A/N: Inspired by a chapter written in the book They Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien; it struck me a lot as something that paralleled with Allenby and how she grew up. I love her character and this book, and just had to write this both as a tribute to her, and to every brave soldier out there.
Dedicated to everyone who has ever had to move on, and to those who define what being a soldier is all about.
Disclaimer: I don't own her character, but if I did, I'd make sure she had her own happy ending, don't you think?
The Things She carried
She carried a green toothbrush.
Three pairs of socks, a worn passport that hadn't been opened in ages, and an identification card that read in faded letters: Allenby Beardsley, with a picture of her from two years ago when she still had shoulder-length teal hair with sugar pink highlights.
A hairbrush and some clothes, some candy a little girl in Neo-Peru had given her, plastic sunglasses, a battery, and her heart--all this smushed together in the dirty old yellow backpack she had bought in Neo-Russia so long ago, the poor material was threadbare and barely holding on.
Among those things were of course others: foreign coins, folded brochures to tourist spots, a napkin with her favorite restaurant's label printed brightly on it, and a small vivid pink nail polish she had bought in Neo-Canada from an old woman.
All of it useless to some extent.
To her though, all this weighed little as she walked past many faces she had never seen and knew would never see again. It was just there, something that she hadn't the heart to get rid of even though she knew all it did was get in the way. So she kept it . . . all of it.
There were some ripped pictures, a torn glove, and some tokens from an arcade where she had been partner in crime to another gundam fighter when they blew up one of the virtual games there; those were shoved into the pocket next to the dog tags of three soldiers who she had secretly dated in her home nation when she was 15.
If she really strained her ears, sometimes she could hear the distinct sound of metal against metal when she shouldered the pack to keep walking. And then again she'd be reminded of them and the weaves of her threadbare past, and only one thought would always cross her mind: . . . they weigh so little.
But maybe it was because she was comparing them to the things that shouldn't be in her luggage, but were.
Like the fears she hid in the tippy toe of her left shoe. She didn't feel them bother her that often though; her socks were thick and kept them from ever coming in contact with the bare skin of her feet. They were better off there than in her head, she figured.
All they ever did in her head was make matters worse.
The fingerless gloves on her hands, the calluses on her fingertips, the large belt that clinked sometimes if you really listened when she walked. That weight she had grown used to a long time ago. Sometimes when she fell, she was afraid of never hearing that sound anymore. Because if she didn't, she figured she was either dead or something close . . . and it left a silence behind that was too deafening for her to bear.
It scared her beyond any contraption that the army used on her.
Even that though, was nothing compared to the weight of loneliness that stayed warm in the breast pocket of her vest. Maybe it was tiny, but it held a lot more weight than the pack that she bore on her back; sometimes even more than any fear of silence or love she had harbored for Domon. Because it changed sometimes, becoming smaller or larger as she met and left people, befriended and clashed with them, or simply waved as she passed by.
Like the weight of a chocolate bar, four comic books, and a Bible she hadn't opened in ages. Or the pen she stole from a hotel, her only (and favorite) hat, some emergency rations, and a doodle she had done while bored one day.
How about the determined gaze inherited from a father she never knew and the impish grin that revealed the dimples that had once been her mother's? A necklace that had belonged to a now dead stranger, and the knowledge that she was the last of the Beardsley blood. A little box of matches; a cell phone she never used—nor knew how to, really—and the fact that Domon was better off with Rain.
What about the weight of all that?
Honestly, once you had carried all of this for a while along with the rest, you really grew used to it . . . at least she had. That's why it didn't hurt much anymore.
Like everything else painful in her past, she changed it, morphed it into a wispy thin tendril that she wove into a little bracelet she had yet to finish so that it could hang from Noble Gundam's main control room in the hollow that would've been her heart—had she the soul to go with it.
Or maybe she as the fighter was the heart?
If so, then she felt sorry for poor Noble for having to bear such a heavy heart. She deserved better, that much Allenby knew. Because no one deserved the burden of another; like her loneliness, and the worn heart she had in her bag. Maybe with her next "allowance" (they called it a paycheck, but she felt the meager earnings she was given didn't do their name justice) she would buy more threads to finish the bracelet and some patches for her backpack.
If she found a nice pink patch for her heart, she'd buy that too.
But for now both she and her only companion—Noble—would have to shoulder the weight and live with what little hope they had kept after the damage they had done; something more they carried together.
A postcard from Chibodee, a forgotten lollipop, some phone numbers she had gotten at different nightclubs; a broken hairclip, some face wash, three tiny sample lotions, and a cheery green ribbon she had found in a puddle of mud.
Six shells, a strangely shaped pebble, a broken pencil and a key she never used. Some aspirin, a music player, two packs of gum, and at the bottom of her pocket, where the sun never reached—there, her hopes and dreams. One day she'd use them, she knew. So she carried them with her, even though they were heavy and got in the way when she fought in gundam battles. Because even though they got in the way, they also picked her back up and gave her that shove she needed. So she kept them . . . all of them.
Except the one with Domon in it.
A funny looking pencil, some coupons in different languages, and some newspaper clippings written in Swedish with a picture of a smiling man waving proudly at a crowd of press while holding a small girl with large, curious eyes that if they were in color, would've surely been a bright emerald green to match her mother's. A shimmering pink sash she had bought in Neo-India, some lint, a couple faded memories, and a very shiny penny.
These were the things she carried.