Chapter 3
Hope of a Fallen God

Three am crept with a slow inebriation to its start, smelling of liquor and cigarettes in the Bar of Forgotten Dreams. Chris felt his eyes sliding shut, and gave a lethargic yawn as he shifted in his seat. Waiting for his friend to join him, he checked his watch for the tenth time in the past five minutes. No matter how hard he willed the second hand to move faster, it never did, thus dashing any hope of honing his imaginary telekinetic abilities.

"Where are you?" he grumbled, tapping his pen against the case notes he had been reviewing for the next day. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he stared blearily over the rim of his glasses to the papers. Gaudy country music filled his senses, increasing the intensity of the coming headache that threatened to floor the therapist, making him grimace in rage. If his friend didn't show up within the next ten minutes….

The thought of the threat was cut short as he heard the clanging cow bell signaling a new arrival. Laughter paused for a moment as the night owls of the 24 hour biker bar turned to view the new patron, Chris following suit. Unsure of whether to be disappointed or happy, he watched the medium sized man enter the smoky establishment.

Black eyes peered out from over dark sunglasses, worn at all hours, regardless of the light. They were piercing, predatorial. A gaze that in the nearly three thousand years the two had been friends, Chris could ever fully get used to. Long, chestnut bangs danced down across his temples, a few choppy strands gracing high cheekbones and causing the sharp angles of his face to stand out.

Around his wrists he wore a slave bracelet that branched into the man's favorite weapon—finger claws. Long and insidious looking, capable of slicing through steel, they adorned each of his digits and were decorated in diamonds and blood stone. They sent a clear message to any who saw him; this was not a man to be trifled with.

Man? Chris asked himself, before giving a little shake to his head. No, he was never a man. He'd always been a god.

Studying the patrons with those soulless, dark orbs, the new comer skimmed the group until he spotted Chris, and began the short walk with a confident stride, head bowing down as if attempting to go unnoticed. Coming to a stop before the table, he pulled out the distinctive pack of Camel cigarettes—Dark Mint, of course—and set one to dangle precariously between his lips.

"Sorry I'm late," he murmured, fishing around for his lighter. Instead of letting him continue, Chris pulled out his own Zippo, anxious to get this done with and get to bed.

"By an hour, Democritus. What were you doing?" the therapist demanded, pulling back a few escaped locks of trademark, bright orange hair. Democritus smirked, a familiar, Cheshire expression that pulled the corners of his lips up into something almost demonic. He flipped open the Zippo, holding the flame to the tip and letting the orange glow ignite the grin.

"Eating babies," he replied. From what the two had been through together, Chris had no doubts in his mind as to the truth of that statement.

"Classy," Chris grumbled, snagging the still open lighter and letting the flame press into his skin. Without care, he snapped it closed, pulling the burned area up to lick across it. Out of the corner of his eye he could see two drunken girls laughing to themselves as they watched the spectacle. Suit and tie, and someone resembling a Goth…or was that assassin? Well, Chris wanted to give them a show, and as he pulled his hand away from his mouth, he took special care to move it in a way where they could see his palm. Where the harsh burn had just been, now resided only smooth and flawless flesh. Soft gasps came from the two as they went quiet.

"And you call me a show off?" Kicking out the chair with his steel toed boot, Democritus flopped himself down in a less than graceful way, leaning back and hooking his hands behind his head. Chris rolled his eyes. After sitting here waiting for nearly an hour, being oogled and ogled by the scruffy looking patrons, he was allowed to have some fun, damn it!

"Why are we here, Demo? It's three in the morning and I work at seven," he sighed irritably.

"You're here because Mneme hates you," Democritus replied, before pausing, vision turning downcast for a moment. A grimace tugged at his lips as he ran the claws across the back of his neck, letting out a slow, but pensive breath. "And you're the only friend I've got. I really need your help this time…" Smiling softly in spite of his exhaustion, Chris gave a little sigh as righted his silver framed glasses.

"Then you're in luck," he stated. "I've definitely been making progress."

Democritus slid the dark sunglasses down, black eyes staring to him with a quiet intensity and curiosity. Moving forward in his seat, he attempted to peak at the papers set before his friend, only to have them pulled back.

"What's that?" Demo demanded, only to be thrown off by a charming smile from his friend.

"It's a case study of a certain Mr. Winner, of Winner Inc. I'd share it with you, but this isn't anything you need to know," Chris dismissively said. Pulling his briefcase onto the lap, he unhooked the front and refilled the papers, beginning to sift through. "It's mostly just the mandatory stuff I had the Preventer's head-shrinker fax over to me." An amused smirk formed on Demo's lips at the derogatory term Chris always used for psychiatrists. "But aside from that, I've got some good news. I've come up with a new theory as to our problem we have with a certain Mr. Chang." Interest perked, Democritus scoot closer in his chair, nearly sitting on the edge as he heard the familiar name.

"Go on…" he urged. Chris nodded, sliding out a file marked "W. Chang" on the top.

"Wufei, out of all of them, is the most accustomed to extreme losses. From his first wife," with this statement, he pulled out a picture of Meiran, lying it neatly so it was upright to Democritus. "To his clan," he produced a copy of the newspaper when L5 self destructed. "All of these, he's had to cope with, thus gaining a certain strength and endurance when it comes to loss, leaving him less vulnerable and much less willing than the other's to have his memories of someone as important as a friend—or a lover—be destroyed."

Excitement grew in Demo as he heard the words spoken, shifting slightly in his seat. He tugged nervously at the long braid dangling over the back of his chair, trailing the sharp claws through the chestnut strands. This was good news, he realized. This was definitely good news.

"Add to his adaptation to loss, his stubborn pride. Never would he let someone mess with him, even without his knowledge, making him that much more impermeable to our dear beloved Mneme—goddess of memories," Chris continued, leaning forward. Green eyes shown with happiness into the black depths of his friend's.

"But I thought none of that mattered…Mneme could just destroy the memories no matter what you wanted," Demo whispered, fingers folding in front of him. Chris shook his vehemently, leaning more over the table so they could speak in quiet, confidential tones.

"She can't. See, I have this theory, and I think it might right. We have free will, no matter what happens, right?" he wondered. Demo nodded. "Well," Chris went on, "we react, and act, to the world, with how it acts to us. And how it acts to us what makes us how we act and react. These times can bring on pain, fear, or goodness, all of these being emotions we carry with us for forever. Some a water phobia from nearly dying, others, completely different things. Fears and terrors shape our actions—both bad and good. We do what we do out of familiarity, act how we act out of the same. That, therefore, is free will. Because we choose to act how we will based on our experiences.

"Without these experiences, we are naïve and nothing. While yes, there are always those with amnesia, they still maintain a certain aspect of themselves we sure as hell didn't have when we were little. Knowledge of language remain, as well as the imprinted results of our past. Perhaps not the exact memories, per se, but the impact they had. Everything we go through is permanently in us, just stored away, waiting to be pulled back up. Even if someone were to remove all active memories, the subconscious would still keep a hidden copy so that the body would forever know to react!" he exclaimed as he ended, looking up to him hopefully.

"So this means…?" Demo quirked a brow as he asked the question, black orbs looking blank. Somewhere in there, it was obvious Chris had lost him and the point he was trying to make.

"This means that no matter what, the curse isn't impossible. All it takes is to make one of them remember—" Cut off by Demo's raised hand, Chris immediately shut his mouth, tilting his head to the side curiously.

"Look, I can't hear this," Demo explained, once more pressing back into his seat. Holding himself on the back two legs, he shook his head. "I go back fully into Mneme's service tonight," he sighed, voice filled with regrets and sorrow. "I don't want to know how you plan to fix this…no matter what, she'll find out." Confusion graced across Chris' brow as he shook his head, not understanding. Demo sighed. "Do you trust the gods?" he demanded, frustrated.

"No!" Chris hissed his rage, eyes growing with the intensity of his hate. Demo laughed slightly, shaking his head.

"Would you ever trust a soulless slave of one?" Demo wondered, tone softening and face filling with regret. Leaning back, Chris grimaced. He hated to admit it, but Demo was right. During his own mortal life, thousands of years ago, Chris had spent his years hunting and killing those with no soul. And now…now his best friend since childhood was part of the mass. Had been part of the mass since they had met. Yet never before had Chris felt there was anything Demo couldn't be trusted with, albeit, nothing had ever come this close to actually freeing his dear friend.

Biting his lower lip, the therapist hesitated a moment, then reluctantly began to gather the papers and photo's, tucking them with utmost care into the folder.

"So I guess this means, for the time, we're strangers?" Pain lacerated the doctor's voice as he slid the information back into his case, unable to stand the twist to his gut. It would be hard, letting his friend suffer alone. They both knew, though, that it was necessary. If things were to be successful, Demo could have no part in his own liberation.

Giving a reluctant nod, he watched Democritus stand, the fallen god extinguishing the smoldering cigarette butt against the table, before pulling out a fresh one.

"Do what you need to do," he mumbled around the object. Chris' Zippo seemed to magically appear in his hand, lighting up the cigarette. Once more, the eerie glow was cast over his face, empty black eyes staring down to him. "But Chris?" Chris looked up.

"Yes, Demo?"

"Make sure you don't hurt Wufei in the process. I'd rather stay enslaved then see he and Heero suffer anymore." Tone soft, Democritus gave his friend a small, but painful smile, breaking the Irishman's heart all over again. Demo tossed him back the Zippo, and by the time Chris had grabbed it, the man had already started walking away, pointedly ignoring the whispers of the crowd.

It was obvious just how much the fallen Greek God, in his few short years of freedom for the war, had grown to love his companions. And Chris felt, without a doubt, that they would be the one's to finally release him.

Setting down the money to pay for the drinks, he finished gathering his things and he too, headed out, hope guiding his steps into the cold chill of night. Years ago, in the Clan he had grown up in, his father had held him on his knee and told him words of warning.

"Lad, don't you ever anger a god. Their wrath is fierce, and to defeat one is impossible."

A small smile formed on his lips. Thousand's of years later, he still recalled those words as he slid into the front seat of his SUV. Yes, to defeat a god was impossible, but then again…the Gundam pilots had made a career out of doing just that. The impossible.

Okay, this story (the chapters further ahead) are going somewhere totally different than I originally thought, and this chapter turned out completely different than it was written. I wish I could afford to just post all the chapters up right now that I have! But that would be a lot of reading, and I do have to write essays instead of transcribing all of this from some scribbles made on the side of my French notes to something actually readable. .

Oh, and fyi, I'm not introducing any new characters, other than the gods. So...consider that the only hint you're getting about who Chris and Demo are.

I hope you guys like this!
And please, R&R? If there are any errors please tell me?

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing this.