Disclaimer/Note: I do not own GundamWing, or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). Zero-zero, for example, belongs to me. I do not own the series' creator, mech designer, or PHYSALIS, and I'm not making any money off this story. This story was written solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement was intended. Please, do not sue. All original concepts in this story are original (duh) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me. Do not steal. This story is AC (Alternate Continuity), takes place (for the most part) almost five years after Endless Waltz, and contains: violence, language, angst, flashbacks, acts of terrorism and subsequent political brouhaha, religious references, twisted senses of morality, and an obnoxious timeline.
Better Than Nothing:
Chapter Six — Want Nothing
(Burning breaking shattering screaming)
Redredred till the light from my eyes his eyes their eyes are blinding, shaking, bringing something slithering up from the flashing panels along the sidelines, and it's so coldcoldcold and I don't see through the redredred that pours off my hands his hands their hands and onto the slick metal beneath me so that it drips downdowndown and the cruel metal smiles and it's all so good and I'm doing so so good. Are you proud? Do I make you proud?
(Twitch shudder gasp)
I can't breathe anymore.
But that's okay, Grampa; 'cause I don't need to I promise I'll be good and I'll be perfect like you want me to be. I can be everything you need me to be, Grampa; I promise you don't need to throw me away oh please don't throw me away, Grampa. . .
Nonono I won't get scared and I won't cry and I thought I promised not scream. . .
(Grampa, please don't kill me. . .)
Oh god I don't wanna die. . .
(I'll get better I'll do better next time oh please Grampa, gimme another cha—)
He jerked, eyes snapping open so suddenly that it was almost audible, the paranoid tension tangible and heavy like blood in his mouth. Rolling, darting, tearing; blue and steel irises all but swallowing the black as his eyes searched the inanimate furnishings of the room. The thin blanket he had been using the night before lay in a tangled mess on the floor beside the couch, television set still muted but on with white subtitles in katakana scrolling across the bottom of the screen. A pack of cigarettes on the chipped and peeling coffee table, sitting next to his opened laptop. He started breathing again, low and shallow. Everything was in order.
Slowly he sat up, brushed the messy brown bangs from his eyes in abstract irritation, and looked across the cluttered room to the darkened hall. Squinting, he could barely see the black curtains—the lights in his apartment were all off—drawn shut on the window behind him. He hauled himself to his feet, picked the cigarettes off the table in the same motion and headed back to the kitchen, stumbled and tripped on something in the doorway that he did not care to identify. It was jarring, and the force of his body hitting the tiles knocked him out of his vague reverie; woke him the hell up. He rolled over onto his back, pulled a cigarette out and held it between his lips as he regarded the ceiling.
Was this it? Was this living? Waking up every morning the same way: slightly sore from where the springs on his couch had worn through, in a bad apartment in the bad part of town, needing a cigarette and something heavy to drink before he could manage to drag himself out to his bad job with its worse pay? It did not seem worth it, when he thought about it like that. But he needed a cigarette and something heavy to drink before he could really think anymore. And so, disgusted as he was with himself, the young man got back up, found the lighter on the counter with one hand as he pulled a glass down from one of the cabinets. A moment's work, lighting that cigarette and smoking it halfway down with equal ease, and then his cell phone started ringing.
Annoyed, he unceremoniously answered around his cigarette: "If you're not Doctor J or somebody from the firm, I'm hanging up right now."
"Damn, Heero; you're just as friendly as always. Do you normally answer the phone like that?" the voice set a light twitch going off under his left eye. Boyishly high though not feminine, it had a horrible American accent on its badly spoken Japanese.
"Hn," a trademarked sound, and he opened the refrigerator. "Who the hell is this?"
"What? You tellin' me you don't remember my name?"
"Actually, I'd like to be telling you to fuck off and not ever call me again, but I guess I'll have to settle with 'yes.' Now who are you and why are you calling?" he came away with a groan, slamming the door close. "Goddamn it. . ."
"Huh, what's wrong?" the voice was curious now, and he could almost imagine its faceless owner trying to peer through the mouthpiece to see for himself.
"I'm out of scotch. Answer my question."
"Come on, guess; who could I be?"
Heero had smoked the cigarette down to the filter by this point, and idly flicked the butt into the sink before getting another one. "You know, if you don't tell me, then I'm just hanging up anyway."
"What the hell is in your mouth? Are you eating breakfast or something?"
"Yeah, something like that. . ."
"Oi, it's me: Duo! Remember now, Heero?"
"How the hell did you get this number?"
"Uh. . ." Duo thought for a moment, dragging out the noise until he could come up with a response. "I got it from. . .G! And G got it from J, I think. Why? And if you're eating breakfast, why does it matter if you have any scotch?"
"Ugh," he was digging through the cabinet under the sink, moving bottles around with one hand as he searched. "I wanted to know who betrayed me. And—not that it's any of your business, you nosy bastard—scotch is the most important aspect of my morning meal. But I don't have—wait, this will work."
"Hey, what is it?"
"Russian vodka." The young man on the other side laughed, and Heero stood back up and moved over to the counter where his glass was. "I don't get it; what's so funny?"
"Are you even old enough to drink yet?"
"No, not quite."
"But you're gonna have vodka for breakfast anyway?"
"Duo, we used to kill people. That wasn't exactly legal, either. Besides, I never go out and drink."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. . ." a small pause before he continued, obviously amused. "I can't believe you are having vodka for breakfast. . ."
"Oh my—please shut up. You're giving me a headache."
"Okay, okay; I'll get serious, I promise. So where the hell is your apartment?"
"No."
"What? Whaddya mean, 'no?' You live somewhere, don't you?"
"No. I have managed to reverse my evolution and am now a form of primordial ooze. Currently, I am evaporating into a colorless but very poisonous gas that will float around the inside of the colony killing hundreds upon thousands of innocent people. However, because this transformation has caused me to lose both my body and all recognizable traits of humanity, I can no longer function under science's limited rules. Thus, I can no longer be considered an organic, living organism. What a shame."
"Bah. Screw you," he had switched to English for that comment, but came back to Japanese for the following. "Look, I'm already here, and I came to get you. So where the hell is your apartment?"
". . .Came to get me for what, Duo?" Heero sounded suspicious, sounded paranoid and he knew it. He downed the glass, refilled it once, and repeated. The young man on the other end sighed, exasperated.
"Why are you eating breakfast at a time like this?"
"Why do you keep changing the subject?"
"How about: because I'm human. Will that work for you?"
"Eh," he watched the smoke curl up from the end of his cigarette, ground the remainders into the counter and finished his drink. "It's too early. I don't do mornings well, anymore."
". . .It's four-thirty, Heero. On a Thursday."
"I know; Thursday's my day off, which means that it's morning until midnight."
A derisive snort, and Heero ignored the smart-ass comment that Duo flung at him in English. "You must be the only loser who has Thursday off, jeez. . ."
"Oh, wow. That hurt; like I've never been childishly insulted by a half-brained American dick before."
". . ." there was a long pause. "Didn't you want to know what I was coming to get you for?"
"That was such a brilliant comeback, Duo. It brought tears to my eyes."
"Shut up."
"Fine, talk."
Another minute passed, this one in silence, and Heero raised a brow questioningly. The cigarettes had found their way back to the pocket of his open work shirt, the lighter from the counter migrating to the pocket of his jeans. He had a feeling he might need it.
". . .You remember hearing about those terrorists? Y'know, the ones going after colonies and all that? Well, I got a hold of Wufei—who got a hold of Trowa—and J, G, H, and O—shit, I feel like an idiot reciting the alphabet—and we're all meeting back up to talk about it."
"Because of the Gundam rumors?"
"Pretty much, yeah. I mean, these are the bad guys, Heero. It's still our job to get rid of them. Protect the innocents, y'know?"
"I know, but. . ." there was a long pause, and Heero shook his head. ". . .Not everything's that easy, Duo. There's no black and white, no 'good guy' versus 'bad guy' scenario here."
"They're killing people, Heero. Lots of 'em."
"So did we."
"Yeah, but we never blew up any of the colonies."
". . .Yes we did."
Neither of them said anything. It was not something that they could deny. Duo sighed.
"Look, I know how you feel, okay? But we were fighting for a reason, and—"
"And what? And that makes it all right? And that somehow justifies us?" he slammed his fist into the counter, tiles cracking under the blow. "What made us any different from them, hmn? Who decides this shit, anyway? I don't want any part of your stupid hero-games, Duo. I've spent too long trying to erase that past, and I'm not going to pick it back up for you, or anybody else."
"Heero, come on; please—"
"No! I'm not a soldier anymore, goddamn it! It's not my responsibility to make sure that every jack-ass with a big gun and twitchy finger gets what's coming to him. You want to be some kind of savior again? Good for you. Just leave me the hell out of it."
". . .A'right. We're gonna be at the old research center down on. . .52nd? I think that's where it is. Near that big field; didn't it used to be a park, or somethin'? Anyway, if you want to show up and help us out, you know where to go. If not," Duo paused, probably shrugging. "Then J will just get the fuck over it. See ya."
Duo hung up, leaving Heero with the small phone still pressed against his ear until the monotonous ring of the dial tone kicked in, loud in all that silence. He shook his head again, squeezed his eyes shut against it like that would make everything okay. It would not, he knew that, but sometimes it still felt good to pretend. Sometimes, but not this time. This time it did not do anything.
"N-no," he forced it out, strained. "I won't. I don't have to, and I don't want to. I. . .I just. . .for once in my life, I just want to be like every other nobody on this colony." I don't want to be a soldier anymore. . .
He ran a hand through his hair, yanked the fingers through a few knots and said it looked fine before heading out the door.