by Dem0nfl0wer
Heero punched me.
We had infiltrated Dekim Barton's base, meeting up with Trowa, undercover as usual. The next thing I know some alarm was going off, and then Heero was asking me to punch him.
I was all too happy to comply.
I hated Heero Yuy. You'd think, through the several times we had met, we would be confidants by now. Partners, maybe, or at least acquaintances. I don't know.
My punch didn't even faze him. I hit him square in the jaw, and even before my arm fell back to my side I felt his fist connect with my stomach. My world went black.
I woke up in a cell. I had to laugh at that; I had been in this position before. But my humor was short-lived, and I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my manacled arms around them.
I didn't hate Heero Yuy.
I could never hate Heero Yuy.
Everything's so gray here. The walls, the floor, but like I said before- I'm used to it. I remember the first time I had been caught by the enemy. I had snuck onto Professor G's ship and some maintenance lackey had found me. They tossed me in a closet when they went off to tell G. The room was on the outskirts of the ship, and I knew there was only that sheet of metal between me and the coldness of space. They had me in there for a few hours. I ticked off the seconds in my head, even as I dreamt of what lay on the other side of what lay on the other side of that wall. I remember I pressed my palm and cheek against the smooth metal, imagining how I would die if they tossed me out. No doubt, I'd just suffocate. Or maybe they'd be subtle, tossing me out in an air suit. Then maybe I would freeze to death, or slowly run out of air. Or maybe the gravitational field of some comet would pull me in before any of that could happen. I imagined the collision.
Later on I drifted through space in Deathscythe, contemplating how far we'd come from the tin cans of twentieth century Before Colonies, lyrics from Major Tom Coming Home drifting through my head. I sang along to the voice in my head, staring out into space, and my breath formed little clouds in the stale air of the gundam. It's cold in here, too.
"…Back at ground control, there is a problem. Go to rockets full. Not responding. Hello, Major Tom,are you receiving? Turn the thrusters on, we're standing by. There's no reply…"
It was the same, space and that closet. They were both so empty. My voice ricocheted of the air particles and metal fixtures, tiny and hollow in my ears. And I wondered, what people thought of space back then. I wondered if they thought it was fantastic, or if they were afraid. I wondered what they imagined, looking up into space. If they thought something might have been waiting there for them.
"…Across the stratosphere, a final message: give my wife my love. Then nothing more…"
I realize what had happened. I'm not stupid, after all. We were discovered by Dekim's troops, and Heero sacrificed me so he could get away. And that's why I'm in this cell, and the song's playing in my head again. Somewhere along the way from there to here some one had snagged my lock picks, and there was no way I could get out. I didn't mind though, being the sacrifice, since I had no doubt Heero would win this war. Still, I'd be lying if I said a part of me wasn't hoping Heero or Trowa would come by to help me out.
My life…sometimes, I wonder about it. Father Maxwell, I think he had been in love once. He told me, when you're young and first in love, you hope that you die before your partner, so she could live a longer life. Then as you grow older, wiser, and that love deepens, you hope your partner dies first, so she won't have to deal with the loss. And of course, you hope you're not long to follow. Every one in my life has died, and I wonder if I'm doing myself a favor by surviving them.
I used to steal books when I lived in the orphanage. Visiting clergy would come, sometimes with a book other than the Bible to peruse before bed. They were always paperback things, probably picked up while waiting at the spaceport. They didn't cost much, and were never missed. I couldn't even read back then, not really. I just liked to hold them in my hands, smell the crisp pages. I lined them up on a makeshift bookshelf I had constructed from cardboard paper. There were books of all sizes, pressed together neatly in one row, white and yellow pages peeking out at me. Some times, when I couldn't figure it out and she wasn't too busy, I had Sister Helen read me the titles. There was one book, by Milan Kundera, called The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
The unbearable lightness of being.
I wish I could have read it. But then Oz came with its fire, and the books were burnt down into ashes. I wish that had been my greatest sacrifice that day.
I'm thinking a lot now, in this cell, about the unbearable lightness of being, the lyrics from some ancient song spilling from my lips, and I don't mind. I don't mind that Heero sacrificed me. I don't mind that no one will come to save me. Around me I could hear explosions, an alarm, and I realize.
"…Far beneath the ship, the world is mourning. They don't realize he's alive. No one understands, but Major Tom sees. Now the light commands this is my home, I'm coming home..."
The base is blowing up.
~owari~
also new this upload:
Mutual Obsession part One
Domesticating Duo part Four
Foray into Darkness reformatted