When Death Comes A Call'n

Or...

Duo, Why Are There Bodies In My Closet?

By Red Rose

Hilde

It was nine o'clock and I sat in front of my television, watching, or not watching, the blurs of color dance across the screen and feeling the stresses of a long, humiliating day drain away from my weary limbs.

Today, I lost my job, career and promise of a long and stable future with the Oz military division.

The court martial proceedings took most of the time. Oz had a way of turning everything into a ritual and when they let me go, they did it with lots of speeches and arm waving. I suppose I was lucky I wasn't sent to prison for what I did, but then again, I had family in high places and my father was able to convince the officials involved in the matter that I cracked after months of strain due to the war.

The war.

In a way I was thankful. I hated my job as an Oz Academy officer(fancy name for MP). I just did it to satisfy my parents and my heart wasn't really in it. If I had a choice, I would have chosen the more conventional job of police officer and dealt with L2's local sludge. But with martial law, police were soldiers and so, my career took a left hand turn, one in which my parents were very fond of.

In the end, it was a job I planned to quit after the war and use the experience in local law enforcement.

That was shot to hell, now.

I sighed in frustration and grabbed the TV remote. For twenty meaningless minutes, I channel surfed.

There wasn't even a good episode of Captain Zion...

Life sucked.

So did the war.

And I was without a job.

Who would hire an ex Oz MP? One who couldn't even get out of the training academy without breaking the loyalty codes.

Well, at least I would no longer have to battle with my conscience concerning my job. I supposed I lost my enthusiasm with being a soldier after having to gas rioters outside of the academy last month. Most of them were students and the officials thought some were armed. Our commanding officer thought it would be good training for the senior class to repress the riot in a neat and orderly fashion.

I cringed just as I switched on an image from a newscast. A field of bodies lay scattered over the screen as a woman cheerfully announced a devastating death toll with the surrender of the supposed enemy.

I bit my lip recalling myself wading though the crowd of young people with guns and gas bombs.

They were panicked and fighting broke out. In the end, fifty kids died and the seniors hauled off the rest to prisons, never be heard from again.

I didn't recall ever finding the supposed weapons rumored to be in the crowd.

I killed seven men that day, and never forgave myself for it.

The officer in charge knew it was a blood bath, but quickly repressed the information so the official story was in favor of the heroic class and their quick thinking commanding officer. He got a promotion, I got a job at the academy and a medal for leading my recruits to victory.

It was then, I realized there was something wrong with the people I was working with.

I had sympathy for the colonies and their revolution, but never had the guts to let my parents know or leave the job that was destroying me. Instead, I convinced myself I was being a good cop (or officer) and helping those around me by maintaining peace.

That was until I met him...

My mind's eye imaged a boy with long light brown hair and deep violet eyes. His face was sad and drawn with a darkness and burden I could only imagine. Yet somehow, the young man was idealistic, charming and rather rough around the edges. I took a liking to him instantly.

He was one of the only honest people I had met in my life.

An honest thief. I supposed it was my destiny to get tangled up in the life of the kind of criminals I swore to protect the world from. But he made me realize I was the criminal. Ok, he was a POW and I should have turned him in. But it was true, my blindness and the blindness of my colleagues had made people like him.

Don't ask me why.

I let him get the best of me and escape.

Simple enough. I believed in what he was fighting for.

I too was a rebel at heart. The old regime had to fall. He gave me the courage to do it.

I shrugged and kicked my feet up on the table, wondering what I could do to remedy my unemployed situation.

Assisting a rebel spy didn't look good on a resume, even if it was momentary insanity.

After all, he was a child... And I didn't kill children...

Not after the student rebellion. Never again.

I took a good long swig of my Jack Daniels and stared at the golden liquid swirling in the bottle. "Hilde Shernberker, you are a fuck up. I don't care if he was cute. You fucked up... Helping spies is no way to meet men."

Hmm, and what did I get in return? He vanished into the sunset, smile and all. Most likely he's murdering more Oz officers (guys I probably recruited) or even stealing weapons...

Did I care?

Not really, but I wished him well. You don't meet many honest criminals these days.

Well, I could never be a police officer now.

I placed the bottle down with a thump and listened to the clatter echo through the room. "I was lucky there were no witnesses left alive... If they knew what really happened, they'd kill you. Damn." It was all true. I did lie to them. I said I couldn't kill him and let him escape.

I lied about betraying my fellow officers and murdering them in an attempt to assist my young rebel. I claimed he killed them and the inquiry believed me. After all, I was a general's daughter. Why would she lie?

I hated bureaucracy.

Why?

"That's right, Hilde. Why?" I asked out loud.

The phone rang and I stared at it, wondering if I should bother answering it. It was mother no doubt, calling to comfort me and nag me for getting soft. They had a host of psychiatrists to examine me. All I needed to do was to go home and declare myself and my life a failure.

"Hilde, it's mom. Your father and I are very worried. We love you sooo..." The voice droned.

Yes, I've heard all this before, I thought drunkenly. I love you too mom, but I'm afraid I can't lie to you anymore... I'd pretend I wasn't home and hope she'd hang up.

She did, after three minutes of begging. It was very unlike me to ignore anyone. In fact, I was often the perky sort who loved chattering and having a good time.

Well, that was, when my life was organized.

"Damn you, Duo Maxwell... I don't know whether to thank or kill you..."

The door buzzed.

I side glanced it and wondered if I should risk answering it in my drunken state. With my luck it was more MP's coming to question me about the spy Maxwell. Sadly, in my state, I'd tell them to fuck themselves with smile.

The buzzing didn't go away.

It couldn't possibly be my parents. They were on a trip to L1 and not due back for three weeks.

What the hell.

I stood up and stumbled my way though the house, dropping the bottle on my kitchen table. I was permanently off duty and didn't care what anyone thought if they saw me drowning my misery.

With a heave, I opened the door. "You realize there is a curfew..." I began.

It was him.

Large, beautiful violet eyes stared back at me and a tangle of long brown hair hung down around his heart shaped face. He gave me a wise-assed smile, brushed the hair from his features and pulled a black cap over his eyes. "Sorry Miss, I don't mean to intrude." He began, looking around nervously. "They won't look for me here."

It was raining and cold out. He pulled his blue jacket closer to him and cradled his gut gingerly. "Please..."

I swallowed. I didn't live on the military base. I deliberately chose not to. But, he seemed to be taking a risk coming here.

"You've done enough, haven't you?" I said, stepping to the side. I was too drunk to care and let him cross the threshold. Something about his walk disturbed me. It was labored with a slight limp. A limp I noted when I first met him, but this time it seemed worse.

"Ahhh, I guess not enough ma'am, but I appreciate your kindness. There are very few kind people in a world gone mad." He removed his hat and fumbled it. It splattered on the floor, pooling a puddle of wet at his feet.

Honest to the end, he knew he was trouble. "Don't you have friends?" I asked, closing the door. What the hell was I doing? Shouldn't I be calling the MPs? What if they saw him? We'd both roast in prison!

He shook his head, worn features pale. "No one I trust." He answered weakly. "You can call the cops, or you can let me stay the night... I'll be out of you're hair in the morn."

I bit my lip, tasting salt. He was damned pathetic. I felt my heart wrench. "In the morning?"

He shivered and reached for his hat. Then grabbed for the back of a chair as he slipped to his knees.

Diluted crimson spilled from his garments and reddened my linoleum.

He was hurt far more than he wanted to admit.

I thought of the demonstration outside the academy and the students bathing in their own blood.

Instinctively I wrapped an arm around him and helped him to stand. "Let's get you cleaned up. We'll discuss it later." I said hurriedly. "I'll ignore the fact you cost me my career."

He weakly smiled through half closed eyes and pressed his dripping head against my shoulder. "Much obliged, Ma'am..."

Seconds later, he went limp.

I hauled his dead weight to the guest room, and tried not to think of the treason I was committing. I peeled him out of his clothing, leaving only a silver crucifix dangling around his neck. The stuff was caked with dried blood and filth.

So, I quickly dropped them down the laundry shoot and gave him a quick and painless sponge bath. He was so exhausted, he didn't seem to noticed and only twitched once when I cleaned out and re-wrapped his wounds.

Indeed, he was a mess. His ribs were broken and from the pattern of bruises around his shoulders and torso, I deduced the injuries were obtained during non-stop mobile suit combat. I also discovered signs of physical abuse, beatings and other atrocities only obtained in a rather brutal interrogation.

I was particularly taken by the gunshot wound in his abdomen. Apparently, he had dressed it shortly after he had received it. Then tore it open within the last twenty-four hours.

Oz certainly couldn't have done this to the boy, or so I wanted to think. Yet, in reality, I knew such abuse wasn't unheard of.

Track marks lined his forearms, telling me he had been out in the streets before the war. There were others signs as well, but I refused to imagine from what, for they were too horrid for anyone to picture.

I felt more pity for the poor soul laying in my bed now than I had for anyone else in my life. Even myself. whoever this Duo Maxwell was, he lived in a hell, and survived intact enough to remain unusually honest. I admired him for his bravery, and hated myself for hiding in my delusions.

When I finished, I tucked him away under crisp clean sheets and warm blankets. My fears told he was feverish and needed to be kept warm.

He wouldn't be leaving tomorrow, as he said. I was sure of that.