The words spilled from her heart, her mind, every memory from the crevices in her mind, and she wrote them as day bled into night outside, the pen scripting in carefully formed letters the rules and lessons she had learned over time, taught by him. Her heart was sore, her chest feeling weary and worn as she breathed shallowly, the cotton dress taken an unknown time before by the slender nurse she did not trust, wondering briefly where Jessica-the-nurse was and feeling a moment of panicked fear as she worried another precious one had been stolen from her grasp. But before she could bolt through the door, find her before he could tear her away and butcher her for the evils she, his belonging, had done, the memory of Maxwell-god-of-death needing to know what everything, nothing, something, was arrowed in the back of her mind and she climbed awkwardly, bare but for the bandages wrapped about her, onto the quilts carefully laid on the table to make it a bed, picking in her swollen, clothed hand the felt pen and writing steadily once more.
It grew easier over time to write in the clumsy forbidden language, her hand moving faster, though it ached as the pen cap thrummed against a covered sore each time it bobbed; she was skilled at ignoring pain and it rarely bothered her as she continued, her shoulders straightening with each page she completed, front and back, words neat and arranged perfectly as she wanted them to be. It became half a stack left, and she was aware when the bubbling warmth of Golden Mina entered, watching her gently and quietly, keeping her at ease, and once she looked up to see her nearly drowsing in the chair Maxwell-god-of-death had left. Golden Mina left, eventually, as all seemed to, and she kept the light on, letting her write and pour the evils and blessings and regulations continuously, noting addendums and footnotes as she pressed on.
A tear, a drop of glittering silver, slipped down her face, twisting along the curve of her cheek and plummeting in a suicidal drop to the page she was working on, landing with a soft plop and webbing out for a second, fuzzing ink and staining the paper a darker shade, but that too she was skilled at ignoring.
--
Requiem: Dixieland
--
He shot up, startled and confused, his hand streaking up to his face to rub worriedly at the swell of pain in the center of his forehead, and he blinked, trying to recall what had woken him. Glancing down at his laptop, one of the corners suspiciously close to the place he must have hung his head at, he groaned and passed his hands over his face, pushing up slightly to refresh his nerve endings and exhaling noisily. "What happened to the days I could run on five hours of sleep a week?" he grumbled, thumbing at the worn corners of his eyes and rolling them in a refreshing motion, affixing his gaze on the data pouring down the screen of his corner. Have to remember, he answered mentally, grudgingly, I'm pushing thirty here. God, I'm getting old. A perfunctory check of his battered watch revealed a happy trio of fours and he sighed, arching his arms behind his head, stretching his torso back as well, feeling the muscles tense, pulling out in a delightfully soothing manner.
Duo tapped absently to his left, fingertips poking the giving softness of his mattress and touching abruptly the hard curve of the coffeepot. Moving the laptop from the dip of his legs, he punched the screensaver on and pushed his legs out as far as they would go, nearly collapsing at the relaxing pleasantness that trailed from the ritual. "Lord, that felt good," he smiled tiredly, dropping back and feeling his eyes cloud over at the enveloping warmth of his bed, sheets and comforter bunching up in a welcoming nest. Judging by the coolness he could feel along his hand, the coffee had grown significantly colder over time, and he pulled his legs up to his chest, maneuvering so he could peel his socks off. Cracking his toes, he rolled over, swerving up and into a standing position in one smooth movement, staggering at the sudden rush of dizzying blood. He shook his head doggedly and grabbed the angular handle of the coffeepot, holding it thoughtlessly at his side as he trudged through the veritable sea of junk on his floor, not even bothering to lift his feet from the floor.
The hallway was subtly lit by a lamp left on in the living room and he stumbled with a gradual sense of direction down it, veering when he came uncomfortably close to a wall, moving in the basic area of the kitchen. He felt his way into the blessed room-of-rooms and grabbed the microwave door's handle, jerking it open and shoving the coffeepot in without much though, swiftly typing in the relatively small amount of time needed to warm it. "Faster," he yawned, skating over the tiles of the floor to the vid-phone in the corner, flicking the screen on and pressing his finger firmly on the O speed dial as he often found himself doing. He was mildly amazed when the connection was actually picked up, and he stifled another yawn, grinning obnoxiously at the stiff face of one Wufei Chang, his coal black eyes registering a form of weary acceptance.
"Maxwell," Wufei muttered, his black hair pulled into a loose ponytail, not yet combed. "What a surprise." This was followed by a Chinese word that sounded eerily like a friendly swear, and Duo flashed a toothy smile in delighted reply.
"How'd you and Sally sleep?" Duo asked innocently, and the other former pilot gave him a dangerous look that promised death in a variety of slow ways. "Well, I'm just being polite!" he protested, lifting his hands in a defensive posture, trying to keep his violet eyes open in wide incredulity, though the twitching of his eyelid as his body angrily attempted to rebel and force him into slumber effectively destroyed that image.
"Perfect," sighed Wufei, stroking his temples in a familiar, calming gesture as he closed his eyes as if to count to keep his temper in check. "Who did you kill this time?"
"Your wife?" Duo suggested with a brilliant smile.
"I'd kill you first," he answered in perfectly timed response to the aged joke. "Do you mind telling me why you called?" In a reaction that was decidedly against his nature, his dark yellow face split in a vicious yawn, uncontrollable and hilarious. The American started snorting, his broad shoulders quaking as he suppressed the need to choke on his laughter, tears welling up in his eyes; if it had been any other person yawning in such a manner, it might not have been so comedic, but as it was Wufei, it was easily explained away. A haughty glare was sent in response to the poorly contained humor, and he crossed his arms over his chest, his dark garnet sweater blurred by a temporary wave of static that jittered from the bottom of the vid-screen to the bottom. Habitually, Duo smacked the device and released his hand from its grip over his mouth, shoulders still moving in chuckling motions.
"Ah," he wrinkled his eyebrows together, scratching furiously at his tangled, half-undone braid, "I've got something hovering in the back of my head and I can't figure it out. I was hoping talking to someone else would help, maybe."
"Brilliant," came the irritated reply. "Why couldn't you annoy Quatre? He's a much better person to talk to; he won't kill you for ill-timed gags."
"Can't!" Duo said cheerfully. "Relena and company are visiting him and his wife, and you know how the twins are on the nerves of most sane people. I'm not worried that Quman will crack so much as I'm afraid Rachelle will go wild woman on him. Don't want to call during that." Wufei's face took on a decidedly 'please don't explain that' expression, and he chuckled, making a never-mind wave with his hand. "Sorry for bothering you. See ya later, 'kay?"
Wufei nodded curtly, allowing a brief smile to cross his face, and he signed off, abandoning Duo to the mercy of a snow-filled vid-screen and the shrill racket of the microwave signaling its function was, indeed, completed. Coffee, he informed himself dreamily. Caffeine in horrific amounts…
--~--
*
--~--
Mariemaia Kushrenada stretched her milky arms above her head, feeling nervous muscles relax finally, and she motioned to the other woman working studiously in their cubicle that she was taking her lunch break, scooping the manila folder she had been finishing up and dropping it in her lap. "'I'd like to hear some funky Dixieland,'" she sang softly, wheeling out of the cubicle and swiftly shoving herself down the symmetrical aisle separating halves of the floor in the Preventers headquarters, slowing as she neared the elevator and thumbing the 'up' destination button, continuing to sing as she waited, drumming her fingers on the cushioned arm, "'Pretty mama, come and take me by the hand, by the hand.'" A ding sounded smoothly and the doors slid open with a soft hydraulic sound. Placing the folder in her mouth, she clamped her teeth on it and rolled the large, spidery wheels over the mild jarring bumps into the clean white chamber. "'Take me by the hand, pretty mama,'" she added, spitting the folder out into her hand and rolling her tongue in her mouth, straining forward to reach the button that would send her to the uppermost floor.
It was a painful reminder of her paraplegia, the numbness that began weaving at her slim hips and quickly folded into full, senseless paralysis before it reached her mid-thigh, and she felt bitter tears sting the back of her eyes, and then she blinked powerfully, forcing them back. Damn it, she was not going to cry! She could do this, she knew she could. Stuffing the folder in the deep pouch velcroed to one of the arms of her wheelchair, she leaned forward as far as she could, her fingers wavering and unfolding to their full length, falling short; the slanted footstool attached to her wheelchair was pressed against the metal wall beneath the pad, keeping her from completing her chore. The doors began to shut and she gritted her teeth despairingly, a sulky look crossing her face, her sleek red hair slipping over her pale blue eyes. In a subconscious move to soothe her mind, she murmured, singing the tune slightly, "'Come and dance with your daddy all night long.'"
A lean, dark hand caught the left door and pushed it back open, and she stared, momentarily too startled to roll her wheelchair back, but she caught herself quickly, scooting to the back of the elevator politely, smoothing the ironed length of her blue business skirt, her knees exposed where it cut off and she hastily pressed them together, worrying her panties might be flaunted.
"Trowa?" she said when the vastly taller man stepped in, feeling no sense of oddness for calling him by the name of her dead uncle; she'd never liked that original Trowa, in any case.
The doors finally clicked together and the elevator hummed, hovering in place as they stared at each other, both surprised, though Trowa's face was carefully collected into his usual quiet mask, his dark green eyes sparking in recognition. It had to have been at least three years since she had seen the reserve Preventer - by moonlight, she thought with a sneaky grin, Clown of the Year - and his hair struck her as the first obvious change, his bangs cut remarkably shorter, even as they still covered his eye, longer than most bangs were maintained. She knew she looked different, as different as someone who could hardly show off gained height could look, with her legs finally gaining some muscle mass after years of strenuous physical therapy, her arms naturally being stronger and leanly defined, and, although it had taken eleven years since she first hit puberty, she finally had something resembling a chest. And, of course, it would kill men to notice her for something other than the hunk of metal she needed for transportation.
"Mariemaia," he finally greeted in his standard monotone and she rolled her eyes, clasping her hands in her lap and gazing steadfastly ahead, longing to be able to stand up and just press the damn button. "What floor do you need?"
She realized she was gaping and she shook her head slightly, chasing away the bemused emotion that someone had recognized her disability and offered help instead of dancing around the subject, afraid of offending her. "Nineteen," she answered, and he pushed it. "Are you visiting Aunt Une as well?" she guessed.
He nodded, retreating to the opposite corner, crossing his legs and closing his eyes meditatively.
Studying him for a moment, Mariemaia shrugged and, catching where she had ended singing, she started up again. "'I'd like to hear some funky Dixieland, pretty mama, come and take me by the hand, by the hand.'" Rolling her thin shoulders, she squeezed her eyes shut and swayed her head to the rhythm playing in her head, flamboyant strawberry red hair flashing brightly in time. "'I want to honkey-tonk, honkey-tonk, honkey-tonk, with you all night long.'"
Trowa's eyebrow arched as if questioning her general sanity, and she valiantly ignored him.
--~--
*
--~--
His mouth worked its way open, an exhausted inhalation of air sounding softly as his jaw cracked audibly, and Duo winced, rotating it with his hand and feeling for injured tissue, relieved when he found nothing wrong. Adjusting the familiar duffel bouncing on his shoulder, he dug the necessary i.d. from his pocket and, with something resembling an annoyed frown, he tossed the patient i.d. over the counter to Russell, who, predictably, was ogling the centerfold of a tasteless 'model' magazine. "Hello," he drawled when the weedy man made no move to tear his eyes from the magazine, much less acknowledge his presence. "I kind of need to do my job…is that okay with you, Russy-baby?"
Russell glared up at him from under his stringy blonde hair and snatched the patient i.d. from its precarious position on his thigh, hardly bothering to glance at it before clearing the psychologist. As he handed it back over, releasing it as soon as Duo's fingers had touched it and leaving the man to grab at it quickly before it could fall to the ground, he remarked snidely, "Love your braid."
Flashing a grimacing smile, he clutched the patient i.d. with his personal one and hurried through the glass door as it unlocked, muffling with a cough, "Bastard." A juvenile, pleased feeling swarmed in his thoughts and he beamed cheerfully at the guard, who looked as awake as he felt. "'Morning, kiddo!" he greeted with a bright wave and dashing smile, flashing the identification at him and grasping the handle as the guard moved to the side, mumbling a sleepy acquiescence. Pushing the door open, he flipped the cards into his warm jeans pocket and, as he glanced at the place he had left the chair at his previous visit, hooked the undersized chair beside the guard with his foot, managing to scoot it into the room inexpertly. Setting a quirky smile on his smooth lips, he pushed the chair straight to the wall and, twisting his fresh braid into its traditional place along his spine, the brush of its end sweeping his hip, switched his gaze up to the table.
Aimee was leaning back, her thin legs peeking from under the red cotton of a new hospital gown, folded into a meditative position, and she had her tiny hands planted firmly on her legs, wrinkling the end of the gown toward her feet from the force she was applying. A small black comb, wielded expertly and gently by Jessica, was passing through her short dark blue hair, glinting the traces of highlights as the strands shifted in the false lighting. Her doe-soft eyes, a lighter shade of whispering seas, flickered to their corners, darkly lashed eyelids blinking in casual succession as she noted his presence, and she looked ahead once more, closing her eyes as her shoulders lifted and, shuddering, fell back down, as if she was steeling herself.
"How did yesterday go, Doctor Maxwell?" the plump nurse asked in a careful voice, tucking the comb into her breast pocket and fluffing the easily combed hair, shifting it into the bobbed curves it was kept in. Aimee opened her eyes and, cautiously unfolding her legs, the splint-shoe on her ankle scraping clumsily on the exposed metal of the table, she palmed the pen he had left for her, scooting forward and leaning over the few sheets of paper separated from the larger stack. Her writing, he noted, had improved a great deal, hands moving at a greater speed down the shallow lines, occasionally popping up to a previous line and writing superscript numerals, he supposed.
"Hmm?" he answered, still smiling though he saw the shadows under her eyes had darkened; had she stayed up the entire night writing? "Oh, yeah, it was great." Duo looked at the nurse locking the quilts on the ledge in the corner, patting them into stern place, and he admitted truthfully, "She's a relatively fast learner compared with some of the people here." Like, say, he added mentally, Dennis Buckman. Jessica nodded distantly and quietly exited, tugging the door shut at her back. To be secure, he leaned against the door and shoved briefly, smugly smiling as it clicked loudly into place.
The sound of metal scraping along paper echoed nearly noiselessly in the confines of the room and he saw her frown, a mere downward twitch of her light pink lips, and she studied, for a still moment, the paper, shaking the pen hastily in her hand. Making a few restrained squiggling motions in the margin, her frowned deepened, nearing a pout, and she set it down on the paper, narrowing her eyes. He leaned back and down into the uncomfortable chair, shifting in a reflex to try and find a way of sitting naturally in it before he gave up with a laughing smirk, plopping his elbows on his knees and sewing his fingers together, his chin coming to rest on the conjoined backs of his hands. It felt, now, as if he was testing her, wanting to see if she could figure, on her own, what was wrong with the pen and find a solution.
She straightened her back, eyes glittering and cherubic nose wrinkling thoughtfully as her fingers, not quite as bony as they had been a simple two days ago, traversed the length of the silver plastic, pausing at the butt of the pen. Slipping the cap off its dormant spot and setting it at the top of the paper she was working on, she rotated the black end, popping it off the spiral screw base and sliding it out. Tugging off the core of the pen, she placed the smaller cap and the hollow tube of the body beside the clipping cap on the paper, lifting the clear plastic, the rounded tip glinting faux gold. Aimee studied it for a few seconds, pinching it between her forefinger and thumb, and then she scooped the remains of the pen into her hand, hopping gracefully off the table, freezing as her wounded ankle struck the floor. He raised his head from his hands, unlacing the fingers and shifting his arms back so his palms, in turn, covered his knees, watching her with a form of pleased surprise as she nervously stepped toward him, eyes flickering like a shy child's from corner to corner, passing over the door.
Stepping quicker, hobbling a little with her limping leg, she grasped his wrist with her free hand in an unexpected move, her face whitening at her own boldness and he saw her throat tense and swell when she swallowed apprehensively. "Um," he began before wisely biting his tongue until it bled a few coppery drops, watching her face as she tightened her thin grip on the wrinkled cuff of his green button-up. Duo offered her his palm, curling his long fingers out into a pacifying curve, the creases in his palm exposed to her. With a few jerking movements, she dropped the pen's corpse over the creases, letting the pieces fall slowly to insure they did not roll off the slope of his hand. Touching his fingers with hers, she pushed lightly, fearfully, curving the honey lengths over the dissected pen and tapping them into place. She took a step back, inhaling as though she had ended an overwhelming run, and quickly shuffled into the direction of the table, her thumb rubbing anxiously over the bandage coating her left hand as she clambered back onto the metal, hunching her shoulders up to block him from seeing her face, clutching at the three or four sheets of paper left unwritten.
Duo blinked, stunned, trying to stop his mind from running in circles at the peculiarities of this new job - he'd only been working with her three days! How in--well, he'd be damned twice over.
Jessica-the-nurse had told her it was okay to touch others, not to panic or fear the skin of a man, and so she had, thinking of Dorothy-the-lost-sister and her whispered urge to break the rules, abandon the lying truths. Pulling her knees to her chest, shoulders arched up, she shielded her face and hands from view, touching her fingertips against her palm and fighting to quell the swell of fear, horror, awe, pain, bubbling in her mind. She was not supposed to touch a man, it did not work that way but the opposite, men touching her, so why did his skin feel smooth and simultaneously calloused, clean instead of the layer of grime perpetually on him-who-saw, and she breathed deeply, her fingers twitching. That foul beast of trust squirmed where it had swirled into her fear, calming her breathing and her heart and the frantic rubbing of her hands as she fought to scrape away the touch. He would strike her now, without any fragment of doubt, even if the worming trust said he would not.
Taking one last quaking breath, she let her shoulders fall slowly, her knees sliding down inch by inch, and she forced herself to look at Maxwell-god-of-death. He was smiling at her, a different smile than the feline one he always seemed to have, the mocking, dangerous smile, and it was oddly comforting, a breathless smile exposing pale teeth that were not perfect. "Hot damn," he swore, but it was a comedic swear in place of the crude harshness she was conformed to hearing. "You are a fast learner!"
Why was he smiling like that at her? She shrank back from the foreign, pure expression on his face, suddenly thrust onto ice she was not trained to handle, and she crumpled her eyebrows together, her lips thinning as she stared blankly at him. What was wrong with him that he could do everything so differently than he was supposed to, as a man and with her a woman-doll? It hurt to look at him, the panicky feeling of confusion and change in her head, and she swiped her head away, down, fixing her eyes to the paper claimed in her hands. Cloth murmured from the door and she squeezed her eyes tightly, sucking air sharply to keep the horrible tears from pushing down her face, wondering if now he would do what he should do. She hated thinking of Maxwell-god-of-death, the new Man, doing the cruel requirements and it surprised her that it hurt so much; he had been so inexplicably kind to her and it stung, it burned and stung and flailed, in her chest to imagine him showing cruelty and blood and murder.
"Here," she heard his husky, plain voice say and she, with effort, opened her eyes, their depths whipped into deep obsidian aqua waves. Another pen was held in his long brown honey hand, offered in simplicity to her, and she stared, hard, at his face, seeing nothing but a playful existence written on his heart-shaped features, slightly upturned nose and thinly full lips, with dark violet eyes shaped somewhat like almonds, nothing with the expected promises etched over. "You have to say thank-you," Maxwell-god-of-death reminded her fruitlessly as she, fingers dancing almost imperceptibly, touched the smooth silver of its casing and pulled it free, closing her entire hand around it and smiling fractionally at him.
Duo sighed and stood back, crossing his arms over his chest and watching with curiosity as she uncapped it religiously, twisting it over the butt of the new pen and pressed the tip gently to the spot she had left off at, wrist pulling down in experiment. The sight of the felt ink inspired her and she picked up her pace immediately, studiously working swiftly, her body loosened and, for the first time, nearly relaxed. As he let the movements, crisp and exact, hypnotize his mind into ignoring analyzing procedures, he found he was talking quietly to her, telling one of the precious stories of the Maxwell Church and the family he found there.
Perhaps they could heal her like they had healed him once.
--~--
*
--~--
She watched without seeing as Tanya scurried about the kitchen, stirring a large pot of a thick stew and checking habitually on the countless pastries baking to perfection in the wide oven, her mouth perpetually set in a cheerful smile as she basked in her element. The cook was relishing every moment of the vacation the other kitchen servants had taken for the winter season, finally able to do what she wished to without worrying someone else might botch it up; Tanya was a devout believer in the adage of 'if you want it done right, do it yourself,' and it showed nearly constantly.
Biting into the lunch the delighted chef had prepared for her, Rachelle rolled the exotic taste of the stuffed pita in her mouth, trying to identify what had been placed in it and smiling as she recognized the dish as being one of Quatre's favored snacks, a Middle Eastern-Mediterranean treat from ages past. Closing her dark violet ebony eyes, she tilted her face toward the false sunlight streaming through the sliding glass doors forming the wall of the kitchen at her back, leading to the long, elaborate marble second-floor landing. In a sense, she felt alone in the house, knowing Relena and Quatre had gone to the Winner offices, checking on the true reason of her visit, the framework for a new colony and the suburban homes meant to be constructed on it for the unfortunate people living in the Earth slums. Noce had taken the twins as soon as the Dorlian family had tumbled out of the guest wing, promising to give them a tour of the colony, which probably meant the three boys were utterly lost.
She opened her eyes and, sighing gently, wistfully, turned her head to stare at her left hand, raising the tanned ivory at her eye level as Tanya hummed tunelessly, happily. Her silver wedding band, delicately carved with twisting fire patterns and vines twining about the flames, was antique finished, giving it a beautifully aged look. It was the kind of quietly romantic thing her husband would choose, fitted to her ring finger perfectly, and she smiled sadly at it, turning her wrist a bit, letting the light reflect off the uneven surface, a glittering paleness that touched her face. An unbidden memory dove up from the oceanic floor of her mind, one of a conversation held so very long ago, before they had even begun their courtship, a casual talk brought by her outburst at an escort to the formal occasion.
"It was rude of him," she remembered Quatre saying in his quiet voice, a soft tone pitched above a whisper, "to say things like that." He smiled prettily, an odd thing to think on a man's face, but suitable on his, and he leaned on the lattice beside her, watching her face with the politeness of an acquaintance.
"He shouldn't even talk about having children with me," she hissed, her fingers tightening around the polished stone and feeling strands of her hair, lit by the lights of the party glistening inside and the Earth moonlight above, drift from her wound bun, the pearl webbing loose on one side. "I'm tired of men assuming I want to wed and bear the children when they don't even bother to listen to me. Why the hell would I want to be engaged to a," she waved her hand in the air impatiently, silver bangles shining as she sought the proper word, and he laughed, a kind sound that tightened her chest and stopped her fledgling rant in her throat. He was laughing at her and it was not a cruel, condescending laugh, and, against her will, she cracked a smile.
"My entire family," he told her, contrasting with her sunshine-and-shadows body with his moonlight river one, "is composed of test tube babies." The young man she only knew as Mr. Winner, head of one of the most influential families on Earth or in space, a man perhaps a year her junior, gave her a smile, then, and she found it was no longer as painful anymore to smile back.
In the kitchen, she laughed silently, tossing her raven hair in glimmering waves and nibbling off another small bite of the Arabic dish, lowering her hand into her lap, over the smooth ankle-long skirt of her pale green sleeveless dress. She smiled to herself, closing her eyes again and swallowing, placing the pita on the glass plate and exhaling mutely.
Two very large hands dropped onto her shoulders and squeezed dangerously, and Rachelle shrieked, eyes snapping open and hands flying up to grab the hairy wrists connected to those hands, yelling an obscenity Quatre would be horrified to learn she knew. A familiar chuckle resounded and she noticed, with some angry embarrassment, the entire Maganac Corps had crowded into the admittedly enormous kitchen during her daydreaming. "Damn it, Rashid," she swore, standing as he released her shoulders and turning to face him, eyes flashing like explosive daggers, "would it kill you people to give me some warning?" He merely grinned widely at her and she rolled her eyes, begrudging him a reluctant familial hug and a tug at his graying beard. "You're getting old," she warned.
"He won't listen," an amused woman's voice answered, and Rachelle looked over her shoulder at Iria Winner, shoving herself admirably through the press of large, vested men, the countless members, old and new, of the Maganac Corps moving to make room for the pale woman with brown-gold hair, waving around her ears. "And Quatre refuses to think Rashid's too old to lead the Maganac Corps." A grumble of dissent shot through the dark-skinned men and they quieted quickly when Rachelle granted them a frightening scowl, her round lips dangerously tight. "I'll go to the guest wing, okay?" Iria added, motioning for the mob to follow her.
"I don't think they'll all fit," Rachelle pointed out, her eyebrow raising skeptically, and, with a sigh, she corrected, "We have another guest wing, through the black doors." Iria saluted and latched onto the arm of the man nearest her, hauling him bodily along.
Rachelle rolled her eyes again, a smile tugging at her lips, and she turned to Rashid, patting the table. "Sit down," she said. "I'll call Quatre and tell him some friends have…unexpectedly arrived."
The massive man winced and, picking guiltily at his streaked beard, muttered an apology.
--~--
*
--~--
"What were you singing?" Trowa asked as the elevator doors, quivering with the tremors of the chamber coming to a stop, slid open with a hushed hissing, revealing the long landing, decorated only with sparse furniture and a few potted plants on coffee tables, that led to Une's spacious office. He asked for it had managed to stick itself in his head rather easily, an addictive, short melody, and he was not used to being annoyed by a song he could not shake. Mariemaia gave him a quick look, her lean arms moving to grasp the wheels of her wheelchair and thrusting them forward, propelling herself toward the automated door at the end of the landing, located behind a reasonable metal detector and an edgy guard.
"Classic honkey-tonk funk," she explained, grinning catlike at him, the elevator closing at their backs and vanishing down the shaft. Stopping in front of a large, overstuffed sofa, out of place amongst the rest of the immaculate upholstery and the thin bits of furniture, she mouthed, 'Get us when she's ready,' to the guard, who nodded in understanding and checked the gun mounted to his side nervously. Rookie, she thought with a laugh. Trowa's eyebrow arrowed up again and he sat elegantly on the sofa, all long limbs and tan skin, dryly, sardonically emotionless. "You don't believe me," she accused him, slitting her snowy eyes and folding her white arms over her small breasts, trying her damnedest to glare down her nose at him. "The only job I can do here is the sensitive computer work for Aunt Une, and that hardly ever takes too long of a time," mostly because, she continued mentally, I spent my formative years arguing and fighting spam wars with Gundam pilots while in the hospital, "so what else is there to do besides shut down porno sites, send e-mails to Miss Relena, and download music from centuries ago?" She sniffed, raising her small, round face, her bright hair falling out of its casually styled formation, and ignored his quietly amused expression. Privately, she thought he was much more fun as an uncle than the first Trowa Barton; besides, he worked in a circus, to boot, and that was in and of itself a great deal cooler than being an egotistical jerk.
"You are a very strange girl," he told her in his quiet, dry voice, Preventer jacket loose on his tall frame, and she wondered idly whatever happened to her own Preventer jacket, picking at a loose thread on her worn pink blouse. "What was the song?" he repeated patiently, his supple fingers buttoning the row of manicured plastic on his jacket, closing it over his standard black turtleneck, and she opened her mouth to insist she had already told him when she noticed she hadn't, and so she closed her mouth and choked on her own rebuttal. It had to have been some kind of genetic fallback, she thought grumpily, for her to have all the moments of stupidity when no one else in her family, that she heard of, seemed to.
"'Black Water,'" she moped, lowering her chin and playing with her red bangs before sweeping the glossy strands behind her right ear. "By the Doobie Brothers. You can only get it bootleg from the Internet; they don't sell it anymore because the demand isn't high enough in the market."
"Ah," came his simple reply and she glanced at him, annoyed, revising her earlier opinion on his uncle-ness rating and wishing for a miracle so she could kick him in the knee. It was completely beside the point that she was twenty-one now and therefore required to be too mature to wish so; it was her favorite song as of the past month and she refused to let him mock it. She thought he was mocking 'Black Water.' It could be particularly difficult trying to discern what exactly he meant with 'ah,' considering whom it was coming from and the lack of tone he used constantly. Would be kind of nice to kick him, anyway, on the basic idea of it all.
A brief buzzing sound came from the guard's vicinity and he started, nearly reaching for his gun, and she stuck her tongue out brattily at him as he flushed and grabbed the walkie-talkie on his belt, listening to the buzzing static of whoever was speaking. Trowa gave her a disapproving look - Trowa! - and she, very slowly, drew her tongue back into her mouth and rolled her lips in, fixing her gaze on the shining leather of her clogs and pretending she was not blushing in mortification. And if the guard had seen her and he told, which he would if he had, Aunt Une was going to give her hell.
"Okay, just walk through here," the guard interrupted her thoughts and Trowa smoothly flowed to his feet, not so much walking as floating across the floor to the hideously short, if wide, metal detector erected a few feet in front of the door. Mariemaia grinned, feeling a sense of disassociated payback as he was forced to stoop over, and gamely wheeled in the direction of the metal detector as the Greek man unfolded his body to its proper height and waited for her to finish the momentary ordeal. She knew from past experience the detector would not pick up her wheelchair, thank God, and pushed on through.
And, of course, the metal detector went off.
"Oh, for crying out loud!" she snapped, tossing her hands in the air and throwing her body back against the cushioned seat, her face solidifying into a decisively freezing snarl.
The guard looked at her nervously and, after checking Trowa for help and not receiving it, stammered out, "W-well, Miss Kushrenada," he stumbled over the pronunciation of her name, "are you c-carrying anything else metal on you?"
Realization dawned on her and she squelched the wave of piteous moaning threatening to dominate her voice, reaching for the taut edge of her skirt and jerking up. Trowa quickly averted his eyes, the dark emeralds finding the wall infinitely more interesting, and the guard shot back two or three steps, his brown eyes all but bulging in his face. "You perverts," she grumbled, exposing the simple black holster wrapped around her undefined ivory thigh, a small one-shot pistol hooked into the sheath adjusted for its size.
The guard cleared his throat and, eyes still kept from her thigh, meekly requested, "Miss Kushrenada, you are not permitted to bring a gun into Lady Une's office." He coughed discreetly into his hand and, once more looking for help not forthcoming from Trowa, added, "Please."
"I'm barely old enough to drink," she said in what she knew was her adorable little girl voice, one that fit her childishly youthful looks, and batted her fiery eyelashes for added effect. "And I'm a cripple. How good of a shot could I be, and why would I shoot my own aunt?"
"Um," the guard mumbled, guessing, "you wouldn't?"
"Damn straight!" she replied cheerfully, tucking her skirt back into place and patting it over the holster, smiling brightly when he obediently flicked the switch to open the sliding door. "Uncle Trowa," she threw in the title almost unconsciously, having already decided he would have to take the place of the biological uncle he had seen die, "I'm decent." He nodded, visibly startled, and entered the office, and she flashed one more charming smile at the guard, wiggling her fingers cutely at the man as she spun the wheels and followed the swarthy man into the tastefully classy office of her adoptive aunt.
"When'd you hire him?" she asked Une as soon as the door was safely shut, sliding back into place and locking protectively. Mariemaia fingered her ribbon-sleek red bangs into place for the umpteenth time, pulling the file out of her pouch and Frisbee-ing it expertly across the room to her aunt's desk. "He didn't even try to argue with my 'I'm a poor cripple, I can't fire a gun' excuse. Has he even checked the roster of the best marksmen in the Preventers?" She frowned suddenly, her slender eyebrows knitting together in a show of worried anxiety. "I am," she rounded on her aunt, who was smiling, amused, at her, "still on the roster for marksmanship, aren't I?"
Une simply laughed, a low chuckle, and, flipping her light brown hair over her shoulder, switched easily into business mode. Leveling her gaze at both Trowa and Mariemaia, she spoke quietly, almost urgently. "I've called you both because of complications in the Philip Cortez case. Agents tying up strings found some inconclusive documents that…imply we've just chipped a tooth on a shark, so to speak."
For one of the only times that the small redheaded woman could recall, Trowa frowned deeply, his eyebrows, or the one she could see, tilting unreassuringly. Aw, crap, she thought with a sigh.
--~--
*
--~--
Duo had long become silent, his mind noting tiny things and logging them into carefully categorized place, as if he were organizing a thick pile of vanilla folders into a tall, metal filing rack. She was a quiet person, as he had heard and evidenced, though it was still unclear whether that was a natural part of her personality or simply a result of the years of abuse she had suffered. She learned and adapted quickly, catching on to a concept without showing an overt amount of effort, but she was easily frightened and at times was even quelled by her own actions. Touching, unless initiated by her, was strictly forbidden, though she accepted minimal touching around her face and wrists. Spoke Spanish and he assumed she was familiar with speaking Anglo-Japanese, to judge by her capacity of writing it, although he suspected that might be a foolish assumption, especially taking into account the little time he had actually spent with her.
She would probably have some form of a social phobia or dysfunction because of the abuse and the apparently sheltered life she had been forced to live, and he expected she would dress much like an albino in public: long clothing that obscured her skin and hid her body from view. This, of course, depending on her managing to assimilate into society, which would be difficult without help, and he knocked the back of his head against the wall facing her table straight on, staring at the ceiling and, remembering Dennis' mocking words, sending an intimidating look to the ventilation system.
Three days, buddy, Duo reminded himself, you're rushing the process here. In the words of Sally, sss-lll-ooo-www ddd-ooo-www-nnn…only without the obscenities Wufei had happily stuck in the middle, interrupting her when she was trying to convince him of the benefits of taking his time. If he remembered correctly, Wufei still had the bruise on his shoulder from the punch she had given him in uncharacteristically violent irritation. That had been one of the highlights of his last eat-over at the Chang household. He grinned at the memory.
A shuffling sound broke his concentration and he blinked, lost as he attempted to draw his collective consciousness back to the present, shoving off the wall and staring at Aimee. She was carefully straightening the pile of lined paper, covered front and back with writing a computer would envy, tiny footnotes at the bottom of each page, numbered precisely. "You done?" he asked, eyes streaking to the door as he heard a creak near it, the slab of metal opening to show Jessica balancing a tray identical to yesterday's on her hip. He inclined his head in awareness of her presence and shifted back to the compact woman, blinking when he saw her jut the papers up to him, nearly stabbing him in the chest with the stiff stack. "Oh, ah," he articulated, moving to take them, gripping carefully, "thanks." She stared at him, her unnerving deep eyes traveling his face before she nodded her head in silent reply, fingers itching at her left leg as she twisted around to accept the tray.
It wasn't until Jessica had yet again bullied him out of the room, insisting she needed him to leave so she could feed the poor duck, that he shot up straight, startling the dozing guard as he stifled a whoop and grinned shamelessly. She might be reluctant to speak, and when she did, only in Spanish, but they had been communicating, through the ancient art of body language. Pounding the guard on his shoulder, knocking the man's green cap off his head, he laughed, braid bouncing along his back as he jogged, duffel scooped from the floor where it had been abandoned in the hall. He stepped through the whooshing door, having pressed his palm against the inner release button, and, giving Russell a friendly flash of his middle finger, read the bold title scripted on the top. "'The Book of Truths,'" he read slowly, shouldering his duffel into the crook between his neck and the bump of his shoulder, vanishing down the white hallway and moving past the first corner, pausing in the middle of the shiny white corridor.
Bizarre sentences covered the page, complicated rules that contradicted one another in intricate paradoxes, and he flipped the first page over, scanning its back, and palmed swiftly through the pile, occasionally picking one out to recite softly. Finally, one, near the front of the stack, caught his eye and he read it, somewhat stunned, the buried memories of an unresolved crime stirring to the surface, "'All that is precious is taken, bled and no more, for if he knows, he will take. Dorothy Catalonia is dead.'"
Duo swallowed, breathing roughly, and he stripped the duffel off his shoulder, unzipping it with a tearing motion and dumping the numbered pages in, except for the one held wrinkled in his hand, fumbling for his cell-phone and flipping it open. He typed in the first number he could think of and waited, anxiously, for the other person to pick up. "Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon," he chanted, blurring the words together, and a machinated voice apologized, informing him the other party was not currently connected, please try again later.
"Damn it, Heero!" he exploded, snapping his cell-phone shut and hurling it into the shallow depths of the duffel, ripping the zipper closed and taking down the corridors. If he had to break into Kino's office to tell someone, then damn it all to hell, he would.
--~--
*
--~--
Author's Notes: The chipped shark tooth thing might skip by some people, and that's completely understandable. Sharks are continuously losing and regrowing teeth throughout their lifetime; it isn't unusual for a shark to lose several teeth while eating, and for a shark to chip or lose a tooth is, essentially, no big deal. Being something of a shark-o-phile, I thought it might be a fun exercise.
On a side note...this is the seventh chapter of 'Requiem' and I'm still on the third day time-wise. 0o; Holy freakin' Louise, what'm I gonna do? It is kinda cool, though, that I'm still working with dedication on this fic (take into my mind my past procrastination on other fics) and the Word file is 54 pages long. *cheers* And I've only been writing for three weeks?! And now it has a /plot/...it wasn't supposed to have one of those! (And, yes, I wrote this chapter over two weeks ago. But, again, my family's still scheduled for the trip to Egypt, so I'll need to post before leaving.)
The title of this chapter and the lyrics Mariemaia was singing were both taken from 'Black Water' by the Doobie Brothers. I heard it on the radio when I was starting this chapter, and I loved how it sounded, so that's my excuse. Yay! The 'dead Sally' joke was paraphrased from the 'Episode Zero: Preventer Five' comic, in which (according to the Viz translation, as I lost the files I downloaded with the literal trans.) Duo jokingly asks if he should use real bullets when he 'kills' Sally and a smirking Wufei comments he'd kill Duo first.
And, of course, thanks-a-million to Kaiya-chan (as usual!) for reviewing, noting what needs to be broken apart, and not attempting to beat me with a stick for sending her chapter after chapter, with maybe two or three days in between. :]
The standard disclaimer still applies (unfortunately), and so does distribution to www.FanFiction.net and fine quality locations in the Shijie Solar System ('Shijie' being Chinese for 'Earth').
Feedback...it hypnotizes you...you will give feedback...it is necessary and vital to the continuation of your existence...give me feedback...via review bar or to...alien_wolf@sailorjupiter.com...feeeeeedbaaaaaack...
Thank-yous to my reviewers, as follows (and not necessarily in order):
UNgoddess, Girl-chama (ah! you both reviewed! Thank-you!), WindRider Damia (who pointed out the icky formatting error, for which I grant you Internet hot cocoa), Kaiya-chan (*huggles Kaiya-chan for being neat-o*), Insane and Psycho (*glomps for being such a doll*), Mistress of Ice (more Ami-focus coming up in a couple chapters, when it will /stay/ Ami-focused...and Duo-focused...*sweatdrops*), Misfit Dragon (I'll e-mail you back soon! I have a sentence I'll need help on, too), ICE, Tira Wolf, The Silent Wanderer (all of whom get fuzzy teddy bears for fun reviews), and azn_otaku (sorry I didn't mention you earlier *sniffles and offers apologetic teddy bear*). Your comments really are appreciated, every single one.
*peeks in subspace pocket* Oh, dear...I'm out of teddy bears. *sighs*
It grew easier over time to write in the clumsy forbidden language, her hand moving faster, though it ached as the pen cap thrummed against a covered sore each time it bobbed; she was skilled at ignoring pain and it rarely bothered her as she continued, her shoulders straightening with each page she completed, front and back, words neat and arranged perfectly as she wanted them to be. It became half a stack left, and she was aware when the bubbling warmth of Golden Mina entered, watching her gently and quietly, keeping her at ease, and once she looked up to see her nearly drowsing in the chair Maxwell-god-of-death had left. Golden Mina left, eventually, as all seemed to, and she kept the light on, letting her write and pour the evils and blessings and regulations continuously, noting addendums and footnotes as she pressed on.
A tear, a drop of glittering silver, slipped down her face, twisting along the curve of her cheek and plummeting in a suicidal drop to the page she was working on, landing with a soft plop and webbing out for a second, fuzzing ink and staining the paper a darker shade, but that too she was skilled at ignoring.
--
Requiem: Dixieland
--
He shot up, startled and confused, his hand streaking up to his face to rub worriedly at the swell of pain in the center of his forehead, and he blinked, trying to recall what had woken him. Glancing down at his laptop, one of the corners suspiciously close to the place he must have hung his head at, he groaned and passed his hands over his face, pushing up slightly to refresh his nerve endings and exhaling noisily. "What happened to the days I could run on five hours of sleep a week?" he grumbled, thumbing at the worn corners of his eyes and rolling them in a refreshing motion, affixing his gaze on the data pouring down the screen of his corner. Have to remember, he answered mentally, grudgingly, I'm pushing thirty here. God, I'm getting old. A perfunctory check of his battered watch revealed a happy trio of fours and he sighed, arching his arms behind his head, stretching his torso back as well, feeling the muscles tense, pulling out in a delightfully soothing manner.
Duo tapped absently to his left, fingertips poking the giving softness of his mattress and touching abruptly the hard curve of the coffeepot. Moving the laptop from the dip of his legs, he punched the screensaver on and pushed his legs out as far as they would go, nearly collapsing at the relaxing pleasantness that trailed from the ritual. "Lord, that felt good," he smiled tiredly, dropping back and feeling his eyes cloud over at the enveloping warmth of his bed, sheets and comforter bunching up in a welcoming nest. Judging by the coolness he could feel along his hand, the coffee had grown significantly colder over time, and he pulled his legs up to his chest, maneuvering so he could peel his socks off. Cracking his toes, he rolled over, swerving up and into a standing position in one smooth movement, staggering at the sudden rush of dizzying blood. He shook his head doggedly and grabbed the angular handle of the coffeepot, holding it thoughtlessly at his side as he trudged through the veritable sea of junk on his floor, not even bothering to lift his feet from the floor.
The hallway was subtly lit by a lamp left on in the living room and he stumbled with a gradual sense of direction down it, veering when he came uncomfortably close to a wall, moving in the basic area of the kitchen. He felt his way into the blessed room-of-rooms and grabbed the microwave door's handle, jerking it open and shoving the coffeepot in without much though, swiftly typing in the relatively small amount of time needed to warm it. "Faster," he yawned, skating over the tiles of the floor to the vid-phone in the corner, flicking the screen on and pressing his finger firmly on the O speed dial as he often found himself doing. He was mildly amazed when the connection was actually picked up, and he stifled another yawn, grinning obnoxiously at the stiff face of one Wufei Chang, his coal black eyes registering a form of weary acceptance.
"Maxwell," Wufei muttered, his black hair pulled into a loose ponytail, not yet combed. "What a surprise." This was followed by a Chinese word that sounded eerily like a friendly swear, and Duo flashed a toothy smile in delighted reply.
"How'd you and Sally sleep?" Duo asked innocently, and the other former pilot gave him a dangerous look that promised death in a variety of slow ways. "Well, I'm just being polite!" he protested, lifting his hands in a defensive posture, trying to keep his violet eyes open in wide incredulity, though the twitching of his eyelid as his body angrily attempted to rebel and force him into slumber effectively destroyed that image.
"Perfect," sighed Wufei, stroking his temples in a familiar, calming gesture as he closed his eyes as if to count to keep his temper in check. "Who did you kill this time?"
"Your wife?" Duo suggested with a brilliant smile.
"I'd kill you first," he answered in perfectly timed response to the aged joke. "Do you mind telling me why you called?" In a reaction that was decidedly against his nature, his dark yellow face split in a vicious yawn, uncontrollable and hilarious. The American started snorting, his broad shoulders quaking as he suppressed the need to choke on his laughter, tears welling up in his eyes; if it had been any other person yawning in such a manner, it might not have been so comedic, but as it was Wufei, it was easily explained away. A haughty glare was sent in response to the poorly contained humor, and he crossed his arms over his chest, his dark garnet sweater blurred by a temporary wave of static that jittered from the bottom of the vid-screen to the bottom. Habitually, Duo smacked the device and released his hand from its grip over his mouth, shoulders still moving in chuckling motions.
"Ah," he wrinkled his eyebrows together, scratching furiously at his tangled, half-undone braid, "I've got something hovering in the back of my head and I can't figure it out. I was hoping talking to someone else would help, maybe."
"Brilliant," came the irritated reply. "Why couldn't you annoy Quatre? He's a much better person to talk to; he won't kill you for ill-timed gags."
"Can't!" Duo said cheerfully. "Relena and company are visiting him and his wife, and you know how the twins are on the nerves of most sane people. I'm not worried that Quman will crack so much as I'm afraid Rachelle will go wild woman on him. Don't want to call during that." Wufei's face took on a decidedly 'please don't explain that' expression, and he chuckled, making a never-mind wave with his hand. "Sorry for bothering you. See ya later, 'kay?"
Wufei nodded curtly, allowing a brief smile to cross his face, and he signed off, abandoning Duo to the mercy of a snow-filled vid-screen and the shrill racket of the microwave signaling its function was, indeed, completed. Coffee, he informed himself dreamily. Caffeine in horrific amounts…
--~--
*
--~--
Mariemaia Kushrenada stretched her milky arms above her head, feeling nervous muscles relax finally, and she motioned to the other woman working studiously in their cubicle that she was taking her lunch break, scooping the manila folder she had been finishing up and dropping it in her lap. "'I'd like to hear some funky Dixieland,'" she sang softly, wheeling out of the cubicle and swiftly shoving herself down the symmetrical aisle separating halves of the floor in the Preventers headquarters, slowing as she neared the elevator and thumbing the 'up' destination button, continuing to sing as she waited, drumming her fingers on the cushioned arm, "'Pretty mama, come and take me by the hand, by the hand.'" A ding sounded smoothly and the doors slid open with a soft hydraulic sound. Placing the folder in her mouth, she clamped her teeth on it and rolled the large, spidery wheels over the mild jarring bumps into the clean white chamber. "'Take me by the hand, pretty mama,'" she added, spitting the folder out into her hand and rolling her tongue in her mouth, straining forward to reach the button that would send her to the uppermost floor.
It was a painful reminder of her paraplegia, the numbness that began weaving at her slim hips and quickly folded into full, senseless paralysis before it reached her mid-thigh, and she felt bitter tears sting the back of her eyes, and then she blinked powerfully, forcing them back. Damn it, she was not going to cry! She could do this, she knew she could. Stuffing the folder in the deep pouch velcroed to one of the arms of her wheelchair, she leaned forward as far as she could, her fingers wavering and unfolding to their full length, falling short; the slanted footstool attached to her wheelchair was pressed against the metal wall beneath the pad, keeping her from completing her chore. The doors began to shut and she gritted her teeth despairingly, a sulky look crossing her face, her sleek red hair slipping over her pale blue eyes. In a subconscious move to soothe her mind, she murmured, singing the tune slightly, "'Come and dance with your daddy all night long.'"
A lean, dark hand caught the left door and pushed it back open, and she stared, momentarily too startled to roll her wheelchair back, but she caught herself quickly, scooting to the back of the elevator politely, smoothing the ironed length of her blue business skirt, her knees exposed where it cut off and she hastily pressed them together, worrying her panties might be flaunted.
"Trowa?" she said when the vastly taller man stepped in, feeling no sense of oddness for calling him by the name of her dead uncle; she'd never liked that original Trowa, in any case.
The doors finally clicked together and the elevator hummed, hovering in place as they stared at each other, both surprised, though Trowa's face was carefully collected into his usual quiet mask, his dark green eyes sparking in recognition. It had to have been at least three years since she had seen the reserve Preventer - by moonlight, she thought with a sneaky grin, Clown of the Year - and his hair struck her as the first obvious change, his bangs cut remarkably shorter, even as they still covered his eye, longer than most bangs were maintained. She knew she looked different, as different as someone who could hardly show off gained height could look, with her legs finally gaining some muscle mass after years of strenuous physical therapy, her arms naturally being stronger and leanly defined, and, although it had taken eleven years since she first hit puberty, she finally had something resembling a chest. And, of course, it would kill men to notice her for something other than the hunk of metal she needed for transportation.
"Mariemaia," he finally greeted in his standard monotone and she rolled her eyes, clasping her hands in her lap and gazing steadfastly ahead, longing to be able to stand up and just press the damn button. "What floor do you need?"
She realized she was gaping and she shook her head slightly, chasing away the bemused emotion that someone had recognized her disability and offered help instead of dancing around the subject, afraid of offending her. "Nineteen," she answered, and he pushed it. "Are you visiting Aunt Une as well?" she guessed.
He nodded, retreating to the opposite corner, crossing his legs and closing his eyes meditatively.
Studying him for a moment, Mariemaia shrugged and, catching where she had ended singing, she started up again. "'I'd like to hear some funky Dixieland, pretty mama, come and take me by the hand, by the hand.'" Rolling her thin shoulders, she squeezed her eyes shut and swayed her head to the rhythm playing in her head, flamboyant strawberry red hair flashing brightly in time. "'I want to honkey-tonk, honkey-tonk, honkey-tonk, with you all night long.'"
Trowa's eyebrow arched as if questioning her general sanity, and she valiantly ignored him.
--~--
*
--~--
His mouth worked its way open, an exhausted inhalation of air sounding softly as his jaw cracked audibly, and Duo winced, rotating it with his hand and feeling for injured tissue, relieved when he found nothing wrong. Adjusting the familiar duffel bouncing on his shoulder, he dug the necessary i.d. from his pocket and, with something resembling an annoyed frown, he tossed the patient i.d. over the counter to Russell, who, predictably, was ogling the centerfold of a tasteless 'model' magazine. "Hello," he drawled when the weedy man made no move to tear his eyes from the magazine, much less acknowledge his presence. "I kind of need to do my job…is that okay with you, Russy-baby?"
Russell glared up at him from under his stringy blonde hair and snatched the patient i.d. from its precarious position on his thigh, hardly bothering to glance at it before clearing the psychologist. As he handed it back over, releasing it as soon as Duo's fingers had touched it and leaving the man to grab at it quickly before it could fall to the ground, he remarked snidely, "Love your braid."
Flashing a grimacing smile, he clutched the patient i.d. with his personal one and hurried through the glass door as it unlocked, muffling with a cough, "Bastard." A juvenile, pleased feeling swarmed in his thoughts and he beamed cheerfully at the guard, who looked as awake as he felt. "'Morning, kiddo!" he greeted with a bright wave and dashing smile, flashing the identification at him and grasping the handle as the guard moved to the side, mumbling a sleepy acquiescence. Pushing the door open, he flipped the cards into his warm jeans pocket and, as he glanced at the place he had left the chair at his previous visit, hooked the undersized chair beside the guard with his foot, managing to scoot it into the room inexpertly. Setting a quirky smile on his smooth lips, he pushed the chair straight to the wall and, twisting his fresh braid into its traditional place along his spine, the brush of its end sweeping his hip, switched his gaze up to the table.
Aimee was leaning back, her thin legs peeking from under the red cotton of a new hospital gown, folded into a meditative position, and she had her tiny hands planted firmly on her legs, wrinkling the end of the gown toward her feet from the force she was applying. A small black comb, wielded expertly and gently by Jessica, was passing through her short dark blue hair, glinting the traces of highlights as the strands shifted in the false lighting. Her doe-soft eyes, a lighter shade of whispering seas, flickered to their corners, darkly lashed eyelids blinking in casual succession as she noted his presence, and she looked ahead once more, closing her eyes as her shoulders lifted and, shuddering, fell back down, as if she was steeling herself.
"How did yesterday go, Doctor Maxwell?" the plump nurse asked in a careful voice, tucking the comb into her breast pocket and fluffing the easily combed hair, shifting it into the bobbed curves it was kept in. Aimee opened her eyes and, cautiously unfolding her legs, the splint-shoe on her ankle scraping clumsily on the exposed metal of the table, she palmed the pen he had left for her, scooting forward and leaning over the few sheets of paper separated from the larger stack. Her writing, he noted, had improved a great deal, hands moving at a greater speed down the shallow lines, occasionally popping up to a previous line and writing superscript numerals, he supposed.
"Hmm?" he answered, still smiling though he saw the shadows under her eyes had darkened; had she stayed up the entire night writing? "Oh, yeah, it was great." Duo looked at the nurse locking the quilts on the ledge in the corner, patting them into stern place, and he admitted truthfully, "She's a relatively fast learner compared with some of the people here." Like, say, he added mentally, Dennis Buckman. Jessica nodded distantly and quietly exited, tugging the door shut at her back. To be secure, he leaned against the door and shoved briefly, smugly smiling as it clicked loudly into place.
The sound of metal scraping along paper echoed nearly noiselessly in the confines of the room and he saw her frown, a mere downward twitch of her light pink lips, and she studied, for a still moment, the paper, shaking the pen hastily in her hand. Making a few restrained squiggling motions in the margin, her frowned deepened, nearing a pout, and she set it down on the paper, narrowing her eyes. He leaned back and down into the uncomfortable chair, shifting in a reflex to try and find a way of sitting naturally in it before he gave up with a laughing smirk, plopping his elbows on his knees and sewing his fingers together, his chin coming to rest on the conjoined backs of his hands. It felt, now, as if he was testing her, wanting to see if she could figure, on her own, what was wrong with the pen and find a solution.
She straightened her back, eyes glittering and cherubic nose wrinkling thoughtfully as her fingers, not quite as bony as they had been a simple two days ago, traversed the length of the silver plastic, pausing at the butt of the pen. Slipping the cap off its dormant spot and setting it at the top of the paper she was working on, she rotated the black end, popping it off the spiral screw base and sliding it out. Tugging off the core of the pen, she placed the smaller cap and the hollow tube of the body beside the clipping cap on the paper, lifting the clear plastic, the rounded tip glinting faux gold. Aimee studied it for a few seconds, pinching it between her forefinger and thumb, and then she scooped the remains of the pen into her hand, hopping gracefully off the table, freezing as her wounded ankle struck the floor. He raised his head from his hands, unlacing the fingers and shifting his arms back so his palms, in turn, covered his knees, watching her with a form of pleased surprise as she nervously stepped toward him, eyes flickering like a shy child's from corner to corner, passing over the door.
Stepping quicker, hobbling a little with her limping leg, she grasped his wrist with her free hand in an unexpected move, her face whitening at her own boldness and he saw her throat tense and swell when she swallowed apprehensively. "Um," he began before wisely biting his tongue until it bled a few coppery drops, watching her face as she tightened her thin grip on the wrinkled cuff of his green button-up. Duo offered her his palm, curling his long fingers out into a pacifying curve, the creases in his palm exposed to her. With a few jerking movements, she dropped the pen's corpse over the creases, letting the pieces fall slowly to insure they did not roll off the slope of his hand. Touching his fingers with hers, she pushed lightly, fearfully, curving the honey lengths over the dissected pen and tapping them into place. She took a step back, inhaling as though she had ended an overwhelming run, and quickly shuffled into the direction of the table, her thumb rubbing anxiously over the bandage coating her left hand as she clambered back onto the metal, hunching her shoulders up to block him from seeing her face, clutching at the three or four sheets of paper left unwritten.
Duo blinked, stunned, trying to stop his mind from running in circles at the peculiarities of this new job - he'd only been working with her three days! How in--well, he'd be damned twice over.
Jessica-the-nurse had told her it was okay to touch others, not to panic or fear the skin of a man, and so she had, thinking of Dorothy-the-lost-sister and her whispered urge to break the rules, abandon the lying truths. Pulling her knees to her chest, shoulders arched up, she shielded her face and hands from view, touching her fingertips against her palm and fighting to quell the swell of fear, horror, awe, pain, bubbling in her mind. She was not supposed to touch a man, it did not work that way but the opposite, men touching her, so why did his skin feel smooth and simultaneously calloused, clean instead of the layer of grime perpetually on him-who-saw, and she breathed deeply, her fingers twitching. That foul beast of trust squirmed where it had swirled into her fear, calming her breathing and her heart and the frantic rubbing of her hands as she fought to scrape away the touch. He would strike her now, without any fragment of doubt, even if the worming trust said he would not.
Taking one last quaking breath, she let her shoulders fall slowly, her knees sliding down inch by inch, and she forced herself to look at Maxwell-god-of-death. He was smiling at her, a different smile than the feline one he always seemed to have, the mocking, dangerous smile, and it was oddly comforting, a breathless smile exposing pale teeth that were not perfect. "Hot damn," he swore, but it was a comedic swear in place of the crude harshness she was conformed to hearing. "You are a fast learner!"
Why was he smiling like that at her? She shrank back from the foreign, pure expression on his face, suddenly thrust onto ice she was not trained to handle, and she crumpled her eyebrows together, her lips thinning as she stared blankly at him. What was wrong with him that he could do everything so differently than he was supposed to, as a man and with her a woman-doll? It hurt to look at him, the panicky feeling of confusion and change in her head, and she swiped her head away, down, fixing her eyes to the paper claimed in her hands. Cloth murmured from the door and she squeezed her eyes tightly, sucking air sharply to keep the horrible tears from pushing down her face, wondering if now he would do what he should do. She hated thinking of Maxwell-god-of-death, the new Man, doing the cruel requirements and it surprised her that it hurt so much; he had been so inexplicably kind to her and it stung, it burned and stung and flailed, in her chest to imagine him showing cruelty and blood and murder.
"Here," she heard his husky, plain voice say and she, with effort, opened her eyes, their depths whipped into deep obsidian aqua waves. Another pen was held in his long brown honey hand, offered in simplicity to her, and she stared, hard, at his face, seeing nothing but a playful existence written on his heart-shaped features, slightly upturned nose and thinly full lips, with dark violet eyes shaped somewhat like almonds, nothing with the expected promises etched over. "You have to say thank-you," Maxwell-god-of-death reminded her fruitlessly as she, fingers dancing almost imperceptibly, touched the smooth silver of its casing and pulled it free, closing her entire hand around it and smiling fractionally at him.
Duo sighed and stood back, crossing his arms over his chest and watching with curiosity as she uncapped it religiously, twisting it over the butt of the new pen and pressed the tip gently to the spot she had left off at, wrist pulling down in experiment. The sight of the felt ink inspired her and she picked up her pace immediately, studiously working swiftly, her body loosened and, for the first time, nearly relaxed. As he let the movements, crisp and exact, hypnotize his mind into ignoring analyzing procedures, he found he was talking quietly to her, telling one of the precious stories of the Maxwell Church and the family he found there.
Perhaps they could heal her like they had healed him once.
--~--
*
--~--
She watched without seeing as Tanya scurried about the kitchen, stirring a large pot of a thick stew and checking habitually on the countless pastries baking to perfection in the wide oven, her mouth perpetually set in a cheerful smile as she basked in her element. The cook was relishing every moment of the vacation the other kitchen servants had taken for the winter season, finally able to do what she wished to without worrying someone else might botch it up; Tanya was a devout believer in the adage of 'if you want it done right, do it yourself,' and it showed nearly constantly.
Biting into the lunch the delighted chef had prepared for her, Rachelle rolled the exotic taste of the stuffed pita in her mouth, trying to identify what had been placed in it and smiling as she recognized the dish as being one of Quatre's favored snacks, a Middle Eastern-Mediterranean treat from ages past. Closing her dark violet ebony eyes, she tilted her face toward the false sunlight streaming through the sliding glass doors forming the wall of the kitchen at her back, leading to the long, elaborate marble second-floor landing. In a sense, she felt alone in the house, knowing Relena and Quatre had gone to the Winner offices, checking on the true reason of her visit, the framework for a new colony and the suburban homes meant to be constructed on it for the unfortunate people living in the Earth slums. Noce had taken the twins as soon as the Dorlian family had tumbled out of the guest wing, promising to give them a tour of the colony, which probably meant the three boys were utterly lost.
She opened her eyes and, sighing gently, wistfully, turned her head to stare at her left hand, raising the tanned ivory at her eye level as Tanya hummed tunelessly, happily. Her silver wedding band, delicately carved with twisting fire patterns and vines twining about the flames, was antique finished, giving it a beautifully aged look. It was the kind of quietly romantic thing her husband would choose, fitted to her ring finger perfectly, and she smiled sadly at it, turning her wrist a bit, letting the light reflect off the uneven surface, a glittering paleness that touched her face. An unbidden memory dove up from the oceanic floor of her mind, one of a conversation held so very long ago, before they had even begun their courtship, a casual talk brought by her outburst at an escort to the formal occasion.
"It was rude of him," she remembered Quatre saying in his quiet voice, a soft tone pitched above a whisper, "to say things like that." He smiled prettily, an odd thing to think on a man's face, but suitable on his, and he leaned on the lattice beside her, watching her face with the politeness of an acquaintance.
"He shouldn't even talk about having children with me," she hissed, her fingers tightening around the polished stone and feeling strands of her hair, lit by the lights of the party glistening inside and the Earth moonlight above, drift from her wound bun, the pearl webbing loose on one side. "I'm tired of men assuming I want to wed and bear the children when they don't even bother to listen to me. Why the hell would I want to be engaged to a," she waved her hand in the air impatiently, silver bangles shining as she sought the proper word, and he laughed, a kind sound that tightened her chest and stopped her fledgling rant in her throat. He was laughing at her and it was not a cruel, condescending laugh, and, against her will, she cracked a smile.
"My entire family," he told her, contrasting with her sunshine-and-shadows body with his moonlight river one, "is composed of test tube babies." The young man she only knew as Mr. Winner, head of one of the most influential families on Earth or in space, a man perhaps a year her junior, gave her a smile, then, and she found it was no longer as painful anymore to smile back.
In the kitchen, she laughed silently, tossing her raven hair in glimmering waves and nibbling off another small bite of the Arabic dish, lowering her hand into her lap, over the smooth ankle-long skirt of her pale green sleeveless dress. She smiled to herself, closing her eyes again and swallowing, placing the pita on the glass plate and exhaling mutely.
Two very large hands dropped onto her shoulders and squeezed dangerously, and Rachelle shrieked, eyes snapping open and hands flying up to grab the hairy wrists connected to those hands, yelling an obscenity Quatre would be horrified to learn she knew. A familiar chuckle resounded and she noticed, with some angry embarrassment, the entire Maganac Corps had crowded into the admittedly enormous kitchen during her daydreaming. "Damn it, Rashid," she swore, standing as he released her shoulders and turning to face him, eyes flashing like explosive daggers, "would it kill you people to give me some warning?" He merely grinned widely at her and she rolled her eyes, begrudging him a reluctant familial hug and a tug at his graying beard. "You're getting old," she warned.
"He won't listen," an amused woman's voice answered, and Rachelle looked over her shoulder at Iria Winner, shoving herself admirably through the press of large, vested men, the countless members, old and new, of the Maganac Corps moving to make room for the pale woman with brown-gold hair, waving around her ears. "And Quatre refuses to think Rashid's too old to lead the Maganac Corps." A grumble of dissent shot through the dark-skinned men and they quieted quickly when Rachelle granted them a frightening scowl, her round lips dangerously tight. "I'll go to the guest wing, okay?" Iria added, motioning for the mob to follow her.
"I don't think they'll all fit," Rachelle pointed out, her eyebrow raising skeptically, and, with a sigh, she corrected, "We have another guest wing, through the black doors." Iria saluted and latched onto the arm of the man nearest her, hauling him bodily along.
Rachelle rolled her eyes again, a smile tugging at her lips, and she turned to Rashid, patting the table. "Sit down," she said. "I'll call Quatre and tell him some friends have…unexpectedly arrived."
The massive man winced and, picking guiltily at his streaked beard, muttered an apology.
--~--
*
--~--
"What were you singing?" Trowa asked as the elevator doors, quivering with the tremors of the chamber coming to a stop, slid open with a hushed hissing, revealing the long landing, decorated only with sparse furniture and a few potted plants on coffee tables, that led to Une's spacious office. He asked for it had managed to stick itself in his head rather easily, an addictive, short melody, and he was not used to being annoyed by a song he could not shake. Mariemaia gave him a quick look, her lean arms moving to grasp the wheels of her wheelchair and thrusting them forward, propelling herself toward the automated door at the end of the landing, located behind a reasonable metal detector and an edgy guard.
"Classic honkey-tonk funk," she explained, grinning catlike at him, the elevator closing at their backs and vanishing down the shaft. Stopping in front of a large, overstuffed sofa, out of place amongst the rest of the immaculate upholstery and the thin bits of furniture, she mouthed, 'Get us when she's ready,' to the guard, who nodded in understanding and checked the gun mounted to his side nervously. Rookie, she thought with a laugh. Trowa's eyebrow arrowed up again and he sat elegantly on the sofa, all long limbs and tan skin, dryly, sardonically emotionless. "You don't believe me," she accused him, slitting her snowy eyes and folding her white arms over her small breasts, trying her damnedest to glare down her nose at him. "The only job I can do here is the sensitive computer work for Aunt Une, and that hardly ever takes too long of a time," mostly because, she continued mentally, I spent my formative years arguing and fighting spam wars with Gundam pilots while in the hospital, "so what else is there to do besides shut down porno sites, send e-mails to Miss Relena, and download music from centuries ago?" She sniffed, raising her small, round face, her bright hair falling out of its casually styled formation, and ignored his quietly amused expression. Privately, she thought he was much more fun as an uncle than the first Trowa Barton; besides, he worked in a circus, to boot, and that was in and of itself a great deal cooler than being an egotistical jerk.
"You are a very strange girl," he told her in his quiet, dry voice, Preventer jacket loose on his tall frame, and she wondered idly whatever happened to her own Preventer jacket, picking at a loose thread on her worn pink blouse. "What was the song?" he repeated patiently, his supple fingers buttoning the row of manicured plastic on his jacket, closing it over his standard black turtleneck, and she opened her mouth to insist she had already told him when she noticed she hadn't, and so she closed her mouth and choked on her own rebuttal. It had to have been some kind of genetic fallback, she thought grumpily, for her to have all the moments of stupidity when no one else in her family, that she heard of, seemed to.
"'Black Water,'" she moped, lowering her chin and playing with her red bangs before sweeping the glossy strands behind her right ear. "By the Doobie Brothers. You can only get it bootleg from the Internet; they don't sell it anymore because the demand isn't high enough in the market."
"Ah," came his simple reply and she glanced at him, annoyed, revising her earlier opinion on his uncle-ness rating and wishing for a miracle so she could kick him in the knee. It was completely beside the point that she was twenty-one now and therefore required to be too mature to wish so; it was her favorite song as of the past month and she refused to let him mock it. She thought he was mocking 'Black Water.' It could be particularly difficult trying to discern what exactly he meant with 'ah,' considering whom it was coming from and the lack of tone he used constantly. Would be kind of nice to kick him, anyway, on the basic idea of it all.
A brief buzzing sound came from the guard's vicinity and he started, nearly reaching for his gun, and she stuck her tongue out brattily at him as he flushed and grabbed the walkie-talkie on his belt, listening to the buzzing static of whoever was speaking. Trowa gave her a disapproving look - Trowa! - and she, very slowly, drew her tongue back into her mouth and rolled her lips in, fixing her gaze on the shining leather of her clogs and pretending she was not blushing in mortification. And if the guard had seen her and he told, which he would if he had, Aunt Une was going to give her hell.
"Okay, just walk through here," the guard interrupted her thoughts and Trowa smoothly flowed to his feet, not so much walking as floating across the floor to the hideously short, if wide, metal detector erected a few feet in front of the door. Mariemaia grinned, feeling a sense of disassociated payback as he was forced to stoop over, and gamely wheeled in the direction of the metal detector as the Greek man unfolded his body to its proper height and waited for her to finish the momentary ordeal. She knew from past experience the detector would not pick up her wheelchair, thank God, and pushed on through.
And, of course, the metal detector went off.
"Oh, for crying out loud!" she snapped, tossing her hands in the air and throwing her body back against the cushioned seat, her face solidifying into a decisively freezing snarl.
The guard looked at her nervously and, after checking Trowa for help and not receiving it, stammered out, "W-well, Miss Kushrenada," he stumbled over the pronunciation of her name, "are you c-carrying anything else metal on you?"
Realization dawned on her and she squelched the wave of piteous moaning threatening to dominate her voice, reaching for the taut edge of her skirt and jerking up. Trowa quickly averted his eyes, the dark emeralds finding the wall infinitely more interesting, and the guard shot back two or three steps, his brown eyes all but bulging in his face. "You perverts," she grumbled, exposing the simple black holster wrapped around her undefined ivory thigh, a small one-shot pistol hooked into the sheath adjusted for its size.
The guard cleared his throat and, eyes still kept from her thigh, meekly requested, "Miss Kushrenada, you are not permitted to bring a gun into Lady Une's office." He coughed discreetly into his hand and, once more looking for help not forthcoming from Trowa, added, "Please."
"I'm barely old enough to drink," she said in what she knew was her adorable little girl voice, one that fit her childishly youthful looks, and batted her fiery eyelashes for added effect. "And I'm a cripple. How good of a shot could I be, and why would I shoot my own aunt?"
"Um," the guard mumbled, guessing, "you wouldn't?"
"Damn straight!" she replied cheerfully, tucking her skirt back into place and patting it over the holster, smiling brightly when he obediently flicked the switch to open the sliding door. "Uncle Trowa," she threw in the title almost unconsciously, having already decided he would have to take the place of the biological uncle he had seen die, "I'm decent." He nodded, visibly startled, and entered the office, and she flashed one more charming smile at the guard, wiggling her fingers cutely at the man as she spun the wheels and followed the swarthy man into the tastefully classy office of her adoptive aunt.
"When'd you hire him?" she asked Une as soon as the door was safely shut, sliding back into place and locking protectively. Mariemaia fingered her ribbon-sleek red bangs into place for the umpteenth time, pulling the file out of her pouch and Frisbee-ing it expertly across the room to her aunt's desk. "He didn't even try to argue with my 'I'm a poor cripple, I can't fire a gun' excuse. Has he even checked the roster of the best marksmen in the Preventers?" She frowned suddenly, her slender eyebrows knitting together in a show of worried anxiety. "I am," she rounded on her aunt, who was smiling, amused, at her, "still on the roster for marksmanship, aren't I?"
Une simply laughed, a low chuckle, and, flipping her light brown hair over her shoulder, switched easily into business mode. Leveling her gaze at both Trowa and Mariemaia, she spoke quietly, almost urgently. "I've called you both because of complications in the Philip Cortez case. Agents tying up strings found some inconclusive documents that…imply we've just chipped a tooth on a shark, so to speak."
For one of the only times that the small redheaded woman could recall, Trowa frowned deeply, his eyebrows, or the one she could see, tilting unreassuringly. Aw, crap, she thought with a sigh.
--~--
*
--~--
Duo had long become silent, his mind noting tiny things and logging them into carefully categorized place, as if he were organizing a thick pile of vanilla folders into a tall, metal filing rack. She was a quiet person, as he had heard and evidenced, though it was still unclear whether that was a natural part of her personality or simply a result of the years of abuse she had suffered. She learned and adapted quickly, catching on to a concept without showing an overt amount of effort, but she was easily frightened and at times was even quelled by her own actions. Touching, unless initiated by her, was strictly forbidden, though she accepted minimal touching around her face and wrists. Spoke Spanish and he assumed she was familiar with speaking Anglo-Japanese, to judge by her capacity of writing it, although he suspected that might be a foolish assumption, especially taking into account the little time he had actually spent with her.
She would probably have some form of a social phobia or dysfunction because of the abuse and the apparently sheltered life she had been forced to live, and he expected she would dress much like an albino in public: long clothing that obscured her skin and hid her body from view. This, of course, depending on her managing to assimilate into society, which would be difficult without help, and he knocked the back of his head against the wall facing her table straight on, staring at the ceiling and, remembering Dennis' mocking words, sending an intimidating look to the ventilation system.
Three days, buddy, Duo reminded himself, you're rushing the process here. In the words of Sally, sss-lll-ooo-www ddd-ooo-www-nnn…only without the obscenities Wufei had happily stuck in the middle, interrupting her when she was trying to convince him of the benefits of taking his time. If he remembered correctly, Wufei still had the bruise on his shoulder from the punch she had given him in uncharacteristically violent irritation. That had been one of the highlights of his last eat-over at the Chang household. He grinned at the memory.
A shuffling sound broke his concentration and he blinked, lost as he attempted to draw his collective consciousness back to the present, shoving off the wall and staring at Aimee. She was carefully straightening the pile of lined paper, covered front and back with writing a computer would envy, tiny footnotes at the bottom of each page, numbered precisely. "You done?" he asked, eyes streaking to the door as he heard a creak near it, the slab of metal opening to show Jessica balancing a tray identical to yesterday's on her hip. He inclined his head in awareness of her presence and shifted back to the compact woman, blinking when he saw her jut the papers up to him, nearly stabbing him in the chest with the stiff stack. "Oh, ah," he articulated, moving to take them, gripping carefully, "thanks." She stared at him, her unnerving deep eyes traveling his face before she nodded her head in silent reply, fingers itching at her left leg as she twisted around to accept the tray.
It wasn't until Jessica had yet again bullied him out of the room, insisting she needed him to leave so she could feed the poor duck, that he shot up straight, startling the dozing guard as he stifled a whoop and grinned shamelessly. She might be reluctant to speak, and when she did, only in Spanish, but they had been communicating, through the ancient art of body language. Pounding the guard on his shoulder, knocking the man's green cap off his head, he laughed, braid bouncing along his back as he jogged, duffel scooped from the floor where it had been abandoned in the hall. He stepped through the whooshing door, having pressed his palm against the inner release button, and, giving Russell a friendly flash of his middle finger, read the bold title scripted on the top. "'The Book of Truths,'" he read slowly, shouldering his duffel into the crook between his neck and the bump of his shoulder, vanishing down the white hallway and moving past the first corner, pausing in the middle of the shiny white corridor.
Bizarre sentences covered the page, complicated rules that contradicted one another in intricate paradoxes, and he flipped the first page over, scanning its back, and palmed swiftly through the pile, occasionally picking one out to recite softly. Finally, one, near the front of the stack, caught his eye and he read it, somewhat stunned, the buried memories of an unresolved crime stirring to the surface, "'All that is precious is taken, bled and no more, for if he knows, he will take. Dorothy Catalonia is dead.'"
Duo swallowed, breathing roughly, and he stripped the duffel off his shoulder, unzipping it with a tearing motion and dumping the numbered pages in, except for the one held wrinkled in his hand, fumbling for his cell-phone and flipping it open. He typed in the first number he could think of and waited, anxiously, for the other person to pick up. "Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon," he chanted, blurring the words together, and a machinated voice apologized, informing him the other party was not currently connected, please try again later.
"Damn it, Heero!" he exploded, snapping his cell-phone shut and hurling it into the shallow depths of the duffel, ripping the zipper closed and taking down the corridors. If he had to break into Kino's office to tell someone, then damn it all to hell, he would.
--~--
*
--~--
Author's Notes: The chipped shark tooth thing might skip by some people, and that's completely understandable. Sharks are continuously losing and regrowing teeth throughout their lifetime; it isn't unusual for a shark to lose several teeth while eating, and for a shark to chip or lose a tooth is, essentially, no big deal. Being something of a shark-o-phile, I thought it might be a fun exercise.
On a side note...this is the seventh chapter of 'Requiem' and I'm still on the third day time-wise. 0o; Holy freakin' Louise, what'm I gonna do? It is kinda cool, though, that I'm still working with dedication on this fic (take into my mind my past procrastination on other fics) and the Word file is 54 pages long. *cheers* And I've only been writing for three weeks?! And now it has a /plot/...it wasn't supposed to have one of those! (And, yes, I wrote this chapter over two weeks ago. But, again, my family's still scheduled for the trip to Egypt, so I'll need to post before leaving.)
The title of this chapter and the lyrics Mariemaia was singing were both taken from 'Black Water' by the Doobie Brothers. I heard it on the radio when I was starting this chapter, and I loved how it sounded, so that's my excuse. Yay! The 'dead Sally' joke was paraphrased from the 'Episode Zero: Preventer Five' comic, in which (according to the Viz translation, as I lost the files I downloaded with the literal trans.) Duo jokingly asks if he should use real bullets when he 'kills' Sally and a smirking Wufei comments he'd kill Duo first.
And, of course, thanks-a-million to Kaiya-chan (as usual!) for reviewing, noting what needs to be broken apart, and not attempting to beat me with a stick for sending her chapter after chapter, with maybe two or three days in between. :]
The standard disclaimer still applies (unfortunately), and so does distribution to www.FanFiction.net and fine quality locations in the Shijie Solar System ('Shijie' being Chinese for 'Earth').
Feedback...it hypnotizes you...you will give feedback...it is necessary and vital to the continuation of your existence...give me feedback...via review bar or to...alien_wolf@sailorjupiter.com...feeeeeedbaaaaaack...
Thank-yous to my reviewers, as follows (and not necessarily in order):
UNgoddess, Girl-chama (ah! you both reviewed! Thank-you!), WindRider Damia (who pointed out the icky formatting error, for which I grant you Internet hot cocoa), Kaiya-chan (*huggles Kaiya-chan for being neat-o*), Insane and Psycho (*glomps for being such a doll*), Mistress of Ice (more Ami-focus coming up in a couple chapters, when it will /stay/ Ami-focused...and Duo-focused...*sweatdrops*), Misfit Dragon (I'll e-mail you back soon! I have a sentence I'll need help on, too), ICE, Tira Wolf, The Silent Wanderer (all of whom get fuzzy teddy bears for fun reviews), and azn_otaku (sorry I didn't mention you earlier *sniffles and offers apologetic teddy bear*). Your comments really are appreciated, every single one.
*peeks in subspace pocket* Oh, dear...I'm out of teddy bears. *sighs*