Angst-y little one shot. Just a little fictious battle that goes badly and the focus is on Duo. I feel like passing off some of my stress to someone else... And who better than a character I can manipulate, and they can be made to bleed.... and i don't have to go to the shrink for it... Don't like, please don't review. Like? (*is shocked*) then review. I'm just bored and can't really sleep so maybe I'll try at writing something. Eh... (I apologies for tense inconstancies, that's a big weakness of mine, and I tried to fix it as I noticed it.)

I OWN NOTHING!! DON'T SUE ME... I HAVE NO MONIES. I don't even have enough for real Microsoft office (I'm using some generic knockoff that came with my laptop)... O.o

Character focus: Duo Maxwell (no pairings)

Warning: Lang, Self mutilation, (if this is something that bothers you, I tell you now, it's in here.) Also why it's M. So don't get mad at me for writing it!

Bleed Out Your Sins

Duo sat silently in his cockpit, in the hanger. He'd returned from the mission with Heero and Trowa. Both had left their gundams in the hanger to be repaired and dealt with later. Even Perfect Soldier seemed a little shaken. Trowa, for all his reserved thoughtfulness, all his silent watching, and 'shot-em-up' fighting had seemed bothered.

Innocent people had died, and it was his fault. Neither of the other two had said anything, but it hung there between them. Duo didn't feel like leaving Death Scythe's comfort yet. 02 was cold and unquestioning. It didn't judge him, or tell Duo that the whole mission and been screwed up. Death Scythe was his silent partner in crime. And the cockpit was the one place Duo could allow himself a little retreat. He didn't have to go in and face the other pilots. Wufei, with his ever constant love and glorification of battle. Quatre's quiet damning of it. The perfect soldier's unshakable determination and resolve that the mission would either be completed, or come hell or high water, suicide was the back up. Trowa, well Duo wasn't really sure what Trowa thought of the war. Quatre would have a better grasp of what Trowa thought, since the two talked a fair amount, which was saying something considering how quiet Trowa normally was.

Even those he did not know died around him, either by his hand, or by his fault. He closed his eyes. They were bloodshot and tired. They burned with the tears he fought to hold back. He took in slow, meticulous breaths, trying to pull himself together. He would be no help to the other four pilots if he fell to pieces and lost it now. His stomach twisted in on itself. It felt as though his intestines had been filled with lead. 'Breath,' was all the braided pilot could think. He couldn't.

He could hear the screaming in his mind, the cries of agony, pleas for death to come swiftly, for it to take another, not this person or that person's loved one. Death. He was the dubbed "God of Death" for a reason. He hated it. He never meant for there to be death. As long as he could remember, death had followed him, like a black cloud, a black plague, taking anyone and everything that meant anything to him. The panic, there was so much panic in him. It felt like it was going to consume him. His chest ached, it was so hard to catch his breath. It hurt, and his lungs screamed. The tremors started, and he couldn't stop them. He brought his knees up to his chest, so his heels were on the edge of his seat, and he curled up. One hand reached for the cross at his neck, the other wrapped around his legs, and pulled them closer. He closed his eyes tightly, even though all it did was bring the images further into focus in his mind. 'No,' Duo thought. He didn't want to think about this. He didn't. The images flashed through his mind:

"Shit!!!" Duo cried. The damned mobile dolls were harder to fight for some reason than he thought. He yanked hard on the left control, throwing Death Scythe nearly horizontal in an effort to avoid getting blasted by the mobile dolls' cannon. His shoulder screamed with the effort. In a small window on his screen, he could see Heero's face, calm, almost as though he was just playing solitaire at his computer. 'Damn, does he ever get flustered,' Duo wondered briefly. In another window, he could see that Heavy Arm's pilot was stressed. Trowa's lips moved in a silent swear; Heavy Arm would be out of ammo soon.

This whole battle was going so horribly wrong.

They had been sent out to destroy a ship that was on its way to the colonies to deliver several thousand mobile dolls. It had been more of a stealth mission than anything. Get in, destroy, get out. They had gotten close, but had been noticed. The original plan had been to dock their hijacked ship on the big carrier, get the gundams out, then blast their way out, destroying it. Things hadn't gone that well. They'd been seen, and every single person of Oz had been told that the gundams were there. They were so fucked.

Before the pilots could even try to put a little distance between them and the now alerted 'fleet' to give them space to get out, mobile dolls had been released. Many, many, mobile dolls. Some of the suits had actual flesh and blood pilots, but that was the minority. The three young pilots had scrambled to get into their gundams fast enough, to get in before the mobile dolls got to them. They just barely made it. Zero's cockpit had just closed as their ship was blasted, and the three exited straight into the fire.

Heero was somewhere to Duo's far right, slashing, firing and blasting the mobile dolls. They didn't seem to cause him the slightest of troubles. Trowa was having more, with Heavy Arm having taken a damaging blow just escaping from the ship. Duo was somewhere in the middle.

Quickly he righted Death Scythe and charged forward, throwing everything he had at the doll, which promptly exploded as he blew past it, trying to get to the main Oz ship. He cut down as many of the damn dolls as he could. One after another exploded as he flew past and slashed. The ship... he was so close...

"No." the word left his mouth. He had to stop thinking about this. It was too much. The tears he'd been fighting back fell at last. He started to rock, anything really, that would let out his pent up anxiety and left over adrenaline. He didn't want to do it, but his mind was there. There was no way out. He knew the others saw them, the scars. Knew the thought it was a bad idea. But there wasn't really anything the sixteen year old could do. He didn't know how to get all the terrible feelings out any other way. The deaths were all his fault. They always were.

Duo closed his eyes tighter, his hands in white-knuckled fists. He reached in his pocket for the pocket knife he knew was there. His hand tightened around it. He shouldn't. The straight, criss crossing scars were damning. And yet... the blood drew his attention away from the thoughts that were eating him alive. The faces of the dead, the bodies and the wreckage. His breathing quickened in anticipation. It would help. At least he made himself believe it would. Holding out his left forearm, he flicked the blade open with his right hand. He held the shining silver over his pale, already abused, scarred flesh. Holding his breath, he made a simple, slow, drag and watched the blood begin to bead up, following the line the sharp edge made. The endorphin release was no longer immediate. Hand trembling, but arm steady, he made a second, and a third line.

Nothing. He felt nothing. Gritting his teeth, the braided pilot made a fourth and fifth, allowing the blade to travel up his arm, criss-crossing the three previous lines. Nothing still. The self loathing built. He'd killed all those people. He'd made them die. And it was all his fault. The blade flashed with each movement. Slowly he began to feel calmer. Not much, but it was better than nothing. He watched the blood flow freely from his left arm now, dribbling down in little rivulets, red seeping over pale skin. He allowed himself to become entranced by it, the blade now still. His anxious breathing slowed slightly. Deftly he switched the blade to his left hand, holding his right arm out now. He dully noticed that the lines on the right never seemed as straight, or as deep as the ones on the left. In slow, deliberate motions the blade cut across soft skin, peeling through the layers, his left hand trembling just the tiniest bit. He exhaled and pressed. His eyes closed involuntarily, and he sighed again.

'Why do I always feel better after making myself bleed,' He wondered.He allowed the thought to remain in his head for just a moment, before pushing it away. There was no point dwelling on it. He done it so many times, when the blade came out the mantra in his head began to play. He allowed the small voice in his head to tell him it was his fault, tell him the other pilots only tolerated him because of the facade he put on around them. He wasn't as good as them. He was only the comic relief. None of them really cared. They just wanted to survive the mission and get on to the next. And the next. He was the prankster, the one who could break his nose one moment and laugh about it the next.

He pressed harder, willing more blood to come out, to ease his pain, his uselessness. He wanted to hurt. He deserved to hurt. It was his fault they'd slammed into a colony. His fault they'd nearly gotten killed. It was his fault people had died..

He had gotten next to the ship. Hell, he knocked on the fucking door. He slammed Death Scythe into it, knowing that if he could take out the ship, and the controller, the billion little mobile dolls that were after them would fizzle out. Then Heero and Trowa would be okay. He slashed with Death Scythe's scythe and explosions began.

What he didn't realize is that they had gotten right up next to one of the colonies. He didn't hear Heero yelling that hitting the ship from this side would slam it into the colony. His heart pounded in his ears, adrenaline shoved its way through his veins, his shoulders screamed and his back ached. He didn't hear Heero. He didn't hear until he'd already made the movements. He just didn't hear him.

And then it was too late. The ship's right side slammed full speed into the colony. The screeching and screaming of metal was horrible. The metal twisted and broke. The ship's wing punched a hole right through the side of the colony. Buildings shattered. A fire started almost immediately. The whole ship was beginning to implode. He'd just killed a colony. Trowa and Heero screamed at him. He was frozen.

It had been Trowa and Heavy Arm who'd come and grabbed hold of Death Scythe, dragging it away from the impending explosion. Duo had seized up. He couldn't even move his own gundam. He'd just killed a colony. What had he done?

Sobs racked Duo's body. He pressed the blade harder. What right did he have to this blood that coursed through his veins? What right did he have to live? He'd murdered so many people. He didn't hear the soft knock on his cockpit door. Nor, did he hear it open. He just simply sat there, and let himself fall to pieces, blood streamed down both arms, tears streamed down his cheeks. The light that streamed into the cockpit made him realize the door was open. His eyes snapped up, the blade hovering over his arm, as it waited to make another cut, to make more blood run, to absolve him of his sins.

Heero stood there, eyes widened. He'd never seen Duo in the act. It was a sickening sight. The American pilot shook, blood streamed from both his arms, pooled slightly on the floor of the cockpit. His breathing was ragged and his face was tear stained, eyes red. They'd all seen the scars. They all dealt with the rage and shame and fear differently. Heero just simply locked it up. He turned his emotions off. This was Duo's way of dealing. It always had been.

Quietly, Heero stepped forward, and took the bloodied blade from Duo. Duo said nothing, just allowed the knife to be taken. He sat still watching Heero. Heero promptly dropped the knife and crouched down so he was eye level with Duo.

"You can only punish yourself so much. Shit happens. Mistakes happen. This happened to be more spectacular, but it happened," Heero said softly. Duo averted his eyes, letting them settle on the dripping blood. Heero sighed. "We all screw up, but you can't let it kill you Duo," Heero again looked at the American who was studiously trying to avoid his eyes. Duo exhaled heavily and slowly stood. "Let's get your arms wrapped," was all Heero said as he turned to exit the cockpit. He would come back and clean it up later, perhaps while Duo was asleep. The others need not know how screwed up Duo truly was over this. Stoically Duo followed, feeling like maybe he did have a friend after all.

um.. Please Review? (even if it's just to say 'good' or 'sucked') It was written at like 4 am...... I give cookies to anyone who loves me enough to review.... Second fan fic done! 6 years later... Constructive criticism welcome. Criticism with no point, don't bother.