There appear to be no new reviews… Strange… Well, I can pretty much guarantee I'll be getting reviews after this chapter. If I don't, I'm obviously doing something wrong.
You're making this harder than it has to be. Death said testily, and Duo could almost see her tapping one foot impatiently. Why must you always insist on knowing why?
"Because that's the way I am!" Duo yelled, perilously close to loosing his temper. "I'm not going to go out and murder people just because you tell me to! The deal was that you wouldn't make me kill without telling me how the target was dangerous first!"
Dammit, Duo, why can't you ever just do as you're told! Death shouted, hurting Duo's mental ears. I'm sick and tired of coddling you like some infant! I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't necessary!
"Well, I'm not gonna do it!" Duo shouted back. "He's the only thing I've got in this world, and you fucking know it!"
There was silence for a moment, although Duo could still feel Death's presence in the back of his mind. Then she sighed, a sigh tinged with regret, compassion, and no little sorrow. When she spoke, her voice reflected all three.
If you will not, she said quietly, then I have no choice but to find someone who will.
Then she was gone, leaving only the echo of what sounded suspiciously like a sob.
Trowa closed his Russian book with a snap, fighting down a yawn. He was tired and hungry and stiff, but his homework was finally done, which was all that really mattered.
Leaving his things scattered across his desk, he wandered into the kitchen and made himself a sketchy dinner of bologna and cheese on white bread, which he carried to the living room, sans plate.
Before he had time to even pick up the remote, however, someone started banging on his door.
Being a nice, friendly guy, he went to see who it was.
As a course of habit rather than any real sense of danger, he left the chain on when he opened the door. It turned out to be a useless precaution.
Almost before he'd cracked it an inch, the door exploded inward, ripping the chain from the wall and showering the foyer with splinters. Trowa counted himself lucky that he hadn't been in the door's path; if he had, he never would have survived the force with which the aluminum slab hit the wall.
Someone clothed entirely in black stepped through the shattered doorway, and the scythe in that someone's hand told Trowa that this was no ordinary break-in.
Duo was sure that Death wouldn't allow him to teleport to Trowa's rescue; he tried anyway. Nothing happened.
Pausing only long enough to grab a few handy guns, he headed for his garage and the motorcycle there that he was supposed to have.
Trowa had always considered himself a passably good fighter; he worked out every day, practiced the finer points of several styles in turn, and knew the fundamentals of several more. He knew every vulnerable place and pressure point on the human body. He was exceptionally strong for someone of his age and build.
His opponent was stronger.
The strange man was armed; Trowa had only his hands to fight with. The man was taller, more heavily muscled, and quicker. Trowa found himself being driven further and further back into his apartment, away from the door, the windows, any means of escape.
But for some reason, what worried him more than that - far more than that - was that the intruder struck not to kill or maim, not even to incapacitate, but to weaken.
Heart in his throat, his mind clamoring in circles, Duo raced through the near-empty maze of alleys and backways towards Trowa. Nothing mattered but Trowa. Duo had to get to him, had to save him from whoever Death had sent.
Trowa was getting tired fast. It would be a miracle if he lasted another ten minutes.
"Who... the hell... are you?" He asked between ragged breaths, dodging a swipe at his arm a hair too late; the scythe tore through fabric and sliced into flesh, leaving a long, shallow cut in its wake.
"That, you don't need to know," The man said, his voice heavy with amusement. "After all, it's not as if you're going to live long enough to do anything with the information."
Privately, Trowa agreed. Unless some hero of legend rose from the grave to defend him, he was a goner.
Again the scythe descended, tearing painfully into Trowa's arm and rendering the limb useless; now he couldn't fight even if he'd wanted to. Not with one arm dead weight and the other so weak with muscle fatigue he could barely lift it. He was as good as dead, and that was that. No sense delaying the inevitable.
Unfortunately, his assailant didn't seem to think so.
Rather than finishing Trowa off, the mysterious man stepped back, watching as the exhausted teen dropped to his knees, then his side, and lay on the floor, too tired to move or even speak.
He was so tired in fact, that while his brain registered the rough hands sliding under his shirt, he didn't care. He was going numb now, and he didn't particularly notice when the hands worked their way down his waist and under his jeans.
After what seemed an eternity, Duo finally reached Trowa's building. Without bothering to even park his motorcycle, he vaulted over the low fence and took the stairs two at a time, praying he wouldn't find the only friend he'd ever had dead in his own home.
The door to Trowa's apartment was lying in a warped heap in the entryway; the part of his brain that was forever making inappropriate and out-of-place comments noted that he'd never been this sloppy on a kill.
Duo forced himself to stop in the foyer, out of sight of anyone in the apartment itself, and calm down. If he charged in reckless and blind, he stood a very good chance of getting a bullet in the brain. If he wanted to have a shot at saving Trowa - who might already be past saving anyway - he had to be in control.
Slow and steady wins the race, Duo. He reminded himself, slowly edging towards the corner, alert for any sign of movement.
Over the pounding of his own heart, he could hear someone breathing heavily; probably Death's new agent. The sound filled him with an inexplicable feeling of dread, as if it heralded doom for the entire planet, and not just two teenage boys.
Careful to make no noise of his own, Duo eased around the corner into the living room, where he saw something he would never be able to forget, no matter how much he wanted to.
Trowa lay in the center of the room, half-naked and covered in blood that was most likely his own. From where he stood, Duo couldn't see if he was breathing or not. The other teen's shirt was torn in several places, suggesting he'd put up quite a fight.
And kneeling next to Trowa, his face twisted in a grotesque parody of pleasure, was a man in black. Death's agent.
The agent turned slowly to look at Duo, his smile growing even wider. "Run if you wish, little boy," He said quietly. "I'll find you again, never fear."
"You... you... what did you do to Trowa?" Duo asked around the knot of bile in his throat.
"I think you know," The man said, his face twisting inhumanly with emotions Duo could only guess at. "She never told me he was so pretty." He added, turning to brush Trowa's slick bangs away from his forehead.
"Don't touch him, you bastard!" Duo yelled, pulling out the first gun that came to hand and aiming it at the man's head. "I mean it!"
"I'm not afraid of your toys, child."
"You should be," Duo informed him in a low snarl, pulling the trigger.
Gods, I can't believe I wrote that! That bastard! Shoot him again, Duo! Kill the bastard! Kill him!
I apologize for the incredible shortness of this chapter, but I think it's plenty content-heavy without being ten pages.
All that aside, please review and tell me whether you want Trowa to live or not. I'm going to go hang myself. This is a sick, twisted chapter, and I can't believe it came from my mind. Eck.
