Title: Fall
Author: Sandolious
Rating: T or PG – 13
Warning: Homosexuality and Heterosexuality. Violence. Language.
Summery: Some secrets are meant to be kept. Some betrayals are unforgivable. He has been betrayed one too many times. After the war, one pilot searches for salvation.
Disclaimer. I own nothing but the story.
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Part Four: Echoes of the Dead
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Duo woke late the next morning, long after the sun kissed the horizon; the bleak night of yesterday forgotten in the haze of sleep. A quick shower and twenty minutes later he was dressed and bounding down to the dining hall to catch the end of breakfast. He smiled a masked smile to the assembly, grabbing a piece of buttered toast off Trowa's plate and sipping Quatre's tea, before leaving the room just as quickly as he came with a backwards wave and muttered good bye. The group stilled by the entrance of their once missing friend and his abrupt exit, blinked for several seconds. The moment was broken by a snicker from Hilde and a snort from Trowa.
"Still without manners." Sally smiled, holding a hot mug of coffee in her thin hands.
"In all honestly I wouldn't have him any other way." Noin smiled, sharing a look with Zechs.
"True." Quatre smiled brightly at his guests. "Obviously Duo has plans. Does anyone else have prior engagements? If not, I suggest a day outside, the sun is beautiful."
The group agreed and began planning the day's activities.
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After the war, the people of Earth settled back into their lives. Corruption ran rampant through the world's governments just as it did in the colonies. There was poverty killing children and diseases spreading like wildfire across the underdeveloped countries. The fighting for the peace between the Earth and Space had decreased to tentative acceptance of differences. This peace, fought for, did nothing to solve the already devastating problems created by mankind for the past hundreds of years. Children, whose parents were killed, sold drugs to feed their siblings. Living in conditions far worse then POWs, with enemies on all sides of the spectrum. They were told by their governments, to stop selling drugs and believe one day they would have the option of dreaming and college. They were told to suffer the hardship alone, for the government could not support all the homeless, parentless children trying to survive in the cold embrace of the law. In essence, the governments turned their backs on the needy glassy eyed children and told them to die.
Duo stepped past the gate and began the short journey to the memorial. It was a creation of ingenuity and truth, one supported by WEI and the Preventers. The memorial was a thick three foot width wall of granite; Six feet in height and 100 feet in length. There were flowers and cards, memorabilia of the lost, stationed along the foot of the memorial. This particular one was dedicated to the innocent who lost their lives. To the civilians killed in cross fire, the orphans starved, the people who were suppose to be protected. There were names written in permanent pens, prayers, goodbyes and wishes. The granite lay polished with dreams inscribed upon its surface, never to be forgotten.
He stood before the memorial, observing the additions and caressing with his eyes, the dead he had laid to rest upon this wall of stone. Even, now, a year after the wars end, there were more names to add to the canvas. More souls lost. In truth though, it was the anonymous remembrances written in curves and slants, which took his breath away. Soldiers, who lived to see the end, to see the worse, whispering across the cold surface as they wrote to the woman carrying her child to safety, killed by enemy shots in the middle of the street; to the child with large blue eyes, calling for his parents as the building fell down around him; to the gasping pleads for help as the man bled to death on the floor of the ice cream shop. Pictures in words illuminating the precious dead in hopes they are safe.
Duo sighed, reading the first of his dead he had written on the sleek surface. To my parents, unknown as you are, I hope peace is within your souls. D.M. A few feet to the right at eye level, read: Father Maxwell, Sister Helen, for your love. D.M. The names of the orphans, of who he could remember, were written under a header of Maxwell Church Massacre. One name, though, had yet to be written. One dead had yet to be laid to rest.
Solo.
It was time; Duo decided caressing the wall with his finger tips. He traced names for a few moments gathering his thoughts. Leaning in he brushed his lips against both Father and Sister's names in greeting before taking out his pen. The ink was specially made for the memorials stationed around the Earth and on the Colonies. Placing the tip against the smooth cold surface, he paused watching the reflection of the sun off the gray stone.
In slow careful strokes, he let go and released his final dead. His first friend, the boy who taught him everything and as he curved the 'S' he choked on a sob. By the corner of the 'L' he whispered softly to the stone prayers of forgiveness, prayers of grief. When he connected the final halves of the last 'O' his hand wavered, trembling, then quickly as he could manage, he finished off the signing, taking a step back.
Violet-indigo eyes watery with emotion stared at the final name. He blinked backed tears, but one fought; rolling down the curve of his cheek to the tip of his chin, spattering silently against the cement. He laughed inwardly at the irony of shedding a tear at his friend's burial. Solo, who told him sternly, green eyes laughing, boys don't cry. Whispering to the wind the final goodbye, Duo turned heading towards the gate to his borrowed bike.
"Mister Maxwell." A sharp masculine voice rang out, followed by a gun shot. The bullet grazed the arc of Duo's cheek and implanted itself into the granite wall. A perverse reminder of the cruelty who shepherded souls from the innocent.
Duo blinked, eyes narrowing alight with fire. He reached up slowly, brushing the tips of his fingers across the wound, smearing the blood. Pulling his hand away from his face, Duo inspected the thin layer of cooling sticky crimson, running his thumb along the tips in an attempt to bush it off. Looking past his fingers, he spotted the gunman leaning against his motorbike, gun aimed at his person.
"Mister Maxwell. It is a pleasure to see the man who killed my benefactor. Just as it will be a pleasure to see your blood staining the cement." The man pushed away from the bike, stalking towards Duo.
He was tall, slightly above average European height. Brown eyes framed behind thin wired frames, blonde hair cropped and stylized. He wore a black suit tailored to his build, slim and lanky. The crowning point of this man, however was the tattoo on the side of his neck, an intertwining sword and snake. A mark of Sol Mant, an organization centered in Europe who controlled many governments and a good portion of the black market, an organization whose right-hand man was killed by Duo.
"Edgar. I had hoped not to see you again." Duo smirked, grabbing his gun and aiming.
"As if the syndicate would let you live." Edgar snarled, firing another shot, grazing Duo's left shoulder. A laugh bubbled up past Duo's lips, cold and mirthless.
"The problem," Duo began, pulling the trigger, bullet lodging into the gun's hand shoulder, "is no one can kill death." Another shot to the right kneecap. Edgar fell to the ground, struggling for his dropped weapon. "The Grim Reaper is a myth of who I try to embody." Duo moved, to the fallen man, aiming the barrel at the Edgar's head.
"I may not be able to kill death, but you still bleed." Two shots rang out and the Earth seemed to pause. Both men trapped in this dance of death and life, cradled fragilely in mortalities arms. Then time sped up, Edgar's gun clattered to the ground as Duo fell, eyes wide in shock. Gasping wetly for breath, Duo pushed up onto his hands and knees, head bowed as thick hot blood dripped from the hole in the middle of his chest. Picking up his gun, he fired another shot into the still body next him before climbing unsteadily to his feet.
He staggered slowly to the motorcycle, leaving a trail of blood on the sacred ground of this modernized cemetery. Climbing on, he paused, hunched over, panting wetly; a low gurgling sound echoing in his lungs. Turning the key, he revved the engine before screeching away from the memorial as fast as he could and back to the Mansion.
The sun glistened on the stone hours later as it set, highlighting an entry. To Solo, my brother, mentor and beloved friend. D.M.
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