L2-0 consisted of tenements jammed with families, children-- infants, really-- curving their spines in sweatshops, streets stymied by gang wars, smoky bars, and weapons shops. It never really slept; the windows of apartments alternated between blackness and veiled light, looking like rows of haphazard teeth in the leering mouths of buildings. The entire city flushed in the evenings with red light districts; men and women glittered wearily on street corners while prospective clients spat on the crumbling asphalt and eyed them with scales stamped on their irises. Sons and daughters sometimes never came home; occasionally it would be a mother or a father. Death and escape were linked in some unfathomable way that was both reassuring and frightening to the residents. There were warehouse fires, drug rings, glass littered sheets, bullets imbedded in the cement, screams, wails, and cacophony.
Over the ugly bruise of L2-0 lay L2-1, like linen over a corpse. The thick metal muffled the sounds of desperation from below, and the citizens walked over the vendetta underneath their feet blithely, unaware of the howls and shrieks of alarms and human voices.
[excerpt from journals of d. maxwell]
i have dreams that i am the Shepard protecting them keeping them safe from harm and when the bad things come out at night i will watch them I will shelter them I will keep my flock alive breathing beating even though the bad things that slide across my eyelids might not exist outside the pink of my brain wolf wolf wolf wolf.
He has the kind of body that has become sharp from early malnutrition, angular and chiseled. The pads of my fingers sweep across his cheekbones, sliding down to his chin; the wide, violet eyes stare, unblinking, under the fringes of chestnut gold. His expression lies somewhere between bewilderment and inanity as his eyebrows draw together and his mouth creases into small pucker. My thumbs continue downwards; there are the prominent clavicles around the hollows of his neck. His body expands, suddenly, into the severe slope of his shoulders into his arms. The muscle is long and lean, flexing in reaction to my touch. He has thin wrists, the blue-purple veins surfacing briefly and kissing the white of his skin. The fingers themselves are long, the knuckles popping out as his hands fist. On the skin of the back of his hands is a tattooed number: SVX-23. Tracing around to his thumb and back, my hands work their way over his narrow chest and down the slight drop from his rib cage to his abs, absentmindedly massaging the muscle planes of his stomach. His hips are square, tight, elongating into his legs; the bony knees are pressed against one another, raised and trembling. His calves tighten under the pressure of my fingers, and finally, my hands press against his ankles. I watch with silent blue eyes as his eyes closed, shut against the moment between epiphany and despair.
He was alone in the room, its light, cheerful walls masking the stubbornly boiling anger that rose in him. A pair of sulky eyes glared from over pouting lips, petulant legs swinging over the bed, not yet touching the ground.
Downstairs, his parents mingled with other socialites of L2-1. Champagne glasses clinked in toasts, and the light murmur of voices pervaded the spacious house.
There were no children that would play with him.
He scowled reflectively.
There were children downstairs of course-- clean, well-dressed, clinging to their parents-- but none of them would speak so much as a word to him. Not that he needed their conversation; the silence that fell when he approached was enough. He could hear their thoughts, centered on the same words.
Liar. Liar.
Wolf-crier.
Duo and Heero lay tangled beneath the sheets. Heero's fingers ran through Duo's loose hair, his eyes soft as he steadied Duo with one arm around his shoulders. Finally, as the sobs ceased, he waited patiently for Duo to speak.
"He was everything to me," he whispered. "Everything. Solo watched out for us, made sure we never got caught. When we did, he'd usually cut in, and he'd take the beatings." The thin body shook again, but stilled under Heero's soothing touch. "He was on half-rations most of the time, because he figured the kids-- I mean, the younger kids-- that they needed it more."
Heero's reply was a sincere but useless, "I'm sorry." He leaned down and cupped Duo's chin in his hand. "I'm so sorry."
"I had to watch him die," Duo said slowly. "His head was in my lap. I watched him die."
//"--please," those blue eyes pleaded. "I-- I--"//
/Liar./
//--cuts dotting his palms, blood mixing in the innocuous fluid that ran--//
"I am who I am because of him."
/Wolf-crier./
//Those thin hands gripped his wrist with a strength that belied their seeming fragility, his eyes stricken, pupils dilating; his skin felt like paper.
"...Solo."
That was all that needed to be said.
His eyes closed, fluttered once, and then the hold on his wrists loosened, those pale arms dropping to the warehouse floor.//
After a long silence-- it could have been minutes or hours-- Heero pulled Duo down, and they rested on the bed, the sounds of their breathing strangely separate.
I love Duo Maxwell.
My name is Heero Yuy.
We stole these titles, these names, sneaking them from the graves of the dead.
Without them, I merely love and I merely am.
[excerpt from journals of d. maxwell]
they are all borrowed names because they are not mine but i took them from those who will never need them because they are in a place where there are no names and their silent dark eyes will know each other and themselves for what they are stripped of what they have become
they are stolen names
They all eyed the strange violet-eyed boy in their midst as he shook and shuddered. One of the children looked up to a boy-- the eldest present-- and asked, "What's wrong with 'im?"
The terse reply came, "He's sick."
"Why?"
"He ain't used to all this. Take a look at his clothes, will ya? Look at 'im. He's clean-- was, at least-- and you can tell he's been eatin' regular. He's from up there."
A little girl piped up, "What's he doin' down here, then?"
"Dunno. But he ain't gonna get out, ever."
"Is he stayin' with us, then?"
"Yeah, I guess he is. He don't got much else to choose from."
"What's he?"
"23, I think."
At the utterance of the number, the boy in question shivered violently before the tremors subsided.
The oldest boy-- obviously the leader from the rough deference shown to him-- stared at the new boy for a moment longer, wondering what his name had been. Shaking his head, he turned and walked to the remnants of a bonfire, scraping for ashes.
All of 'em-- all of the street urchins that shuffled across the streets and ducked into alleys-- all of 'em were the same, really. All the kids in the infant gangs, even the lone wolves, they had were just letters and numbers. All strings of alphanumerical code, tattooed on their hands. That's who you are. SVX-23. I dunno where it came from-- this weird kind of superstition-- but it just went that you didn't go around saying your real name. Shinigami would take notice-- he'd come for you if you said it enough. And they used to say that all I did was cry wolf, but the wolf fuckin' came, didn't he?
The wolf fuckin' came.
"Hey."
The head lifted, strands of chestnut-gold hair falling around the smudged cherub face. He eyed the stranger warily. "Hey."
The blue-eyed boy walked over and sat down, setting down a chipped mug full of ashes and a small wooden box. "You stayin' with us?"
The figure shrugged. "I guess so."
The boy nodded and flipped open the box, revealing a few stunted candles, some matches, and a handful of needles. "If you stay with us, you need to be marked." The candle was lit, and the needle was stuck through the flame, crudely disinfecting it.
"Marked?"
"Give me your hand. No screamin'-- there're kids sleepin' around us."
The thin metal flashed as it dipped into the ashes, then drew up. Hesitantly, the younger boy offered his hand. "Is this going to hurt?"
"Yes."
"Are you going to tell me your name?"
The boy looked up sharply. "No."
I fell from the sky, into the wreckage.
My name is Duo Maxwell. I run, I hide, but I never
/Liar./
/Wolf-crier./
lie.
Sector V08744 was the worst hit of L2-0; dead bodies lay in the streets as families boarded up their windows, hoping to thwart the viral curse.
Most of them died anyway, their mottled hands and blue lips testament to the plague.
The warehouse was scattered with fitfully coughing children. Only one child was still moderately healthy, and he silently flitted from one person to the next, giving sips of water and watching the bodies decay.
He'd been vaccinated two years ago in L2-1.
On a shelf in the sole hospital of L2-0 rested a set of vials containing a cherry-colored liquid, the only available antidote.
Still, the masses and multitudes died. The healthy or half-dying would stagger up, dig shallow graves, and quietly line up the bodies. Someone would quickly douse the corpses with alcohol-- usually cheap booze-- and flick a match. The dead would blaze, and when the flames finally died down, dirt was shoveled onto the ashes.
Ashes. His tattoo was made from ashes.
He told himself that dead men were in his skin, skimming through his veins. His hands shook. He knew his ashes were nothing but wood, but his mind repeated that they were crumbled bones, splintering in his blood.
He repeated his name aloud when the other children were asleep, awaiting grim gods as he half-dozed.
Professor G clucked at the still figure in the isolation room. The wires that ran from Duo's body strung together into the central computer. G frowned at the green waves of brain activity on the screen and pushed himself forward.
Tapping on a few keys, the image switched; a colored image of Duo's brain appeared. Squinting, he looked at the color anomaly, red where it should have been blue.
Inside the room, Duo's left eyelid twitched as his hands curled convulsively.
[excerpt from journals of d. maxwell]
i will not lie for to bear false witness is to sin against the LORD amen
they do not know they do not know come unto me
wolf
wolf
wolf
duoduoduoduoduoduoduoduoduoduo
but he never comes for me
The last time I said my name-- my real name-- aloud, Heero self-destructed.
I watched Wing topple to the ground, and I suddenly knew that he was still stalking me, still cutting down the ones around me. I could almost see the white of his bones in the explosion, could almost make out the faint lines that constructed him before he slipped away again.
Lurking. Waiting.
I am on a first name basis with this shadow phantom.
His name is like mine, sibilant, a smooth hiss.
My name is SVX-23.
My name is 02.
My name is--
Stealthily, his hand reached for the vial. The crimson liquid shook with his hands. He grabbed a syringe and turned to leave. Suddenly, he eyed a cluster of tubes. The neat sign beneath them betrayed their purpose.
EUTHANASIA.
Minutes later, he was running from the hospital. Four vials instead of one rested in his pockets.
[excerpt from notes of prof. g]
...the experiment in determining the physiology of pathological lying has been set aside in order to train 02 as a Gundam pilot.
However, I maintain that exacerbating 02's natural inclination to falsehood could prove useful in operations where discretion is the top priority. What remains is for me to deduce a way to control 02's condition so that he will respond truthfully to authority while misleading the enemy.
Liar.
"I grew up in the slums," Duo whispered. Heero stroked his hair and was silent, letting him talk again. "I've never seen so much suffering..."
His family was one of the elite of L2-1; his father had extreme political influence, but managed to stay away from the public eye. His mother entertained the upper echelons of society-- their dinner parties were filled with notorious men and women, the beautiful and the famous, blue-blooded and the nouveau riche.
He ran away when he was five, slipping through the proverbial cracks into the underworld.
He'd scribbled a note to himself for the administration of the drugs.
/Sodium thiopental causes unconsciousness. Pancuronium bromide stops respiration. Potassium chloride stops heart.[1]/
His violet eyes were cold as he shifted from one child to the next. They never struggled as the syringe pierced their veins, never cried out as they died.
"I never knew a father or mother."
He was still conscious when he walked over. The choice lay before him: the red vial or the cluster of three.
"They're all dead," he whispered.
The boy who lay dying on the floor closed his eyes. "My name is Duo," he choked out.
/The red vial./
"I have the antidote."
The blue eyes flew open again. "You...?"
/Sodium thiopental causes unconsciousness. Pancuronium bromide stops respiration. Potassium chloride stops heart/
He held out the red vial in his hand, an offer of salvation.
Fuckin' wolf-crier.
[excerpt from journals of d. maxwell]
run hide but never never never lie
g said it was red instead of blue
hi my name is solo
"...please. I-- I--"
"My name is Solo," the violet-eyed boy said. He clutched the red vial suddenly, erratically, his fingers wrapping around the class.
It crunched in his fist, cutting him. The liquid-- the antidote, Duo's sole chance at survival-- dripped to the floor.
Duo's thin hands grabbed at his wrist, squeezing, unbelieving.
"You--"
"Shhh."
The syringe was already full of sodium thiopental. Solo injected it into Duo's arm; gradually, the blue-eyed boy's hold faltered and slipped.
"...Solo."
Pancuronium bromide was next; the syringe popped in and out.
Potassium chloride followed.
Duo's heartbeat faded, and Solo was left alone. He rose after a few minutes.
"My name is Duo," he said, tasting the word. He stared at the dead boy at his feet. "My name is-- Duo."
My name is Duo Maxwell. I run, I hide, but I never lie.
[excerpt from journals of d. maxwell]
red spots red vials red blood
could have saved him
didn't
now i'm duo, twice what i was before
a liar a wolf-crier a killer
seven years old
i am twice what i was before
i was fourteen when g found out that i was red instead of blue
but he does not know that i am solo.
duo is dead his ashes are in my skin
hi my name is solo
hi my name is svx-23
hi my name is duo
this is the truth
honest
OWARI.
Notes:
[1] Presumably, these are the drugs that were on the shelf for euthanasia--
however, these are, in fact, the drugs used in the US for lethal injections.
Just a little self-admitted discrepancy...
Jenni's awesome idea was that Duo was a pathological liar, hence making
his motto of "I run, I hide, but I never lie," well, a lie.
And yes, that was the point of the story: Duo is a pathological liar.
And he's not Duo-- he's Solo. But Solo isn't Solo-Solo; he's a pampered
rich kid who runs away from home. When Duo is recounting his life in the
slums with Solo, it's all a lie. Figuratively speaking, when Duo died,
so did Solo, as he took Duo's identity (his name as well as his past).
He elevates "Solo" into this benevolent figure that looked out for
everyone-- someone that he, as Solo, was obviously not. You analyze the
psychology of it.
AND, as a final note, yes, I stole L2's layout from FFVII. ^_~ The only
computer game I've ever bought. I hope someday to actually finish it...
Jay