Acherontia Atropos Part 6
Until that time, I'd thought that I'd seen at all, that no horror
the world could throw at me could really touch me. I thought my
sense of humor was in impenetrable mask.
Some things stain the soul, but they're stains that you can live
with. I still had nightmares about everything I'd seen, but I'd
gotten to the point that I was used to them, because it was either
that or go completely insane or turn into Heero. Yeah, I'd thought
that nothing could bother me.
God, I was wrong. I was so wrong.
Yan was suddenly bumped to the top of the list of bad shit I'd
seen. The only things that were still over him were the carnage in
Maxwell Church and the dim memory that I have of the aftermath
that killed my family and destroyed my home when I was too young
to know what violence was. Most of the death I'd seen in the war
were the clean, quick endings of mobile suits or carriers
exploding. Nothing like this.
There was something indecent about it, fundamentally wrong. Death
is so much more personal when it's someone you know, and violent
death is the ultimate insult. It becomes an attack on you. Your
emotions get so tangled up that you feel like you're one massive
knot inside. On one hand, you feel guilty that the person died,
and you didn't. On the other, you suddenly feel relief so profound
that it almost brings tears to your eyes, relief that it was the
other person and not you, and that only makes you feel worse. You
start wondering if there was any way that you could have saved the
other person, any way at all, and even if there wasn't, you feel
like shit because there should have been.
I wouldn't be the God of Death if I couldn't admit that. It didn't
make it any easier, though. Somewhere between the rational and the
emotional, communication had broken down.
I knelt there in the moonlight, clutching my ribs with one hand
and asked an uncaring sky why the hell I'd left my room that night
without my gun.
Quatre hovered over me like a worried beam of sunlight. I ignored
him. I didn't particularly want to talk to anyone, least of all
someone that would try to pull me out of the guilt and self-
accusation that I was wallowing in. I wanted that guilt, because I
knew it was Imine/I and it was not something that I could ever
lose.
I might have paused, but the world ground inexorably on. The other
guys decided that there was no way we could clean this up or hide
the body, so we'd just have to do some damage control so that no
one would figure out that we'd been there.
I was glad that we weren't going to hide Yan's body. It would make
life difficult when they found it, but at least his parents
wouldn't have to go through the agony of not knowing what happened
to their son.
The guys left me alone while they cleaned up as much evidence as
they could. When they were done, Heero came over to me. I didn't
say anything, and he didn't say anything either. The blood had
long since soaked through my pants and gone completely cold,
numbing my legs. Without even asking if it was ok, he picked me up
and carried me in his arms like I didn't weigh anything, all the
way back to our room.
The fight had been far enough away from the dorms that no one had
been woken by the shooting, or at least if they had, they weren't
out and about in the halls. Heero carried me right into the
bathroom, a very smart move on his part, and managed to squeeze
both of us into the tiny space by putting me in the shower. My
pants and shoes were ruined, not that I cared. I just sat where
he'd put me gently down and stared at the dirty blood that was
dripping from the cuffs of my pants and running down the drain.
I managed to get myself cleaned up. Washing the dirt and the blood
off of my legs and arms went a long way toward making me feel
better, though mental and emotional dirt is unfortunately not
nearly that easy to clean away. I used more of Heero's shampoo to
get the blood out of my hair, and the scent of it comforted me. I
got out of the shower under my own power and made it out to my bed,
where I let Heero take care of my ribs. If I hadn't been so tired,
I might have been worried by how nice Heero was being. As it was,
I really didn't care.
The next morning, I was awakened bright and early by the sound of
sirens. There were cop cars all over the place. Heero was sitting
by my bed in the hard wooden chair that seemed to have become a
permanent fixture of the room.
"How are you feeling?" He asked.
I tried to stretch and winced as my ribs protested loudly. Bruised
but not broken, thank God for small favors. I did manage to dredge
up a little of my normal good humor, and I flashed Heero a grin.
He wasn't impressed. "I've felt better." I said, "But I'll live."
I glanced out the window again. The cop cars appeared to be
multiplying. "They found the mess pretty quickly, didn't they?"
That's right, the mess. Think of it as a mess, not as what's left
of someone you know...
"Yes. Class has been cancelled. I overheard that the school is
bringing in grief counselors."
"Great." I wasn't sure whether to be sarcastic or not. No class
was great, grief counselors... not so great. I would certainly be
named as one of Yan's friends, which meant that they'd probably
come hunting for me, which also meant that they would be very hard
to escape. I didn't want to talk to a damn grief counselor.
Psychologists are right about the level of lawyers, in my opinion.
Both stick to you like a second skin when there's something they
want. The only difference is the type of coin.
Besides, I didn't need anyone to tell me that it wasn't my fault.
Intellectually, I was well aware that it wasn't my fault. I knew
exactly who was at fault, and I was planning to deal with them as
soon as possible.
Try telling THAT to a counselor, though. I'd probably end up in a
room with rubber wallpaper.
I don't know how long I stared out the window at the black and
whites. Heero finally just stood up, sending his chair scraping
across the floor. "Where are you going, Heero?"
"Mission. I was just waiting until you'd woken up."
Despite the emotional load I was trying to deal with, I perked up,
ever so slightly. Heero had waited around to tell me what was
going on himself, instead of just leaving that to Quatre. It
seemed that my little rant at him yesterday had done some good,
after all. Things were looking up. "Okay. Luck be with you." I
grinned.
Heero hesitated for a moment before gently grabbing one of my
shoulders as I started turning away again. I jumped at the
unexpected touch.
"Trowa and I will be back tomorrow." He hesitated...he actually
hesitated. Mark this day on the calendar. "Don't go anywhere
without your gun." Was all he said. Then he abruptly let go and
walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
If I hadn't known better, I would have said he was nervous. What
an interesting thought.
centerb* * */b/center
Painkillers did a lot for my ribs, not to mention the bandaging
that Heero had provided. The guy was a regular walking ambulance
service. I lingered in bed for a while, watching the progress of
the police, the arrival of the coroner's unmarked grey van, the
removal of the body in its black polyvinyl bag.
The direction that sight lead made me rather ill, so I got up then.
The shoulder rig was a bit awkward to deal with because of the
bruises, but there was no way I was leaving the room without it
ever again.
My timing was impeccable, as always. As I exited my room, a small
knot of teachers and administrators was rounding the corner. One
of them started to call my name, so I ran in the opposite
direction. Hell no, I wasn't going to talk to the damn shrinks.
They didn't chase me much, thankfully. Within minutes, I was off
school grounds and sitting at a decorative fountain, trying to
decide what to do with my day.
What I wanted to do, according to the thick knot of rage in my
gust, was hunt and kill. Great, but not helpful. I had no idea
where to start. While I ruminated on my options, I used my last
couple hundred new yen coins to buy a small Iunagidon/I for
breakfast. As I picked through it with my chopsticks, I idly read
my way through a discarded classified section that had been
blowing by. My brain needed the occupation.
Purebred puppies for sale, man seeking woman, woman seeking man,
woman seeking woman, man seeking transvestite, discount liquor,
concert by the Skip Cows, finest tattoos, rave hosted by the Black
Thorn Dancers?
I stopped, almost choking on a clump of rice.
That bitch, what's-her-ass, Victoria, had called their little pack
the "Coterie of Ebon Thorns." Now I was seeing Black Thorn Dancers.
Gee, a rave was probably a good place to pick up targets, like a
buffet. And Yan had mentioned a dance?
Sure, it could have been a coincidence. Except for the fact that I
knew no such animal existed.
The gun seemed to grow heavier in the rig as I ripped that section
of the paper out. It was broad daylight, the address was a scant
thirty minute walk (the better to attract innocent high school
students?) and it was a night spot that would be almost empty
right now. I could almost taste the blood in my mouth, a terrible
salty thirst for vengeance. I could have gone back and grabbed
Quatre, I should have gotten backup.
Fuck it, I knew he'd try to talk me out of it. I started walking.
The place was in a quasi-industrial area, where a lot of old
warehouses had gone over to night spots. There were still some
commercial buildings, mostly textile manufacturers. It wanted to
be Shinjuku, it really did, but it had none of the class and all
of the seediness. As seedy as Tokyo could get, that was - nothing
compared to the rest of the world. I found the building behind a
porn shop and surrounded by warehouses full of last season's
clothing. Someone had taken a stab at an exciting paint job. Neon
tubes, dusty and dead, laced the brick and wooden walls, crawling
across the sheet metal roof like sad, thin snakes.
I bought myself a can of Royal Milk Tea from a vending machine in
front of the porn shop and found and innocuous corner, away from
prying eyes, so I could watch the warehouse. Temper and anger had
gotten me this far. Smarts would finish this out.
Two hours later, three men had come and gone furtively at the porn
shop, a struck had taken a load of clothing away, and I needed to
pee so bad I was sure my eyes were turning yellow. Nothing had
stirred in the warehouse, not even so much as a fly buzzed around
the neon tubing.
That was enough for my patience. I'd scouted a couple of egress
points, no one seemed to be moving or paying attention. It was
time to go in. There was a small side door with a rusty lock that
was no trouble to pick. I even had the forethought to lube the
door's dubious hinges with a little bottle of oil I kept just for
that purpose. The door was surprisingly heavy but opened without a
sound. After pulling my cross out so I could watch for tell-tale
glimmers, I slipped inside in the shadows and closed the door
behind me.
It was dark, dusty, and empty inside, full of the ghosts of sweat,
sex, and marijuana. There was a small stage on one side, piled
with coils of sound and light cables. There was nothing else. I
took a perimeter, skirting the bones of old parties, becoming
increasingly uneasy. There was a heavy feeling in the air like an
electrical fire, almost hidden by the scents of old raves - blood
and fear.
This was their feeding ground. I was sure of it.
Two circuits later, I knew the contours of the floor like a map.
They weren't here. No coffins or crates, nothing obvious. This
couldn't be right, it just couldn't. I looked at the tired shaft
of sunlight falling through the only window high in the north wall.
I knew they had to be there. It was a feeling, like a tickle in
the back of my head, familiar from last night. It was Paul, the
one I had owned for a few moments last night.
I followed the shaft of light along the floor. The furthest point
from it, and the place where light would never touch was the stage.
I rapped on it with my knuckles. Hollow, but most stages were. I
had to move the cools of wire aside a few at a time and then
replace them exactly where they'd been after feeling the clear
area with my fingertips.
There was a trap door on the back corner of the stage, thin cracks
and two small holes, finger sized. I was sweating and generally
cursing by the time I got it open, revealing a pit dug in the
foundation and lined with panels of dark wood. I finally had to
resort to my flashlight, shining into all corners before climbing
down the ladder.
The pit smelled like earth and even more blood, fear, and death. I
didn't want to think about why the walls were stained so dark.
There were three huge, wooden chests in a neat row. I would have
normally called them coffins, but in light of the iron strapping
that covered them - well, they just weren't pretty enough.
I sucked in a deep breath of the dank air and drew my gun,
clicking the safety off. There was nothing else to do but take my
balls firmly in hand and kick the lid of the first one open.
It was occupied; my sights rested squarely on a well-muscled chest
with skin like alabaster. I recognized the face instantly, even in
calm repose. "Hello, Paul," I said to the unmoving corpse. For
corpse it truly was, now. Whatever animated it at night had gone
to wherever evil hides from the light. I didn't even have to reach
for the terrible stillness that I normally needed when I had a gun
in my hand. It was already there, taking over my mind and sounding
like bells in my ears.
This wasn't killing. This was justice.
I pulled the trigger. Twice, and there was no way he had a heart
left. My footfalls sounded like an executioners drum as I walked
to the head of the coffin and placed the barrel of my gun right
between his eyes. "And this," I said, "is for Yan," as I blew his
fucking head off. There was nothing left but scraps of bone and a
smear of red and grey.
The world seemed to retreat, or perhaps I turned away from it. Of
its own accord, my body walked to the next chest and kicked it
open. Female, recognizable but unnamed. Like a man in a dream, I
reduced her corpse to a ruin and moved on to the next, another
male. I almost hesitate there; he looked almost alive, he was so
young. There was a small stuffed cat in the coffin with him.
Corpses don't dream, though. If he was here, he was already gone.
Bang. Rest in peace.
I put a fresh clip in my gun without even thinking about it, and
stowed it away before climbing back up the ladder. I'd done the
same motions hundreds of times before; it was what I'd trained to
do, what I was under the exterior. Duo Maxwell goes away, and the
God of Death comes out to play?
I paused on the stage, trying to decide if I should just drop the
door and let them act as their own message. I hadn't gotten them
all by a long shot, but it was a start. A hint of doubt nibbled at
my mind, though.
Tamlin has said the foolproof way was cremation.
It felt like a strange sort of ceremony. I used a pocket knife to
cut a strip of cloth off of my shirt and soaked it with oil. My
hands were shaking and I managed to cut my right palm open, though
I had too much adrenalin coursing through my system to really
notice at the time. The rag lit with just a brush of my lighter.
As soon as the flame touched my fingertips, I dropped it into the
pit, followed by the rest of the flask of oil. The bright little
brand landed on the remains of the unnamed female, lighting her
clothing and flesh like tinder.
Memories and words bubbled up, set off by the smell of flame.
"IIn nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen./I" I
murmured, crossing myself.
Then I ran like hell.
centerb* * */b/center
I've always been a responsible arsonist; it was something the Doc
had never managed to train out of me. I watched the warehouse
until smoke began to pour out from under the eaves in earnest -
the small room was no doubt engulfed - and then I called the fire
department, mentioning that I'd seen a tall IGaijin/I in a red
sport's coat running from the scene. Let the police sort out the
remains and the bullets, and follow my red herring. The evidence
would be a mess and the Tokyo homicide team wasn't exactly the
best because they didn't get a lot of practice. Murder happened in
Tokyo, but usually it was never found. Yakuza and now vampires - a
nice, self-cleaning criminal element.
Customers scattered from the porn shop like roaches in a kitchen
when the light comes on as soon as sirens became audible. I took
the hint and ran as well. Sneaking back into school was no problem,
even if it was lit up like a Christmas tree in the name of
"heightened security." My room was dark and empty - Heero wasn't
back yet. I quickly shut the door and collapsed back on to my bed.
Gun, blood, fire. Smell that stirred up childhood memories I
wanted to forget. What the hell had I done?
It was so easy then to think of it as justice, of ending an
unnatural evil. Yet?
I don't know how long I sat in the dark with my thoughts chasing
in self-recriminating circles. My hand throbbed in time with my
heartbeat, bleeding all over my already ruined shirt. Finally, a
soft knock at the door made me jump. Shaking my head, I stood up
and got it, revealing? no one. I looked up and down the hall.
Empty. Great, now I was having auditory hallucinations.
A flash of white caught my eye - a small piece of notepaper on the
floor, right in front of my door. Curious, I picked it up. I could
barely make out a phone number penciled on it?
"Duo?" I jumped back out of habit, but the voice was easy enough
to recognize. Quatre.
Without really thinking about it, I shoved the paper into my
pocket and turned toward him, pasting a smile on my face.
"Where have you been?" He asked, walking up to me and then
wrinkling his nose. "You smell like smoke." He grabbed my hand
before I could stop him, turning my palms up. They were still
covered with soot, blood, and oil. "What have you done, Duo?" He
whispered.
My shoulders started to shake. My eyes burned - from the smoke, I
told myself. Or maybe it was loss, for something I hadn't even
known I had. "Justice, Quatre," I said, "I did justice?"
Until that time, I'd thought that I'd seen at all, that no horror
the world could throw at me could really touch me. I thought my
sense of humor was in impenetrable mask.
Some things stain the soul, but they're stains that you can live
with. I still had nightmares about everything I'd seen, but I'd
gotten to the point that I was used to them, because it was either
that or go completely insane or turn into Heero. Yeah, I'd thought
that nothing could bother me.
God, I was wrong. I was so wrong.
Yan was suddenly bumped to the top of the list of bad shit I'd
seen. The only things that were still over him were the carnage in
Maxwell Church and the dim memory that I have of the aftermath
that killed my family and destroyed my home when I was too young
to know what violence was. Most of the death I'd seen in the war
were the clean, quick endings of mobile suits or carriers
exploding. Nothing like this.
There was something indecent about it, fundamentally wrong. Death
is so much more personal when it's someone you know, and violent
death is the ultimate insult. It becomes an attack on you. Your
emotions get so tangled up that you feel like you're one massive
knot inside. On one hand, you feel guilty that the person died,
and you didn't. On the other, you suddenly feel relief so profound
that it almost brings tears to your eyes, relief that it was the
other person and not you, and that only makes you feel worse. You
start wondering if there was any way that you could have saved the
other person, any way at all, and even if there wasn't, you feel
like shit because there should have been.
I wouldn't be the God of Death if I couldn't admit that. It didn't
make it any easier, though. Somewhere between the rational and the
emotional, communication had broken down.
I knelt there in the moonlight, clutching my ribs with one hand
and asked an uncaring sky why the hell I'd left my room that night
without my gun.
Quatre hovered over me like a worried beam of sunlight. I ignored
him. I didn't particularly want to talk to anyone, least of all
someone that would try to pull me out of the guilt and self-
accusation that I was wallowing in. I wanted that guilt, because I
knew it was Imine/I and it was not something that I could ever
lose.
I might have paused, but the world ground inexorably on. The other
guys decided that there was no way we could clean this up or hide
the body, so we'd just have to do some damage control so that no
one would figure out that we'd been there.
I was glad that we weren't going to hide Yan's body. It would make
life difficult when they found it, but at least his parents
wouldn't have to go through the agony of not knowing what happened
to their son.
The guys left me alone while they cleaned up as much evidence as
they could. When they were done, Heero came over to me. I didn't
say anything, and he didn't say anything either. The blood had
long since soaked through my pants and gone completely cold,
numbing my legs. Without even asking if it was ok, he picked me up
and carried me in his arms like I didn't weigh anything, all the
way back to our room.
The fight had been far enough away from the dorms that no one had
been woken by the shooting, or at least if they had, they weren't
out and about in the halls. Heero carried me right into the
bathroom, a very smart move on his part, and managed to squeeze
both of us into the tiny space by putting me in the shower. My
pants and shoes were ruined, not that I cared. I just sat where
he'd put me gently down and stared at the dirty blood that was
dripping from the cuffs of my pants and running down the drain.
I managed to get myself cleaned up. Washing the dirt and the blood
off of my legs and arms went a long way toward making me feel
better, though mental and emotional dirt is unfortunately not
nearly that easy to clean away. I used more of Heero's shampoo to
get the blood out of my hair, and the scent of it comforted me. I
got out of the shower under my own power and made it out to my bed,
where I let Heero take care of my ribs. If I hadn't been so tired,
I might have been worried by how nice Heero was being. As it was,
I really didn't care.
The next morning, I was awakened bright and early by the sound of
sirens. There were cop cars all over the place. Heero was sitting
by my bed in the hard wooden chair that seemed to have become a
permanent fixture of the room.
"How are you feeling?" He asked.
I tried to stretch and winced as my ribs protested loudly. Bruised
but not broken, thank God for small favors. I did manage to dredge
up a little of my normal good humor, and I flashed Heero a grin.
He wasn't impressed. "I've felt better." I said, "But I'll live."
I glanced out the window again. The cop cars appeared to be
multiplying. "They found the mess pretty quickly, didn't they?"
That's right, the mess. Think of it as a mess, not as what's left
of someone you know...
"Yes. Class has been cancelled. I overheard that the school is
bringing in grief counselors."
"Great." I wasn't sure whether to be sarcastic or not. No class
was great, grief counselors... not so great. I would certainly be
named as one of Yan's friends, which meant that they'd probably
come hunting for me, which also meant that they would be very hard
to escape. I didn't want to talk to a damn grief counselor.
Psychologists are right about the level of lawyers, in my opinion.
Both stick to you like a second skin when there's something they
want. The only difference is the type of coin.
Besides, I didn't need anyone to tell me that it wasn't my fault.
Intellectually, I was well aware that it wasn't my fault. I knew
exactly who was at fault, and I was planning to deal with them as
soon as possible.
Try telling THAT to a counselor, though. I'd probably end up in a
room with rubber wallpaper.
I don't know how long I stared out the window at the black and
whites. Heero finally just stood up, sending his chair scraping
across the floor. "Where are you going, Heero?"
"Mission. I was just waiting until you'd woken up."
Despite the emotional load I was trying to deal with, I perked up,
ever so slightly. Heero had waited around to tell me what was
going on himself, instead of just leaving that to Quatre. It
seemed that my little rant at him yesterday had done some good,
after all. Things were looking up. "Okay. Luck be with you." I
grinned.
Heero hesitated for a moment before gently grabbing one of my
shoulders as I started turning away again. I jumped at the
unexpected touch.
"Trowa and I will be back tomorrow." He hesitated...he actually
hesitated. Mark this day on the calendar. "Don't go anywhere
without your gun." Was all he said. Then he abruptly let go and
walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
If I hadn't known better, I would have said he was nervous. What
an interesting thought.
centerb* * */b/center
Painkillers did a lot for my ribs, not to mention the bandaging
that Heero had provided. The guy was a regular walking ambulance
service. I lingered in bed for a while, watching the progress of
the police, the arrival of the coroner's unmarked grey van, the
removal of the body in its black polyvinyl bag.
The direction that sight lead made me rather ill, so I got up then.
The shoulder rig was a bit awkward to deal with because of the
bruises, but there was no way I was leaving the room without it
ever again.
My timing was impeccable, as always. As I exited my room, a small
knot of teachers and administrators was rounding the corner. One
of them started to call my name, so I ran in the opposite
direction. Hell no, I wasn't going to talk to the damn shrinks.
They didn't chase me much, thankfully. Within minutes, I was off
school grounds and sitting at a decorative fountain, trying to
decide what to do with my day.
What I wanted to do, according to the thick knot of rage in my
gust, was hunt and kill. Great, but not helpful. I had no idea
where to start. While I ruminated on my options, I used my last
couple hundred new yen coins to buy a small Iunagidon/I for
breakfast. As I picked through it with my chopsticks, I idly read
my way through a discarded classified section that had been
blowing by. My brain needed the occupation.
Purebred puppies for sale, man seeking woman, woman seeking man,
woman seeking woman, man seeking transvestite, discount liquor,
concert by the Skip Cows, finest tattoos, rave hosted by the Black
Thorn Dancers?
I stopped, almost choking on a clump of rice.
That bitch, what's-her-ass, Victoria, had called their little pack
the "Coterie of Ebon Thorns." Now I was seeing Black Thorn Dancers.
Gee, a rave was probably a good place to pick up targets, like a
buffet. And Yan had mentioned a dance?
Sure, it could have been a coincidence. Except for the fact that I
knew no such animal existed.
The gun seemed to grow heavier in the rig as I ripped that section
of the paper out. It was broad daylight, the address was a scant
thirty minute walk (the better to attract innocent high school
students?) and it was a night spot that would be almost empty
right now. I could almost taste the blood in my mouth, a terrible
salty thirst for vengeance. I could have gone back and grabbed
Quatre, I should have gotten backup.
Fuck it, I knew he'd try to talk me out of it. I started walking.
The place was in a quasi-industrial area, where a lot of old
warehouses had gone over to night spots. There were still some
commercial buildings, mostly textile manufacturers. It wanted to
be Shinjuku, it really did, but it had none of the class and all
of the seediness. As seedy as Tokyo could get, that was - nothing
compared to the rest of the world. I found the building behind a
porn shop and surrounded by warehouses full of last season's
clothing. Someone had taken a stab at an exciting paint job. Neon
tubes, dusty and dead, laced the brick and wooden walls, crawling
across the sheet metal roof like sad, thin snakes.
I bought myself a can of Royal Milk Tea from a vending machine in
front of the porn shop and found and innocuous corner, away from
prying eyes, so I could watch the warehouse. Temper and anger had
gotten me this far. Smarts would finish this out.
Two hours later, three men had come and gone furtively at the porn
shop, a struck had taken a load of clothing away, and I needed to
pee so bad I was sure my eyes were turning yellow. Nothing had
stirred in the warehouse, not even so much as a fly buzzed around
the neon tubing.
That was enough for my patience. I'd scouted a couple of egress
points, no one seemed to be moving or paying attention. It was
time to go in. There was a small side door with a rusty lock that
was no trouble to pick. I even had the forethought to lube the
door's dubious hinges with a little bottle of oil I kept just for
that purpose. The door was surprisingly heavy but opened without a
sound. After pulling my cross out so I could watch for tell-tale
glimmers, I slipped inside in the shadows and closed the door
behind me.
It was dark, dusty, and empty inside, full of the ghosts of sweat,
sex, and marijuana. There was a small stage on one side, piled
with coils of sound and light cables. There was nothing else. I
took a perimeter, skirting the bones of old parties, becoming
increasingly uneasy. There was a heavy feeling in the air like an
electrical fire, almost hidden by the scents of old raves - blood
and fear.
This was their feeding ground. I was sure of it.
Two circuits later, I knew the contours of the floor like a map.
They weren't here. No coffins or crates, nothing obvious. This
couldn't be right, it just couldn't. I looked at the tired shaft
of sunlight falling through the only window high in the north wall.
I knew they had to be there. It was a feeling, like a tickle in
the back of my head, familiar from last night. It was Paul, the
one I had owned for a few moments last night.
I followed the shaft of light along the floor. The furthest point
from it, and the place where light would never touch was the stage.
I rapped on it with my knuckles. Hollow, but most stages were. I
had to move the cools of wire aside a few at a time and then
replace them exactly where they'd been after feeling the clear
area with my fingertips.
There was a trap door on the back corner of the stage, thin cracks
and two small holes, finger sized. I was sweating and generally
cursing by the time I got it open, revealing a pit dug in the
foundation and lined with panels of dark wood. I finally had to
resort to my flashlight, shining into all corners before climbing
down the ladder.
The pit smelled like earth and even more blood, fear, and death. I
didn't want to think about why the walls were stained so dark.
There were three huge, wooden chests in a neat row. I would have
normally called them coffins, but in light of the iron strapping
that covered them - well, they just weren't pretty enough.
I sucked in a deep breath of the dank air and drew my gun,
clicking the safety off. There was nothing else to do but take my
balls firmly in hand and kick the lid of the first one open.
It was occupied; my sights rested squarely on a well-muscled chest
with skin like alabaster. I recognized the face instantly, even in
calm repose. "Hello, Paul," I said to the unmoving corpse. For
corpse it truly was, now. Whatever animated it at night had gone
to wherever evil hides from the light. I didn't even have to reach
for the terrible stillness that I normally needed when I had a gun
in my hand. It was already there, taking over my mind and sounding
like bells in my ears.
This wasn't killing. This was justice.
I pulled the trigger. Twice, and there was no way he had a heart
left. My footfalls sounded like an executioners drum as I walked
to the head of the coffin and placed the barrel of my gun right
between his eyes. "And this," I said, "is for Yan," as I blew his
fucking head off. There was nothing left but scraps of bone and a
smear of red and grey.
The world seemed to retreat, or perhaps I turned away from it. Of
its own accord, my body walked to the next chest and kicked it
open. Female, recognizable but unnamed. Like a man in a dream, I
reduced her corpse to a ruin and moved on to the next, another
male. I almost hesitate there; he looked almost alive, he was so
young. There was a small stuffed cat in the coffin with him.
Corpses don't dream, though. If he was here, he was already gone.
Bang. Rest in peace.
I put a fresh clip in my gun without even thinking about it, and
stowed it away before climbing back up the ladder. I'd done the
same motions hundreds of times before; it was what I'd trained to
do, what I was under the exterior. Duo Maxwell goes away, and the
God of Death comes out to play?
I paused on the stage, trying to decide if I should just drop the
door and let them act as their own message. I hadn't gotten them
all by a long shot, but it was a start. A hint of doubt nibbled at
my mind, though.
Tamlin has said the foolproof way was cremation.
It felt like a strange sort of ceremony. I used a pocket knife to
cut a strip of cloth off of my shirt and soaked it with oil. My
hands were shaking and I managed to cut my right palm open, though
I had too much adrenalin coursing through my system to really
notice at the time. The rag lit with just a brush of my lighter.
As soon as the flame touched my fingertips, I dropped it into the
pit, followed by the rest of the flask of oil. The bright little
brand landed on the remains of the unnamed female, lighting her
clothing and flesh like tinder.
Memories and words bubbled up, set off by the smell of flame.
"IIn nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen./I" I
murmured, crossing myself.
Then I ran like hell.
centerb* * */b/center
I've always been a responsible arsonist; it was something the Doc
had never managed to train out of me. I watched the warehouse
until smoke began to pour out from under the eaves in earnest -
the small room was no doubt engulfed - and then I called the fire
department, mentioning that I'd seen a tall IGaijin/I in a red
sport's coat running from the scene. Let the police sort out the
remains and the bullets, and follow my red herring. The evidence
would be a mess and the Tokyo homicide team wasn't exactly the
best because they didn't get a lot of practice. Murder happened in
Tokyo, but usually it was never found. Yakuza and now vampires - a
nice, self-cleaning criminal element.
Customers scattered from the porn shop like roaches in a kitchen
when the light comes on as soon as sirens became audible. I took
the hint and ran as well. Sneaking back into school was no problem,
even if it was lit up like a Christmas tree in the name of
"heightened security." My room was dark and empty - Heero wasn't
back yet. I quickly shut the door and collapsed back on to my bed.
Gun, blood, fire. Smell that stirred up childhood memories I
wanted to forget. What the hell had I done?
It was so easy then to think of it as justice, of ending an
unnatural evil. Yet?
I don't know how long I sat in the dark with my thoughts chasing
in self-recriminating circles. My hand throbbed in time with my
heartbeat, bleeding all over my already ruined shirt. Finally, a
soft knock at the door made me jump. Shaking my head, I stood up
and got it, revealing? no one. I looked up and down the hall.
Empty. Great, now I was having auditory hallucinations.
A flash of white caught my eye - a small piece of notepaper on the
floor, right in front of my door. Curious, I picked it up. I could
barely make out a phone number penciled on it?
"Duo?" I jumped back out of habit, but the voice was easy enough
to recognize. Quatre.
Without really thinking about it, I shoved the paper into my
pocket and turned toward him, pasting a smile on my face.
"Where have you been?" He asked, walking up to me and then
wrinkling his nose. "You smell like smoke." He grabbed my hand
before I could stop him, turning my palms up. They were still
covered with soot, blood, and oil. "What have you done, Duo?" He
whispered.
My shoulders started to shake. My eyes burned - from the smoke, I
told myself. Or maybe it was loss, for something I hadn't even
known I had. "Justice, Quatre," I said, "I did justice?"
