Heero Yuy
To: R. Darlian
From: H. Yuy
Subject: Re: Heero, please read this, I want to help you.
Time: 1:46 a.m.
Sanity is not statistical.
- George Orwell, 1984
send
My fingers rise lightly from the keyboard, not making a single sound. My wrists rest upon the edge of the desk, well, not rest, more like, sat. When resting, you are comfortable. Pink indented lines cross my wrists, where the sharp, hard plastic grinds into my soft, sandy flesh. I've been sitting in this chair for what seems like hours. However, it's only been perhaps one, at the most that is. I feel numb. I should feel tired, but I don't. That's because you're not human Yuy. Children would say that to me, when I went to school. Before I was taken out.
To the best of my knowledge, Dr. J has always been my one, and only caretaker. He wanted me to be 'normal', to see how I interacted with children. But I wasn't normal, I couldn't be, and I'm not. That's why they had to take me out of school. No one would talk to 'the' kid. Everywhere I went, Dr. J would follow me around with a clipboard. People said I was a guinea pig, and that he was going to eat me some day, kill me with that terrible claw hand of his. Sometimes I wished he had. Not anymore, now I have my missions. The missions matter more to me than the jeering voices of 5-year-old children, calling, "Guinea pig...guinea pig...what a tasty guinea pig." It was even a song at school, however the children soon lost their interest when they saw my lack of it. I had my training to work on. The first few years I worked with Dr. J, I wondered if he would be like an uncle to me, I'd already had a father, Odin Lowe, but he was dead. Foolishly I hoped that he could be family to me, it didn't matter that he had a claw where a hand should be. As my training continued, I put away those frivolous thoughts. He was my instructor, I his pupil. Nothing less, nothing more. It was difficult for a 5-year-old child to have to put up with that, but I grew with my training. I grew into what I am now...
And what is that Yuy? A masochistic psychopath? That's what people say about me today. Those who know enough about me to make a semi-accurate statement that is. I must admit, their numbers are few...but they've been growing in these past months. More people know what I do, what I've done. Several tell me they know who I am. Some want to pity me. I don't understand that. That's because I don't know who I am. If I can't come up with a good reason for them to try to sympathise with me, why should they try? And even so, their pity wastes my time. They should know better than to expend so much potentially useful energy. I need to concentrate more on missions, so that less people get in my way. I know enough to tell them that I am not insane. Mentally, I am perfectly in health. My thoughts are clear, and rational. I am intelligent, I am dedicated. I know more of what is happening in the world than they. And I'm taking action to help them (at least I think I am, I don't always know what my missions are about). Why do they taunt me?
As far as masochism goes...I really don't know. To be involved in such would mean that I enjoy pain, that I enjoy hurting myself. But I don't. Not directly...I call it self-control. It's part of my training. Feeling pain keeps me mentally active, or mentally distracted. Both are useful, depending on the situation. Pain can be a reminder. An immediate reminder of what's happening. Sometimes, if I am concerning myself with irrelevant issues, I need to feel that sharp, violent wave crash through me like a train, a wildfire spreading up my legs, across my chest, throbbing in my head and then to fall away like needles, piercing my arms as the suffering disperses momentarily. Yes, I need that. It keeps me from doing stupid things. Like feeling pity, or losing myself when I've to concentrate on missions. A masochist enjoys the suffering, and truly, I dislike it. I feel discomforted, but so what? Comfort is expensive.
I always set my bones, and I never use anaesthetics. I suppose that's because although I don't take pleasure from the pain, I fear that if I don't feel it as often, the suffering will become more violent if I'm not used to it. So I force myself to feel pain. I don't want to feel it. A masochist would relish it willingly. I do it for the missions. Missions are more important than my life. That I regret. I regret that its been drilled into my skull, that only the mission matters. Completion of the mission is the only alternative. If I must die, so be it. Besides, it would release me from future assignments. But I can only risk my life if to accomplish something.
Without thinking, my eyes fall down, so that they're staring at the keyboard. But they're not. Its as if they're staring right through it. Just as my eyes moved, my wrists do as well. Slowly they come into focus. The pink lines. They resemble scars, as if I'd slashed my wrists. But I never shall, not unless its for the mission. And so far, no mission has required me to slash my wrists. They may have benefited more when I threw myself from a building or something of the like. But never shall I take a razor to my flesh without a cause. I'm not suicidal. I do want to live. But living for the missions, not knowing who I am, that's not a life. Until I can finish my missions, be done with them completely, I won't have the choice to make a life for myself. I suppose I could always refuse to accept one, but no. They aren't individual choices, they're part of Operation Meteor, which is simply a grander assignment. The only escape is death, and only to benefit the mission. I can die for the mission, but never turn one down, until, or if, everything finishes and clears up. Like I said, I'm not suicidal.
I hate it when people try to assume that they know who I am, that they know what I'm thinking, that they understand. If there's anything I truly despise, it's people who don't know anything about me pretending that their life is like mine. One of the only-no, perhaps the only-person to really make me love them was a little girl, about 6 years old when I was 10. For her I felt deeper affection than anyone I've ever met alive. No, I didn't feel a physical attraction, after all, she was 6-years-old, I didn't feel admiration. I wasn't idolatry, it wasn't family love. It was something much deeper, more sacred.
I hate that girl. I love her, and I hate her. I hate her so much that I can feel myself fuming when I think of her. Whatever I'm holding onto will shake as I struggle for self-control, my eyes trail a target, focusing my anger onto their ignorance. I kill them, mercilessly, perfectly, and without regret. Sometimes I laugh when I kill them. I haven't killed them, I've killed the girl. I've ended the torture she put me through. Everytime I destroy something on a mission, I'm killing that girl.
Then, when the mission is over and I can be alone, my mask of hatred falls from my face like porcelain. And so to the floor crashes the Heero Yuy DeathglareTM, as my acquaintances have dubbed it. The pieces run along the floor, like mercury. The liquid metal absorbs into my skin, it's a slow-acting poison. The next time I go on a mission, it will cover my face again, and latch onto my mind so that all I see, is that terrible want, that ache which screams for me to kill her.
But back to when the mask breaks...my friends...they don't see me, crying. Hot tears rain down my face, stinging my cheeks when they dry, but replaced again by more still as my eyes call out to my head in distress. They run across my jawbone as if it were a gutter, collecting at my chin, then dripping softly onto my neck, tight with stress. My chest heaves, up, down, up, down; my heart is thudding rapidly, as if suffering from electric shock. A slow decrescendo takes over, and the thudding slows to pounding, then to soft staccato-like beats. I don't hate the girl, I hate...myself...yes, I hate myself for killing her...so long ago...
I was only a boy, and had started doing actual work in my training but a month or two ago. Ironic how now I despise the mission, and feel nothing but obligation toward it. After planting a bomb on a Federation base on L1, I fell back laughing on the grass a safe distance away. The fools would think it to be another terrorist attack, and the evidence I left was enough that they would track down some men who I knew really were terrorists. There was a difference between what I was doing and terrorism. Terrorists attacked anyone, with the objective of hurting people. I killed with a purpose. And it was all right. Dr. J said so. Although I had long ago stopped wishing for him to be family, I still took everything he said to heart. I was almost the definition of gullible, I didn't doubt anything he told me.
Then, I heard a most unusual sound. It was merry, like the laughter which escaped my lips. But it was...different. I couldn't describe it, but I'd heard something like it before. The source of the sound came upon me and literally stared me in the eyes without warning...I'd been too lost in my thoughts. Damn, I need to be more aware...but this wasn't an enemy. A cheerful smile painted upon a face carved from ivory, glittering sapphire eyes and spicy silk spilling around to frame like hair. That's what I see now, whenever I rush into battle-those hard jewels, cruel and cold. But I didn't see it then. I was bewildered, I didn't see an idol, the pagan statue of some evil god, but a little girl, with a huge hat, who smiled too much.
Giggling, she popped up over my head, so I was forced to look up. But when she moved the artificial sun generated from the ECS (Environmental Control System) in the colony burned my eyes. I shook my head and sat up quickly. She leaned over, her hand tightly grasping a leash which held a small golden retriever puppy.
"Are you lost?" It seemed as if she asked everyone this, she tossed it out so nonchalantly.
"I've been lost ever since the day I was born."
It was true. I hadn't known if I even had biological parents, or if I was created in a lab. I only knew Odin Lowe for a short number of years before he died. After that I'd been taught to kill, to obey, and how not to be killed. The time I spent at school taught me that some people deserved punishment. Besides all that, I knew nothing of anything really, quite especially human emotions. I still know little about them.
"Oh, that's so sad. I'm not lost at all, I'm taking Mary out for a walk." Casually she commented on my words, then knelt down to pet the dog who wagged its tail and tongue eagerly at her touch.
"Here." She handed me a small, yellow daisy that she'd picked on the grassy terrain grown artificially using plant DNA from seeds imported from Earth.
I must have looked stupid, for all I could do was stare at the little flower even as I took it into my hands, surprise was painted on my face by someone I didn't know, I wasn't used to surprises. This girl, who I'd never met before in my entire life, was...kind...to me. She seemed concerned, but didn't pry or pretend that she knew what I was thinking. She offered her opinion, and didn't ask why, didn't tell me what I should be, that she felt my pain, or that she was lost too and knew how to help. She just smiled, and handed me a flower. A flower, the symbol of youth, happiness, and growth. But, she was just 6, so she couldn't have told me all that it meant, or that the colour, yellow, was that of friendship. Of course, I may be wrong, I'll never know. But all she must've known was that she felt sorry for me, it was a beautiful day, and that she wanted me to share in her happiness, maybe be her friend for a fleeting moment. That innocence, that beauty of spirit, that tender heartedness will I forever treasure until the end of mine days.
When I think however, about my rushing into battle, wanting so much to end her life, I realize that I want to save her. The foaming of the mouth, the wild eyes, the cruel laugh, the lack of pity or mercy, the absolute and utter destruction of my enemy...I'm angry at myself for what I did to her. I can never forget what else happened that day. Ever. Every time I take a life, innocent or no, all I can think about is the fact that I took hers, and I hate myself for it. With a horrible, burning passion, I hate it when I murder, because all I see is her. If I'd never met her, perhaps I wouldn't care so much. But then again, maybe I would. I'll never know, and so can't presume to know the answer. I don't see myself as a hero. I don't see myself as a mass murderer, but as the man who slaughtered a little, innocent, perfect child, again, and again, and again, and again. Without thinking. Without pity. Without regret in any way. That's all I see when I think of myself, not as a soldier, but a butcher.
Time and time again, I ask myself, "How many times must I kill that little girl?" And then I always answer, "For the missions. You kill her because you agreed to when you accepted that mission, and you know you can't refuse, because that way you'll never live to see a day when you can finally feel free of the crime and guilt, wash the blood from your hands and move on."
Back to that day, when I killed her. She ran off, calling after her puppy, leaving me wide-eyed and full of wonder. Then later, I saw the bombs go off as planned. Not according to plan, a mobile suit nearby fell onto some electrical wires, and then smashed into the building complex nearby where civilians lived. Civilians. I wasn't allowed to kill them unless they posed some threat, and these didn't. My eyes widened even more in horror, my jaw slid out of its usual position to leave me gaping at the site in front of me. The buildings were demolished. The fire revelled in my pupiless eyes, burning into my lenses, surely never to leave, their imprint was permanent in my mind.
I rushed forwards to examine the wreckage, and there, among the burnt shredded scards of metal, glass, and other things...was a bloody, torn, piece of a pink dress. The body must've been hidden many feet under the debris. I couldn't search, there was no possible way to uncover anything from the wreckage, especially using my own two hands. I knelt down beside the scrap of material, deeply inhaling the stench of the blood, faintly reminiscent of iron...almost warm to touch. It was clotted, darker in the more corrugated areas...where the warmth was most apparent. Amazing, that I still clutched the flower, though my sweat from heat and stress had made it leave a bit of a lime stain on my hand. Steadily I scooped the puppy into my arms, carefully handling it as if afraid to hurt it, though what would it matter if its back was twisted weirdly out of shape, it was dead now. I lifted it to my breast without seeming to disturb it at all. Odd that I didn't even seem to notice the heresy of grey ash, falling like snow during the simulated spring-summer. All I saw was nothing. All I heard was nothing. All I felt...was nothing.
It seemed as if I were the only soul alive as I left that place and retreated back to the base, clutching the puppy and the flower. I only vaguely heard distressed voices in the background, they'd obviously heard of the day's occurrences, and were not at all pleased. I didn't seem to notice at all what they said as they discussed my fate. I suppose I should've rebelled against whatever they had in store, as they were the ones who put me up to the crime...but I was the one who carried it out.
Back to the present.
It seems strange almost, that these things I remember in perfect, exact detail, as if they were every day occurrences. I suppose it would be expected for me to remember my time with Odin Lowe more clearly, as it should have had a larger impact on my life, and Dr. J wanted me to remember him, but not the little girl. Perhaps he argued against the sessions they put me through next, what with the isolation, the brainwashing, the near enslavement, the fear, the depression of re-training. But silently I resisted. They could do whatever they wanted to physically to me, but I would hold onto my memory of that girl. Eventually I needed an outlet for my emotions, the anger at what they were doing to me threatened to come back and destroy me, I had to have something to vent upon. So I chose that which dominated all of my non-work related thoughts: the girl and her dog, Mary.
It was to be expected of what I think, maybe that's what they wanted to happen, so I wouldn't allow any further "mistakes" in the future. But my mind continually wars with itself on that issue. Whenever I pilot my Gundam, I allow that anger to secure its severe clutches on me, so that I can almost sense hot hands clenching my shoulders, squeezing the back of my throat until I can't think clearly, I begin to shake, and barely manage enough control to finish the mission. But when I'm not in my Gundam, I can resist, I can relax, and I can cry. I can mope around on the computer, hacking into government files, like right now.
If my physical and mental health weren't so vital to completion of the mission, I would've been on narcotics long ago.
Suddenly, I have to suppress a reflex of my eyes widening. My breath stops short, and my heart's beating quickens just slightly enough so that I notice. A heat centres around my ears, and prickles different nerves on the muscles protecting my spinal cord on the back of my neck. Already, without thinking, I have drawn my gun and cocked it to make sure it was ready, faintly smelling the steel on my sticky hand. The computer screen goes blank when a finger jabs at the button to turn off the monitor, so nothing shows.
Amazing how I react so quickly before something even happens. Albeit a built in Zero System. That in itself is more surprising, since no MS currently harbors it.
Loud, jagged breath becomes the first thing I notice, as if the producer had been running for a while. A crinkling like falling into a box filled with newspaper from a ledge 25 metres up without breaking anything (I know, I've done it) grows obnoxious in volume. Likely it came from a skirt rubbing against hurried legs. Another reason to wear spandex shorts. High pitched squeaking, and then the nauseating screech of hot rubber against plastic tiling warn me of a child long before the echoing thumps cascade down the hall, confirming that the person is probably a pre-adolescent girl, simply judging by the approximate weight. Repeated slapping against stiff, poorly designed clothes denotes thick, long, unrestrained hair.
Sighing, I grudgingly use my left hand to support my weight as I lift my body from the chair, crease lines under my knees more apparent than those on my wrists were. I'm so well exercised that no popping noise is heard from joints when I straighten out. One last sigh, my shoulders sulk momentarily. Then, quicker than a lioness springing on her prey, I spin around on one heel, leaving skid marks and an overturned chair. Nothing can be seen on the screen, so at least that is safe.
In front of me, a sight which doesn't leave me the least bit surprised, especially considering the sounds in the hallway.
"Relena." I spoke the name with my usual monotone, I should've known it would be her. Who else can make so much noise while pretending to be stealthy? I suppose anyone really, most haven't had my extensive training, haven't been gifted with such keen hearing. Its almost sad the show she puts up for me, trying to be a spy, but if she really was in espionage, she would be dead by now.
Her panting is so sharp it almost seems it could split atoms in the air, had she really been running that hard? Or perhaps she wasn't used to walking, pampered so heavily. A socked foot strikes out, exposing the rubber soled shoe I heard earlier. It collides with my dorm's carpet, shaking the floorboard underneath and making a sound similar to tissue paper blowing in the wind. Another foot, and then the first, until the barrel of my gun is cushioned against her non-existent chest. Wait, that doesn't make sense. Testily I loosen my grip and pad the gun's tip against what should be a breast. Crinkling, like when she had moved, is heard, and inwardly I smile. She actually stuffs her bra.
"Heero...I need to talk to you." Her underdeveloped voice pierces my ears, its decibel reading must be high, it seems uncanny for it to be nasal like that.
Even with this peace offering, the fingers wrapped around my gun tighten. I'm in no mood to make conversation, but then again, I never am.
"Heero, you need help!" The cry resonates off the walls, feeding on the silence which has pooled in the darker corners of the room. Does she want to be heard? My forehead wrinkles, my expression intensifies, and my lip curls into a snarl. I don't need this, I don't need her, I don't want to be disturbed. If she really wants to help me, can't she just leave? But part of me is lonely, and wants to listen, even if she's full of complete bullshit and doesn't know it. For a minute she glares hard into my eyes while I toy with the idea of duct-taping her to a chair and holding a knife to her throat as she talks. But I don't like knives, guns suit me better. Guns provide a quicker escape, and less of a mess.
Her mouth opens, her jaw slides back and forth while her tongue spits out noise. Noise. That's all it is. I've heard her little speeches before, about how she's on my side, and she wants to help me, and how I need to talk to her. I don't particularly want to listen, there'd be no point. So I relax slightly, my shoulders fall down, and I'm only vaguely aware that words are leaving those fast moving lips.
Often I wonder, why I don't kill her. Others have asked me that, and she herself has as well. However, she doesn't completely understand what her death would be, but she asks me to kill her just as well. Its as if she assumes she'll be resurrected and I'll play the exact part that she wants to play if I kill her. Pity how some people think.
I envy her.
Not for her wealth, or her fame, or her father's position in government. Not for her intelligence, for I know mine exceeds hers. But for something deeper than that. Her mentality. Not that I'd like to have hers, but have her confidence in it. She knows who she is, she knows what she wants, how to get it, and she knows that she can put her needs above those of others. Selfish, yes, but that is a luxury I long to have.
Freedom, George Orwell says, is the power to say that 2+2=4, that being able to chose what we think is the only freedom. But its more than that. After all, I resisted most of the brainwashing that Dr. J and his superior put me through, but I can't do as I please. She can, and for that I envy her.
Technically, I could do as I please, but the consequences would silence that privilege later on in the future. Just expressing my emotions as a child left me with severe punishment. That is not freedom. Slowly though, I'm beginning to break away. Perhaps just in my mind, but then, I've never really been loyal in my mind. I have nothing to fight for, except that when I fight I want to win. So I only fight those who stand in my way, I don't pick fights or try to explain them.
I'll say this for schools: they've opened up a wide variety of literature for me, and its something I can get away with. In a way, I'm betraying the sponsors of Operation: Meteor by indulging in books instead of research when I have free time, but a simple cover up for that is that it makes me less suspicious. People expect quiet children to be interested in reading. Before I leave though, I think I'll steal a copy of 1984, so that I have that with me when I'm not undercover. I know I should burn it instead of keeping it, but I don't occupy my thoughts with it all the time, and it helps to be well rounded in my work.
Lost in thought, the vision in front of me blurs, but soon sharpens into blue eyes, pale skin, and ginger hair. What?! Ginger? A merry laughing fills my ears as the vision blurs once again and resettles into blue eyes, pale skin, and mustard blonde hair. Perhaps I need more sleep, I'm starting to hallucinate. For a minute, Relena looked like...like the little girl. Oddly enough, that though doesn't strike me as I would have thought it would. In fact, I'm beginning to realize that it's one which I've buried for a while. Physically the two aren't very alike, but now I can see more similarities. They both have the same innocence of heart, both wanting to do good for people they barely know. Both were pure of heart, perhaps Relena's ideals were unrealistic and her reasoning faulty, but they share the same futile wish to do good everywhere, and see a light in everything. It all makes sense now. That spark in that little girl whose death I take blame for has been re-lit in the naive school girl before me now. They are in a way, the same.
That's why I can't kill her.
My eyes widen slightly with the realization I just made, and this Relena seems to take as a sign that I was listening to her talk, so she brightens and continues.
I understand now, I know, I see the spark in Relena.
And I love her for it. But at the same time, I hate her.
She amazes me in how she can be like that little girl, and fuel the same thoughts inside of me.
Of course I don't love her romantically, for she's too whiny, and I haven't the time for a relationship. I don't know if I ever will, but frankly, I don't care. I'm not attracted to her in any way, and if anything repulsed by her appearance. It irritates me how Duo pretends that I am, mocking me and occasionally flirting with her just because he thinks it will make me jealous, when it's just annoying. I love that spark inside of her, if I ever love anything besides that little girl, it will be Relena, and it will be the spark which has carried on into this school girl.
I have no idea why the spark was carried on into Relena, its rather inconvenient actually, but that will remain to be an unsolved mystery that I just don't have time to uncover. I don't believe it was God or anything like that, because there's no reason to believe in him anyway. Of course society may be swept into him, but I'm an outcast of society, I have been since I was born, and I will always be for the rest of my life.
Now I understand completely why I didn't kill her before. Because although it would aide my mission immensely, something in the back of my mind connected and made the discovery that she held inside of her that little girl's spark.
Although when I go into battle, I imagine killing that girl, it would be different with Relena. Those on the field are dummies, they are the nameless doomed. I don't feel anything for their deaths, only that girl do I really care about. But, if her death has pervaded my mind for years, it would be inconceivable as to what would happen if I silenced that spark again, in Relena. Maybe, I think ruefully, destiny (if it exists) needs that spark, the world needs that spark to live. And perhaps this world would have had a brighter future if I'd never killed that girl, if the spark remained within her, but if I kill Relena, it will reappear in someone more naive than her, and the spark will be dimmer.
I can't take a chance like that. I can't kill her, no, I have to protect her.
Strange, I have a feeling that I'm not the only one who wants to protect her, that soon my rival will reveal his true self, and we will battle each other until only one is left standing, and that it may not be me who wins the fight.
I shake my head with a sharp twist, my eyes twitching slightly. Couldn't she just leave and let me get some sleep? No, she wouldn't, and in a way it was my fault. She couldn't understand my response to her last e-mail, which I had just sent half an hour before. Why was it so hard for her to comprehend that my message delivered had insulted her mental state? Sighing, I press the gun harder into her chest, it rubs against her sternum, jiggling her shirt slightly.
"I will kill you." Now the threat has no meat to back it up, but although I'm just learning this, she seems to have known it all along. Surprising. She curtsies politely, and turns on her heel, braids bouncing lightly on her back, ribbons coming loose and making her seem childish, as if she couldn't take care of her own hair. Then again, I'm not a child, and I can't take care of mine.
She grabs the door frame before turning, squinting her eyes like a cat, and saying with a bit of a lisp, "You better kill me sometime, Heero. Goodbye." A smile plays menacingly about her lips before she skips down the hall, but I'm too tired to care.
To: R. Darlian
From: H. Yuy
Subject: Re: Heero, please read this, I want to help you.
Time: 1:46 a.m.
Sanity is not statistical.
- George Orwell, 1984
send
My fingers rise lightly from the keyboard, not making a single sound. My wrists rest upon the edge of the desk, well, not rest, more like, sat. When resting, you are comfortable. Pink indented lines cross my wrists, where the sharp, hard plastic grinds into my soft, sandy flesh. I've been sitting in this chair for what seems like hours. However, it's only been perhaps one, at the most that is. I feel numb. I should feel tired, but I don't. That's because you're not human Yuy. Children would say that to me, when I went to school. Before I was taken out.
To the best of my knowledge, Dr. J has always been my one, and only caretaker. He wanted me to be 'normal', to see how I interacted with children. But I wasn't normal, I couldn't be, and I'm not. That's why they had to take me out of school. No one would talk to 'the' kid. Everywhere I went, Dr. J would follow me around with a clipboard. People said I was a guinea pig, and that he was going to eat me some day, kill me with that terrible claw hand of his. Sometimes I wished he had. Not anymore, now I have my missions. The missions matter more to me than the jeering voices of 5-year-old children, calling, "Guinea pig...guinea pig...what a tasty guinea pig." It was even a song at school, however the children soon lost their interest when they saw my lack of it. I had my training to work on. The first few years I worked with Dr. J, I wondered if he would be like an uncle to me, I'd already had a father, Odin Lowe, but he was dead. Foolishly I hoped that he could be family to me, it didn't matter that he had a claw where a hand should be. As my training continued, I put away those frivolous thoughts. He was my instructor, I his pupil. Nothing less, nothing more. It was difficult for a 5-year-old child to have to put up with that, but I grew with my training. I grew into what I am now...
And what is that Yuy? A masochistic psychopath? That's what people say about me today. Those who know enough about me to make a semi-accurate statement that is. I must admit, their numbers are few...but they've been growing in these past months. More people know what I do, what I've done. Several tell me they know who I am. Some want to pity me. I don't understand that. That's because I don't know who I am. If I can't come up with a good reason for them to try to sympathise with me, why should they try? And even so, their pity wastes my time. They should know better than to expend so much potentially useful energy. I need to concentrate more on missions, so that less people get in my way. I know enough to tell them that I am not insane. Mentally, I am perfectly in health. My thoughts are clear, and rational. I am intelligent, I am dedicated. I know more of what is happening in the world than they. And I'm taking action to help them (at least I think I am, I don't always know what my missions are about). Why do they taunt me?
As far as masochism goes...I really don't know. To be involved in such would mean that I enjoy pain, that I enjoy hurting myself. But I don't. Not directly...I call it self-control. It's part of my training. Feeling pain keeps me mentally active, or mentally distracted. Both are useful, depending on the situation. Pain can be a reminder. An immediate reminder of what's happening. Sometimes, if I am concerning myself with irrelevant issues, I need to feel that sharp, violent wave crash through me like a train, a wildfire spreading up my legs, across my chest, throbbing in my head and then to fall away like needles, piercing my arms as the suffering disperses momentarily. Yes, I need that. It keeps me from doing stupid things. Like feeling pity, or losing myself when I've to concentrate on missions. A masochist enjoys the suffering, and truly, I dislike it. I feel discomforted, but so what? Comfort is expensive.
I always set my bones, and I never use anaesthetics. I suppose that's because although I don't take pleasure from the pain, I fear that if I don't feel it as often, the suffering will become more violent if I'm not used to it. So I force myself to feel pain. I don't want to feel it. A masochist would relish it willingly. I do it for the missions. Missions are more important than my life. That I regret. I regret that its been drilled into my skull, that only the mission matters. Completion of the mission is the only alternative. If I must die, so be it. Besides, it would release me from future assignments. But I can only risk my life if to accomplish something.
Without thinking, my eyes fall down, so that they're staring at the keyboard. But they're not. Its as if they're staring right through it. Just as my eyes moved, my wrists do as well. Slowly they come into focus. The pink lines. They resemble scars, as if I'd slashed my wrists. But I never shall, not unless its for the mission. And so far, no mission has required me to slash my wrists. They may have benefited more when I threw myself from a building or something of the like. But never shall I take a razor to my flesh without a cause. I'm not suicidal. I do want to live. But living for the missions, not knowing who I am, that's not a life. Until I can finish my missions, be done with them completely, I won't have the choice to make a life for myself. I suppose I could always refuse to accept one, but no. They aren't individual choices, they're part of Operation Meteor, which is simply a grander assignment. The only escape is death, and only to benefit the mission. I can die for the mission, but never turn one down, until, or if, everything finishes and clears up. Like I said, I'm not suicidal.
I hate it when people try to assume that they know who I am, that they know what I'm thinking, that they understand. If there's anything I truly despise, it's people who don't know anything about me pretending that their life is like mine. One of the only-no, perhaps the only-person to really make me love them was a little girl, about 6 years old when I was 10. For her I felt deeper affection than anyone I've ever met alive. No, I didn't feel a physical attraction, after all, she was 6-years-old, I didn't feel admiration. I wasn't idolatry, it wasn't family love. It was something much deeper, more sacred.
I hate that girl. I love her, and I hate her. I hate her so much that I can feel myself fuming when I think of her. Whatever I'm holding onto will shake as I struggle for self-control, my eyes trail a target, focusing my anger onto their ignorance. I kill them, mercilessly, perfectly, and without regret. Sometimes I laugh when I kill them. I haven't killed them, I've killed the girl. I've ended the torture she put me through. Everytime I destroy something on a mission, I'm killing that girl.
Then, when the mission is over and I can be alone, my mask of hatred falls from my face like porcelain. And so to the floor crashes the Heero Yuy DeathglareTM, as my acquaintances have dubbed it. The pieces run along the floor, like mercury. The liquid metal absorbs into my skin, it's a slow-acting poison. The next time I go on a mission, it will cover my face again, and latch onto my mind so that all I see, is that terrible want, that ache which screams for me to kill her.
But back to when the mask breaks...my friends...they don't see me, crying. Hot tears rain down my face, stinging my cheeks when they dry, but replaced again by more still as my eyes call out to my head in distress. They run across my jawbone as if it were a gutter, collecting at my chin, then dripping softly onto my neck, tight with stress. My chest heaves, up, down, up, down; my heart is thudding rapidly, as if suffering from electric shock. A slow decrescendo takes over, and the thudding slows to pounding, then to soft staccato-like beats. I don't hate the girl, I hate...myself...yes, I hate myself for killing her...so long ago...
I was only a boy, and had started doing actual work in my training but a month or two ago. Ironic how now I despise the mission, and feel nothing but obligation toward it. After planting a bomb on a Federation base on L1, I fell back laughing on the grass a safe distance away. The fools would think it to be another terrorist attack, and the evidence I left was enough that they would track down some men who I knew really were terrorists. There was a difference between what I was doing and terrorism. Terrorists attacked anyone, with the objective of hurting people. I killed with a purpose. And it was all right. Dr. J said so. Although I had long ago stopped wishing for him to be family, I still took everything he said to heart. I was almost the definition of gullible, I didn't doubt anything he told me.
Then, I heard a most unusual sound. It was merry, like the laughter which escaped my lips. But it was...different. I couldn't describe it, but I'd heard something like it before. The source of the sound came upon me and literally stared me in the eyes without warning...I'd been too lost in my thoughts. Damn, I need to be more aware...but this wasn't an enemy. A cheerful smile painted upon a face carved from ivory, glittering sapphire eyes and spicy silk spilling around to frame like hair. That's what I see now, whenever I rush into battle-those hard jewels, cruel and cold. But I didn't see it then. I was bewildered, I didn't see an idol, the pagan statue of some evil god, but a little girl, with a huge hat, who smiled too much.
Giggling, she popped up over my head, so I was forced to look up. But when she moved the artificial sun generated from the ECS (Environmental Control System) in the colony burned my eyes. I shook my head and sat up quickly. She leaned over, her hand tightly grasping a leash which held a small golden retriever puppy.
"Are you lost?" It seemed as if she asked everyone this, she tossed it out so nonchalantly.
"I've been lost ever since the day I was born."
It was true. I hadn't known if I even had biological parents, or if I was created in a lab. I only knew Odin Lowe for a short number of years before he died. After that I'd been taught to kill, to obey, and how not to be killed. The time I spent at school taught me that some people deserved punishment. Besides all that, I knew nothing of anything really, quite especially human emotions. I still know little about them.
"Oh, that's so sad. I'm not lost at all, I'm taking Mary out for a walk." Casually she commented on my words, then knelt down to pet the dog who wagged its tail and tongue eagerly at her touch.
"Here." She handed me a small, yellow daisy that she'd picked on the grassy terrain grown artificially using plant DNA from seeds imported from Earth.
I must have looked stupid, for all I could do was stare at the little flower even as I took it into my hands, surprise was painted on my face by someone I didn't know, I wasn't used to surprises. This girl, who I'd never met before in my entire life, was...kind...to me. She seemed concerned, but didn't pry or pretend that she knew what I was thinking. She offered her opinion, and didn't ask why, didn't tell me what I should be, that she felt my pain, or that she was lost too and knew how to help. She just smiled, and handed me a flower. A flower, the symbol of youth, happiness, and growth. But, she was just 6, so she couldn't have told me all that it meant, or that the colour, yellow, was that of friendship. Of course, I may be wrong, I'll never know. But all she must've known was that she felt sorry for me, it was a beautiful day, and that she wanted me to share in her happiness, maybe be her friend for a fleeting moment. That innocence, that beauty of spirit, that tender heartedness will I forever treasure until the end of mine days.
When I think however, about my rushing into battle, wanting so much to end her life, I realize that I want to save her. The foaming of the mouth, the wild eyes, the cruel laugh, the lack of pity or mercy, the absolute and utter destruction of my enemy...I'm angry at myself for what I did to her. I can never forget what else happened that day. Ever. Every time I take a life, innocent or no, all I can think about is the fact that I took hers, and I hate myself for it. With a horrible, burning passion, I hate it when I murder, because all I see is her. If I'd never met her, perhaps I wouldn't care so much. But then again, maybe I would. I'll never know, and so can't presume to know the answer. I don't see myself as a hero. I don't see myself as a mass murderer, but as the man who slaughtered a little, innocent, perfect child, again, and again, and again, and again. Without thinking. Without pity. Without regret in any way. That's all I see when I think of myself, not as a soldier, but a butcher.
Time and time again, I ask myself, "How many times must I kill that little girl?" And then I always answer, "For the missions. You kill her because you agreed to when you accepted that mission, and you know you can't refuse, because that way you'll never live to see a day when you can finally feel free of the crime and guilt, wash the blood from your hands and move on."
Back to that day, when I killed her. She ran off, calling after her puppy, leaving me wide-eyed and full of wonder. Then later, I saw the bombs go off as planned. Not according to plan, a mobile suit nearby fell onto some electrical wires, and then smashed into the building complex nearby where civilians lived. Civilians. I wasn't allowed to kill them unless they posed some threat, and these didn't. My eyes widened even more in horror, my jaw slid out of its usual position to leave me gaping at the site in front of me. The buildings were demolished. The fire revelled in my pupiless eyes, burning into my lenses, surely never to leave, their imprint was permanent in my mind.
I rushed forwards to examine the wreckage, and there, among the burnt shredded scards of metal, glass, and other things...was a bloody, torn, piece of a pink dress. The body must've been hidden many feet under the debris. I couldn't search, there was no possible way to uncover anything from the wreckage, especially using my own two hands. I knelt down beside the scrap of material, deeply inhaling the stench of the blood, faintly reminiscent of iron...almost warm to touch. It was clotted, darker in the more corrugated areas...where the warmth was most apparent. Amazing, that I still clutched the flower, though my sweat from heat and stress had made it leave a bit of a lime stain on my hand. Steadily I scooped the puppy into my arms, carefully handling it as if afraid to hurt it, though what would it matter if its back was twisted weirdly out of shape, it was dead now. I lifted it to my breast without seeming to disturb it at all. Odd that I didn't even seem to notice the heresy of grey ash, falling like snow during the simulated spring-summer. All I saw was nothing. All I heard was nothing. All I felt...was nothing.
It seemed as if I were the only soul alive as I left that place and retreated back to the base, clutching the puppy and the flower. I only vaguely heard distressed voices in the background, they'd obviously heard of the day's occurrences, and were not at all pleased. I didn't seem to notice at all what they said as they discussed my fate. I suppose I should've rebelled against whatever they had in store, as they were the ones who put me up to the crime...but I was the one who carried it out.
Back to the present.
It seems strange almost, that these things I remember in perfect, exact detail, as if they were every day occurrences. I suppose it would be expected for me to remember my time with Odin Lowe more clearly, as it should have had a larger impact on my life, and Dr. J wanted me to remember him, but not the little girl. Perhaps he argued against the sessions they put me through next, what with the isolation, the brainwashing, the near enslavement, the fear, the depression of re-training. But silently I resisted. They could do whatever they wanted to physically to me, but I would hold onto my memory of that girl. Eventually I needed an outlet for my emotions, the anger at what they were doing to me threatened to come back and destroy me, I had to have something to vent upon. So I chose that which dominated all of my non-work related thoughts: the girl and her dog, Mary.
It was to be expected of what I think, maybe that's what they wanted to happen, so I wouldn't allow any further "mistakes" in the future. But my mind continually wars with itself on that issue. Whenever I pilot my Gundam, I allow that anger to secure its severe clutches on me, so that I can almost sense hot hands clenching my shoulders, squeezing the back of my throat until I can't think clearly, I begin to shake, and barely manage enough control to finish the mission. But when I'm not in my Gundam, I can resist, I can relax, and I can cry. I can mope around on the computer, hacking into government files, like right now.
If my physical and mental health weren't so vital to completion of the mission, I would've been on narcotics long ago.
Suddenly, I have to suppress a reflex of my eyes widening. My breath stops short, and my heart's beating quickens just slightly enough so that I notice. A heat centres around my ears, and prickles different nerves on the muscles protecting my spinal cord on the back of my neck. Already, without thinking, I have drawn my gun and cocked it to make sure it was ready, faintly smelling the steel on my sticky hand. The computer screen goes blank when a finger jabs at the button to turn off the monitor, so nothing shows.
Amazing how I react so quickly before something even happens. Albeit a built in Zero System. That in itself is more surprising, since no MS currently harbors it.
Loud, jagged breath becomes the first thing I notice, as if the producer had been running for a while. A crinkling like falling into a box filled with newspaper from a ledge 25 metres up without breaking anything (I know, I've done it) grows obnoxious in volume. Likely it came from a skirt rubbing against hurried legs. Another reason to wear spandex shorts. High pitched squeaking, and then the nauseating screech of hot rubber against plastic tiling warn me of a child long before the echoing thumps cascade down the hall, confirming that the person is probably a pre-adolescent girl, simply judging by the approximate weight. Repeated slapping against stiff, poorly designed clothes denotes thick, long, unrestrained hair.
Sighing, I grudgingly use my left hand to support my weight as I lift my body from the chair, crease lines under my knees more apparent than those on my wrists were. I'm so well exercised that no popping noise is heard from joints when I straighten out. One last sigh, my shoulders sulk momentarily. Then, quicker than a lioness springing on her prey, I spin around on one heel, leaving skid marks and an overturned chair. Nothing can be seen on the screen, so at least that is safe.
In front of me, a sight which doesn't leave me the least bit surprised, especially considering the sounds in the hallway.
"Relena." I spoke the name with my usual monotone, I should've known it would be her. Who else can make so much noise while pretending to be stealthy? I suppose anyone really, most haven't had my extensive training, haven't been gifted with such keen hearing. Its almost sad the show she puts up for me, trying to be a spy, but if she really was in espionage, she would be dead by now.
Her panting is so sharp it almost seems it could split atoms in the air, had she really been running that hard? Or perhaps she wasn't used to walking, pampered so heavily. A socked foot strikes out, exposing the rubber soled shoe I heard earlier. It collides with my dorm's carpet, shaking the floorboard underneath and making a sound similar to tissue paper blowing in the wind. Another foot, and then the first, until the barrel of my gun is cushioned against her non-existent chest. Wait, that doesn't make sense. Testily I loosen my grip and pad the gun's tip against what should be a breast. Crinkling, like when she had moved, is heard, and inwardly I smile. She actually stuffs her bra.
"Heero...I need to talk to you." Her underdeveloped voice pierces my ears, its decibel reading must be high, it seems uncanny for it to be nasal like that.
Even with this peace offering, the fingers wrapped around my gun tighten. I'm in no mood to make conversation, but then again, I never am.
"Heero, you need help!" The cry resonates off the walls, feeding on the silence which has pooled in the darker corners of the room. Does she want to be heard? My forehead wrinkles, my expression intensifies, and my lip curls into a snarl. I don't need this, I don't need her, I don't want to be disturbed. If she really wants to help me, can't she just leave? But part of me is lonely, and wants to listen, even if she's full of complete bullshit and doesn't know it. For a minute she glares hard into my eyes while I toy with the idea of duct-taping her to a chair and holding a knife to her throat as she talks. But I don't like knives, guns suit me better. Guns provide a quicker escape, and less of a mess.
Her mouth opens, her jaw slides back and forth while her tongue spits out noise. Noise. That's all it is. I've heard her little speeches before, about how she's on my side, and she wants to help me, and how I need to talk to her. I don't particularly want to listen, there'd be no point. So I relax slightly, my shoulders fall down, and I'm only vaguely aware that words are leaving those fast moving lips.
Often I wonder, why I don't kill her. Others have asked me that, and she herself has as well. However, she doesn't completely understand what her death would be, but she asks me to kill her just as well. Its as if she assumes she'll be resurrected and I'll play the exact part that she wants to play if I kill her. Pity how some people think.
I envy her.
Not for her wealth, or her fame, or her father's position in government. Not for her intelligence, for I know mine exceeds hers. But for something deeper than that. Her mentality. Not that I'd like to have hers, but have her confidence in it. She knows who she is, she knows what she wants, how to get it, and she knows that she can put her needs above those of others. Selfish, yes, but that is a luxury I long to have.
Freedom, George Orwell says, is the power to say that 2+2=4, that being able to chose what we think is the only freedom. But its more than that. After all, I resisted most of the brainwashing that Dr. J and his superior put me through, but I can't do as I please. She can, and for that I envy her.
Technically, I could do as I please, but the consequences would silence that privilege later on in the future. Just expressing my emotions as a child left me with severe punishment. That is not freedom. Slowly though, I'm beginning to break away. Perhaps just in my mind, but then, I've never really been loyal in my mind. I have nothing to fight for, except that when I fight I want to win. So I only fight those who stand in my way, I don't pick fights or try to explain them.
I'll say this for schools: they've opened up a wide variety of literature for me, and its something I can get away with. In a way, I'm betraying the sponsors of Operation: Meteor by indulging in books instead of research when I have free time, but a simple cover up for that is that it makes me less suspicious. People expect quiet children to be interested in reading. Before I leave though, I think I'll steal a copy of 1984, so that I have that with me when I'm not undercover. I know I should burn it instead of keeping it, but I don't occupy my thoughts with it all the time, and it helps to be well rounded in my work.
Lost in thought, the vision in front of me blurs, but soon sharpens into blue eyes, pale skin, and ginger hair. What?! Ginger? A merry laughing fills my ears as the vision blurs once again and resettles into blue eyes, pale skin, and mustard blonde hair. Perhaps I need more sleep, I'm starting to hallucinate. For a minute, Relena looked like...like the little girl. Oddly enough, that though doesn't strike me as I would have thought it would. In fact, I'm beginning to realize that it's one which I've buried for a while. Physically the two aren't very alike, but now I can see more similarities. They both have the same innocence of heart, both wanting to do good for people they barely know. Both were pure of heart, perhaps Relena's ideals were unrealistic and her reasoning faulty, but they share the same futile wish to do good everywhere, and see a light in everything. It all makes sense now. That spark in that little girl whose death I take blame for has been re-lit in the naive school girl before me now. They are in a way, the same.
That's why I can't kill her.
My eyes widen slightly with the realization I just made, and this Relena seems to take as a sign that I was listening to her talk, so she brightens and continues.
I understand now, I know, I see the spark in Relena.
And I love her for it. But at the same time, I hate her.
She amazes me in how she can be like that little girl, and fuel the same thoughts inside of me.
Of course I don't love her romantically, for she's too whiny, and I haven't the time for a relationship. I don't know if I ever will, but frankly, I don't care. I'm not attracted to her in any way, and if anything repulsed by her appearance. It irritates me how Duo pretends that I am, mocking me and occasionally flirting with her just because he thinks it will make me jealous, when it's just annoying. I love that spark inside of her, if I ever love anything besides that little girl, it will be Relena, and it will be the spark which has carried on into this school girl.
I have no idea why the spark was carried on into Relena, its rather inconvenient actually, but that will remain to be an unsolved mystery that I just don't have time to uncover. I don't believe it was God or anything like that, because there's no reason to believe in him anyway. Of course society may be swept into him, but I'm an outcast of society, I have been since I was born, and I will always be for the rest of my life.
Now I understand completely why I didn't kill her before. Because although it would aide my mission immensely, something in the back of my mind connected and made the discovery that she held inside of her that little girl's spark.
Although when I go into battle, I imagine killing that girl, it would be different with Relena. Those on the field are dummies, they are the nameless doomed. I don't feel anything for their deaths, only that girl do I really care about. But, if her death has pervaded my mind for years, it would be inconceivable as to what would happen if I silenced that spark again, in Relena. Maybe, I think ruefully, destiny (if it exists) needs that spark, the world needs that spark to live. And perhaps this world would have had a brighter future if I'd never killed that girl, if the spark remained within her, but if I kill Relena, it will reappear in someone more naive than her, and the spark will be dimmer.
I can't take a chance like that. I can't kill her, no, I have to protect her.
Strange, I have a feeling that I'm not the only one who wants to protect her, that soon my rival will reveal his true self, and we will battle each other until only one is left standing, and that it may not be me who wins the fight.
I shake my head with a sharp twist, my eyes twitching slightly. Couldn't she just leave and let me get some sleep? No, she wouldn't, and in a way it was my fault. She couldn't understand my response to her last e-mail, which I had just sent half an hour before. Why was it so hard for her to comprehend that my message delivered had insulted her mental state? Sighing, I press the gun harder into her chest, it rubs against her sternum, jiggling her shirt slightly.
"I will kill you." Now the threat has no meat to back it up, but although I'm just learning this, she seems to have known it all along. Surprising. She curtsies politely, and turns on her heel, braids bouncing lightly on her back, ribbons coming loose and making her seem childish, as if she couldn't take care of her own hair. Then again, I'm not a child, and I can't take care of mine.
She grabs the door frame before turning, squinting her eyes like a cat, and saying with a bit of a lisp, "You better kill me sometime, Heero. Goodbye." A smile plays menacingly about her lips before she skips down the hall, but I'm too tired to care.