Disclaimer: I don't own Megami Kouhosei, nor do I make any money off of it. The shrink and the plot (what plot?) are mine, though. Please inform me if you'd like to archive. =o)
Thanks to: Argent Inluminai, HikariTsuki, SilverShinigami, Kichigai, Marie, Karyx, Beck, RcA, and gundamesca for all their wonderful feedback/input/words of support and encouragement. You rule! =o)
Author's Note: Sorry I took so long--hopefully this chapter will make up for making you wait, ne? =o) Read and Enjoy.
Hiead's POVThose bastards.
Those fucking bastards!
How dare they do this to me?
Damn it, I'm on G.O.A to train, not to talk about my "feelings" or improve my tainted karma!
The things that go on in my head are none of their business.
I don't need a physiatrist, but here I am, sitting in a room with a blasted head-doctor scrutinizing me as if I were a particularly fascinating lab sample.
To her, I probably am.
They interrupted my study time for this?
She scribbles notes on the pad perched on her lap, glancing up every so often.
She's obviously waiting for me to speak first, but I won't give her that satisfaction.
A time passes with no sound at all, save for the faint scratching of pen on paper.
How despicably old-fashioned.
Eventually she gives in, like I knew she would, and speaks first.
"It seems that this approach to our session isn't working very well, Mr. Gner," she sighs.
No shit; how long did it take you to figure that out, genius?
"So let's try something else, shall we?" she continues.
No, we shant.
"I'm going to hold up a card with an ink pattern, and you tell me what you think you see, alright?" she says, taking out a stack of large white cards and placing them facedown on her desk.
"Don't be afraid of answering incorrectly--there's no right or wrong answer," she explains, beaming now, as if she thinks she's somehow done something important.
I refrain from expressing my disgust.
"Here," she says, holding up the first card in the stack so that I can see the ink smudged on it.
Why not have some fun?
"I see you," I say flatly.
"You're sitting at your desk, crying."
She looks rather startled, but puts down the card and holds up the next.
"And here?" she asks.
"There's a man in the hallway. He's taking out his gun from beneath his coat, and smiling,"
My tone remains distant and uninterested, as if we are having a particularly lackluster conversation on warfare tactics of 17th century Earth.
She is upset, and I am gladdened.
"And on this one?"
"He's creeping into the room, but you don't see him,"
This game is getting fun.
"What about this one?"
"His finger is on the trigger. You see him now; you're scared and screaming,"
She looks thoroughly stricken at this point.
"And now?"
I grin.
"Bam," I say.
A pregnant pause.
"You're dead."
I almost smile as I utter those last two words; this is just too easy.
She is flustered an uncomfortable, and stares at me as if I've just slapped her.
Maybe I have.
Then her expression changes, and I see realization has dawned.
This is all just a game.
"Well, enough of this, Mr. Gner," she says frigidly.
"Let's move on to something else."
She puts away her cards and leans back in her chair.
"Now we'll have an activity called word association," she says.
"I say a word, and you tell me the first word that you associate with it."
As if I didn't know that.
Perhaps the name didn't give me a big enough clue?
We begin.
"Goodness."
"Impractical."
"Evilness."
"Unreal."
"Cold."
"Everywhere."
"Hate."
Zero.
"Unavoidable."
She looks at me quizzically for a moment, but we quickly resume.
"Love."
Zero.
"Unattainable."
Another confused glance, that soon changes to speculative.
"Continue," I snap, irritated.
A half smile appears on her face.
Bitch.
No one can presume to know me--no one.
We continue this way for the remainder of the session, and then, finally, she has looked down at her wristwatch and said I may go.
I attempt to make a swift exit, but no sooner have I taken my first few steps than I am called back.
"Mr. Gner," she says.
I turn, irritated.
"One more thing."
I remain silent, head slightly tilted as I wait for her to continue so that I may finally be on my way.
"Desire," she says.
Zero.
"Frustration."
Then I am gone.
I slip away into the florescent hallways, immaculate and pristine (as always); my steps are swifter than usual.
I'm not running.
I'm not.
I wasn't summoned to that sorry misuse of time until after the day's instruction was done, thus I must hurry to my lodging before lights out.
My jaw tightens almost imperceptibly and my hands clench into fists as I lengthen my stride and scurry on to bed, as all good boys should.
I despise those who've oh-so-casually waved their magic wands of superiority to make me act like this--like some sort of creature of servitude--unimportant and helpless.
Once I become a Goddess Pilot, things won't be this way. I will be powerful, more so than all the rest, like I was meant to be.
Anyone and everyone who stands in my way will be destroyed--I don't care how, I only know that I wish it so.
I will make it so.
You just so happen to be one of those people, Zero.
The doors slide open with a subdued hiss of greeting, and I step inside this humblest of quarters to the quiet slumber of 89 and a pair of ocean eyes, widened as they turn from the gentle whispering of pages from the book in your hands.
"Where were you?" you ask, interested.
I think I see a faint crease of worry furrow your smooth brow, but I'm probably just imagining that.
I level a cool glare your way and don't answer.
What's it to you, little Zero Enna?
I turn and grab my nightclothes in one smooth gesture, casually flinging them atop my bed as I unzip my uniform.
I haven't even gotten half out of the blasted scrap of leather before your fury propels you forward (like it always does) towards me.
A hand, warm and electrifying, grasps my bare shoulder and harshly turns me back around.
I feel my rage rising even as you open your mouth, but at the same time I am incredibly aware of just how careful I must be not to completely loose control.
If that were to happen, all my hard work would have been in vain; I'd be sent away.
After all, I don't think G.O.A takes kindly to pilots ravaging their comrades.
"Don't you have anything to say for yourself? You weren't in your designated area during study time. You had me--us; you had us worried. Aren't you even going to say anything?" you ask, infuriated.
Yes.
"Let go of me," I say, looking pointedly at your hand where it now loosely clutches my arm.
The air between us is charged, and battle seems imminent.
You surprise me, though; instead of charging forth, as I expected, you visibly choke back a snarled reply and stomp away to your pallet.
Cracking already, are we, Zero?
How utterly pathetic.
Don't you know that weakness will kill you one of these days?
An impenetrable shield is the only true defense; don't you ever learn?
You've got to know these things, Zero.
We're in a war here--no one's got time to falter.
But I won't tell you this.
You won't let reality overtake you until it almost kills you in its relentless advance.
Sometimes the bitter truth will make you think it might be better to just stop fighting altogether and welcome the serenity of Death.
How do I know this, sweet idiot?
Because I lived it.
I still am living it.
But I've got a goal, a reason, and I won't give way to silly notions. Not ever.
Even in death I will be great, falling in battle from enemy fire.
That's the plan, you see; to die nobly is to have lived nobly, and to have done that you must have been of great worth and thus great power.
All I have to do is wait for that day.
It's living that's hard to do, after all.
I will not die a coward's death--a weakling's way out.
I will not be like him, my wretched father; Mother has taught me too well for that.
The lights quickly snap off, and the room is immersed in darkness.
The only light comes from Zion.
I lie in my bed and wait for it…wait for it…and sure enough, your nightmare comes.
Your breath quickens and hitches, and bed sheets crumple to the floor.
No more, Zero.
No more of this.
I swiftly arise from my place on my bed and stride over to you.
I fully intend to reprimand you, but this sound plan is swiftly foiled as you toss around, lost to the Dreamworld.
Your nightclothes ride up and brush across your thighs in a soft caress; you fling one arm over your head like the proverbial damsel in distress, and I don't know what to think.
I want to pull those shining chocolate tresses of yours until you scream, and kiss those parted pink lips until you bleed, or suffocate, or both…but at the same time…I don't.
You look like a child, and yet…you don't.
It's perplexing to think that you can revert from a moron to an oxymoron and later go back once more, and not even realize it.
Does anyone know that, really, besides me?
No, I don't believe so.
That could mean that I'm insightful, or just mean that I'm more of a lunatic than anybody realizes.
A sudden urge overtakes me, and I follow it.
I slip in beside you and take you into my arms.
You relax, and go completely limp inside my hold, still a visitor of the place beyond life and before death.
I lightly press my lips onto your elegant neck and work my way, with small, barely-there kisses, up to your chin and, finally, to your mouth.
There all small vestiges of innocence fly away towards the stars; I plunder your mouth with my own, tasting your sweet depths, relishing in your pliant softness, and claiming it all as my own.
You're mine, Zero Enna.
Apparently your state of unconsciousness does not hinder your senses; you moan softly into my mouth.
Is this the same person that struts so confidently to practice and battles so fiercely in the Pro-Ings?
They think you're some kind of hero, some iron price of war, but you're not. Not really.
You're more like a butterfly--if I hold you in my hand, I can crush you.
Our legs tangle in some ironic semblance of intimacy, and I rest my cheek against your own, content, for now, to finally descend into sleep.
******************************************************
Hiead's POVThe morning buzzer sounds, as it always does, to shock the ship's inhabitants awake.
I am already alert and dressed, walking out the door as my roommates drag themselves up to face the day.
I choke down my "breakfast" and linger in the Dining Hall until I see you come in, flanked by the remaining three members of our training squadron.
You look well rested, for once, and you go about your daily routine with renewed vigor.
You don't even know what I--we did last night, do you?
You crack a joke that has the rest of our training group in stitches with laughter.
No, I didn't think so.
You were asleep, so of course you wouldn't, but I still feel that you should be in some way grateful to me for giving you a night of relative tranquility.
But you're not; bastard.
Then it's time to go; in practice I dedicate myself more than usual to defeating, upstaging, and overall embarrassing you as much as I can.
I run, jump, fight, and memorize to my utmost capacity, and by the time lunchtime has come we are both spent and exhausted (in all possible meanings of the word) from trying so hard to outdo one another.
While the others exit the exercise room to eat their meals, we remain, each breathing frantically and perspiring wildly from the strain of physical competition, though we pretend that we're not.
We sit in silence.
Sweat rolls down my face like the tears I never shed.