Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Dense ❯ Dense ( One-Shot )

Disclaimer: It wouldn't be FAN-fiction if I owned them, now would it?

Author's Notes: I'm fairly certain this makes absolutely no sense to anyone other than myself. I post it in the hopes that someone will take pity on my incoherency and point out the flaws. Nicely, of course. Please?

Fits between episodes 4 and 5 on the GW timeline... supposedly.

// indicates song lyrics, taken from Metallica's "Enter Sandman." I'm unsure of why I even included the lyrics, but for some reason one of the muses decided to stick it in there. *shrugs*

Warnings: A smidgeon of language.

Exit Light

//Say your prayers little one
Don't forget, my son
To include everyone//

"Hey, Howard! I'm dead on my feet, man. I'm gonna go get some shut eye." My voice is dwarfed by the cavernous void that is Howard's main garage, muffled by the sheer magnitude of the space. For a second I wonder if he's heard me at all, but then he turns, his mouth twisted into a frown.

The bony old geezer spares me a condescending glance over the top of his sunglasses. He's overseeing the repairs being made on a beat-up space cruiser, his hands now too arthritic to do the job himself. Though it had looked ready for the scrap heap when he'd procured it, Howard now had it in near working order, thanks to his guiding directions and the skill of his mechanics. I've been working alongside them for the past eight hours and am more than ready to turn in, especially since I'm still running on empty from my last mission. I'm just hoping that tonight I'll finally get a break. One night's rest. At this moment, that's all I ask for from life.

Howard scans his piercing gaze over my grimy self, then turns his attention back to the ship, apparently not deigning me with a response. I'm about to leave when he tosses a jibe over his shoulder. "What's the matter, kid? Can't keep up with a bunch of old farts?"

You've got to love Howard. He's about as subtle as a well-thrown brick. If you can't handle it, that's your problem. Usually we get along just fine.

I half-heartedly muster up a scowl. "Aw, come on. I'm working the equivalent of two full-time jobs, here! Cut me some slack!"

"Johnson! Those are 8mm! You need 7.8mm!" Howard abruptly barks. The mechanic in question scurries over to a tool chest and exchanges the rivets he holds for the slightly smaller ones. Howard shakes his head. "Damned amateur."

"He'll be up to speed soon, old man," I assure him. "Give him some time."

Howard shoots me a look. "Time is running an awfully high premium these days," he says bluntly. "And I thought I told you to go get some sleep."

"Yeah, sure," I mutter, too tired to even roll my eyes. "On my way. Make sure that Donny doesn't electrocute himself again, okay? He doesn't have the common sense God gave an animal cracker."

I shuffle off to the shower room, my boots seeming awfully heavy. I'm still not quite used to the full extent of Earth's natural gravity and my muscles are not shy about letting me know it. They are, in fact, bemoaning their discontent rather petulantly, grousing as I yank off my boots. After convincing my grease-encrusted clothes to release their death grip on my limbs, I twist on the faucet and step into the warm flow of water.

Bliss. Sheer, unadulterated bliss. I'm as worn out as a cucumber in a convent. This is just what I need.

After allowing myself to revel in relaxation for a iota of time, I force myself to go through the motions of showering.

Shampoo hair. Rinse. Work in conditioner. Pin hair up out of way. Use special grease-cutting soap to remove said grease from hands. Rinse. Work regular soap into lather. Wash self. Rinse. Take down hair. Rinse. Wish one could stay in the shower for all eternity. Sigh. Turn off faucet. Dry off. Exit shower room wrapped in towel. Shiver. Curse dripping hair to the high hells. Enter adjoining locker room. Locate locker. Enter combination. Open door. Remove tank top and sweatpants from locker. Put on tank top and sweatpants. Wrap towel around shoulders. Remove brush from locker. Brush hair. Put hair in ponytail. Put brush back in locker. Close locker. Put towel in laundry bin. Exit locker room.

I think I'll sleep until hell freezes over.

//Tuck you in, warm within
Keep you free from sin
Till the sandman he comes//

I'm awfully groggy as I stumble off to the bunkroom, flopping down onto my bunk with a grunt. Foggily, I claw the blankets up over my body, staving off the pervading chill of the ocean breeze.

Mmm. Warmth.

I'm about to drift off when the alarm in my wristwatch bleeps angrily, startling me into semi-awareness. Damn. Incoming message from the man himself, Dr. G. I shake myself into full coherency and resign myself to another sleepless night. Slipping out of my warm cocoon, I reach under the bed and feel for my boots, then remember I left them in the shower room. Cursing my forgetfulness, I placate myself with a pair of socks and slink off to the huge garage where Deathscythe is currently stowed, stretched full-length on the floor. Clambering up the side, I drop into the cockpit and extend the front screen. Keying in a few code sequences, I open a comp-link with G, keeping the connection sound only. He must've been beaten with the ugly stick when he was younger and I really wasn't up to facing his image. Born ugly and built to last; that was G.

"Oi," I sigh. "You have got the worst sense of timing."

"If you weren't always striving to sharpen your sleeping skills, you wouldn't have a problem," G returns. "Stand by to receive mission data."

Diagrams and maps flash onto the screen, accompanying G's running diatribe of pointers, suggestions, and orders. Nothing too dramatic; infiltrate an Oz base and take out their munitions factory. No problem-o.

"Mission accepted."

I say the words coldy, callously, trying like hell to keep the jarring insecurity and dread from my voice. Though Dr. G has already assured me that civilian risk is practically nonexistent, I'm still uncertain. There are always civilians on military bases, whether they're visiting family or friends, site-seeing, or just working for the government. Although the first two were rather unlikely in the current state of affairs, I still try to keep my fighting confined to the airfield and tarmac, a location where nonmilitant personnel are unlikely to be found. Call it my contribution to the war cause.

I just hope they don't struggle too hard. The fewer lives lost, the better. I'd rather incapacitate the enemy than slaughter them. And with Deathscythe's superior technology, slaughter seemed a remarkably apt term for what I was doing. Not that it isn't funny as hell when they try to knock me off with a lousy Taurus.

Even though G can't see me through the computer screen, I grin manically. As if sending my mirth, a tinny voice comes through the comp-link.

"It's a very simple mission, if you don't mess it up."

He really knows how to get me going.

"This is me we're talking about, here!" I protest.

"You have an ego like a black hole."

I frown, crossing my arms behind my head, elbows pointed to the ceiling. My hands are right at the top of my ponytail and I resist the urge to bury my fingers in the damp hair. "You may be great with computers, but man, your people skills suck! You have the personality of a snail on valium!"

He snorts. "I can't tell whether you're bad-mannered or just daft."

I laugh. "I frequently have that problem myself, G!"

He cuts off his end of the link without another word. I guess when you've just given your life's masterpiece to a kid, that's not what you want to hear.

*******

It'll take approximately 180 minutes to get to the base. If I leave at midnight I'll arrive at the base at 3AM, when defenses will probably be at their least. It's 1900 hours now. That leaves four hours before departure. Half of me wants to say screw it and go to bed. My more responsible side is already reviewing strategies and mission criteria. I sit in the pilot's seat, mulling the choices over in my head. Sleep or study?

Heh. The same question normal kids my age wind up asking.

As much as I want to crawl into a bunk and pass out, I know what I have to do. There really isn't much of a choice to make. I reluctantly call up the images G forwarded to Deathscythe's system.

//Sleep with one eye open
Gripping your pillow tight//

//Exit light
Enter night
Take my hand
Off to never never land//

As darkness falls slowly around Howard's massive floating barge, I settle into my seat. I'm vaguely aware that my intellect has gone on autopilot. My mind slips into that zone where, even though you're acting, you aren't conscious of making any decisions or even of thinking at all. I beginning programming coordinates and target zones into 'Scythe, making notes of the locations where ambush would be most effective. I plan out the best way to infiltrate the base, determine how far I should go before dropping the cloaking device. I estimate the extent of the opposing forces and where they were liable to be located. I decide the likelihood of mission failure to be about 20%. As G had said, unless I messed up, there shouldn't be a problem.

//Something's wrong, shut the light
Heavy thoughts tonight
And they aren't of snow white//

I slip back into myself at 2240 hours. Mission preparation: complete. Slumping down in the seat, I let my muscles go slack and try to rub some life back into my overworked fingers. I allow my eyes to slip close and stave off the nap that threatens to pounce.

I still had about an hour and a half before I had to leave. I could take a snooze. Piloting a weapon as powerful as a Gundam while sleep-deprived wouldn't exactly be recommended by the surgeon general, I was certain. Yes, the moment certainly called for a little siesta. Demanded it, in fact. Assuring myself that bed would be far preferable to 'Scythe, I pry my eyes open, deciding to collapse across the nearest unsuspecting soft surface. That's when I notice.

There's something wrong with the satellite images. They seem... off. They correlate well with the maps and I can make out all the distinctive landmarks on both, but something doesn't quite add up.

This isn't good. If my information is flawed, the entire mission is bogus. Things could go very wrong, very quickly. And yet... I can't pinpoint exactly what it is that's incorrect. I sigh. Maybe I'm just not thinking straight. I am overly-tired. I stare at the images blankly for a good three minutes more, then shrug. If there really is something wrong and I'm not just being paranoid, I'm certainly too beat to figure out what it is. I'll check it out again before I depart. But now... now a bed would be good.

//Dreams of war, dreams of liars
Dreams of dragon's fire
And of things that will bite//

I start awake with a gasp, throwing myself out of bed and into a defensive crouch. It takes me a moment to realize there's no reason to be panicking. Nothing is attacking. No one is dying. No weapons are firing. Nothing is burning down. I am standing in the bunkroom, surrounded by sleeping Sweepers, not fighting on a blood-soaked battlefield. My hands are clean.

My hands are clean.

Shit. Something is very wrong. I hardly ever dream, at least that I remember, and I certainly don't have nightmares. Yet that was the only word to describe what had just pranced across my dreamscape. What had made me so uneasy?

My hair has escaped its ponytail and is falling irritably across my face. I shove it back with a jerky motion, concentrating on slowing my breathing to a more acceptable rate. I slump down onto the edge of my bed, the blankets a damp lump beneath me. I wrap my arms around myself, listening to the soft sounds of the men around me. It's a wonder I haven't woken anyone.

Forty minutes remain before mission departure.

My suspicion that something is amiss is stronger than ever.

Suddenly, I bolt out of the room and barrel towards Deathscythe. I don't know what I'm doing, but I find I can't force myself to stop.

//Sleep with one eye open
Gripping your pillow tight//

//Exit light
Enter night//
Take my hand
Off to never never land//

I throw myself back into the cockpit seat, slam the screen panel into place and call up the mission criteria. There has to be something. Some clue. I know there's a mistake somewhere. I know G has fed me defective information.

I slip back onto autopilot. My eyes dart across screen after screen, searching and failing to find any discrepancies. Information and details are catalogued and tagged, filed away for future reference. If I hadn't know the mission before, there was no doubt that I knew it now. Knew it better than I knew 'Scythe's controls.

And then, there it was. I had found it. I had located the error. I nearly laughed with relief. It was so simple. So obvious. So easy to see now that I have sifted the piles of data into an organized system.

The statistics file had said there were no civilian structures located near the base. Yet there, on satellite image BK42911, in the upper-left hand corner, captured in black and white, a tiny gray dot three-fourths hidden by shrouding trees, was a house. A home. And if I hadn't noticed it, if I had gone through with my original plan, I could have flattened it. It lay directly in my line of retreat.

Holy fuck.

Abruptly I'm enraged. Anger sweeps down upon me out of the blue. Trying to hold the emotion in check, I key up G's frequency and wait for him to respond.

"I was wondering how long it would take," his voice rattles from the speakers, but I am so blinded by fury that I barely hear his words.

"You sick, twisted, sadistic son of a bitch!" I shout. "You manipulative, overbearing, callous-- wait, what?" All of a sudden I realize what he's said.

"You located the error in the mission plans. I was beginning to think my confidence in you was unfounded," he chides me irritably.

Wait. Deep breath. Slow down. What?!

"You planted that error?!" I stutter, still trying to wrap my mind around the idea. "It was there on purpose? But people could have died!"

"Tsk, boy. Where's you faith in me? That house doesn't exist. I edited the image. There was never any chance of that," he's chuckling, enjoying toying with me. I wish I knew what he was trying to pull. A series of other emotions have joined the anger, mixing together until I'm unsure of how I feel. All I know for certain is that I'm not happy.

"You... created... the house. You.... altered... the image," I reiterate, disbelieving. I clutch my loose hair in both hands, wishing distantly that I had taken the time to braid it. "Why? Why in God's name--"

"Oh, please, boy. Don't get so righteous. We both know you don't believe in God," G is really hooting it up, now. I wish I could reach through the link and belt him one, even though I know I'd never have the nerve if actually given the chance. At least not without a few beers.

I bury my face in my hands and when I speak my voice is muffled. "Please just answer my question, G. I'm confused as a baby in a topless bar and I'm not thinking too well right now and there's only-" I check my watch "-twenty minutes until I have to leave. If I decide to still go."

"Fine. An answer is certainly in order," the amusement is leeched from G's voice, his words coming through crisp with gravity. "Frankly put, Duo, this was a final test of your abilities. You are about to embark on your first true assignment. I had to be certain that you interpreted the data well enough to perform optimally."

"You still don't trust me?" I frowned. "After everything, you still don't trust me to do my job?" That didn't make sense at all. I feel as if I've been zapped with a stupidity gun -twice. A few pieces of hair have flopped into my eyes and I flick them back into place. Realizing my hair will obstruct my vision if I don't tie it back before departing, I pull off the tie and set to finger-combing out the tangles.

"I trust you implicitly. I merely wished to determine the level of your effectiveness. I planted the error to see if you would become aware of its presence. If you didn't and it went undetected, I would become aware of your shortcomings in mission preparation. Necessary precautionary actions would then need to be executed," G explains, sounding as if he's settling in for a lecture. "However, since you did notice, that is irrelevant. I am quite pleased, Duo." Wow. He used my first name. High praise, indeed. "You have proven to me that your abilities are to a par with the most highly-skilled soldier's. Your comprehension of the data was so great that you noticed an error that was designed to go unobserved."

I pause half-way through the braid, trying hard not to grit my teeth. "Let me get this straight. You thought my analysis skills sucked, so you decided to trick me into studying and then give me a heart attack?"

"You could look at it that way, I suppose," G chuckles.

"I'm not some fucking test subject, G. I'm not an experiment that you can dick around with!" I fume, recognizing the deadly tone I've adopted. Apparently G does, too.

"Duo," he speaks flatly, in a manner that brooked no argument. "I had a question. You provided the answer. There's nothing more to it. "

"You lied, G," I seethe. "You fed me false information."

G reverts back to his condescending jabs. "If you hadn't noticed the error, you would be none the wiser. You wouldn't be sitting there questioning your trust of me. You're remarkably obtuse at times, boy."

"Guillotining you would only make an aesthetic difference!" I sputter. "Happiness would be seeing your picture on a milk carton! If I thought of you when I was lonely, I'd be glad to be alone!"

"Oh, simmer down," G titters. "Why would I want you to doubt me? Stop spitting all over my creation for two seconds and think about it." I do, but because I want to, not because he told me to. I mull it over briefly and am force to admit--

"You've lost me," I say, finishing off my plait and securing the end with the hair tie. Messy, but sufficient. G is laughing softly, the sound grating on my already raw nerves. This is so not what I need right before a mission.

"I suspected as much. Oh, the trials of having a room temperature IQ. Still, I'm certain you will eventually arrive at the proper answer. Just do us both a favor, boy, and don't contact me until you've thought this through, lest I begin to think of you as an experiment in artificial stupidity. I know you are nobody's fool, but maybe someone will adopt you. " He severs the line and I am left alone in 'Scythe, staring blankly at the screen panel, sloppy braid draped across my shoulder.

"You remind me of the ocean -- you make me sick," I mutter to the empty air.

//Now I lay me down to sleep
Pray the lord my soul to keep
If I die before I wake
Pray the lord my soul to take//

As G had predicted, the mission went off without a hitch, despite my scattered thoughts. Opposition was minimal, much to my relief, and there was no apparent civilian presence. Overall, a complete success.

I'm still confused about what G said.

It would be stupid to return to Howard's barge so soon after my attack. If Oz is somehow tracking me, I'd be eliminating the only haven I possess. I know the last thing they'll expect is for me to stay near their smoking base, so of course that's exactly what I do. I bring up 'Scythe's cloaks full power and hunker down to wait.

I've found sanctuary in the thick forest surrounding the base, a dense conglomeration of trees that is broken only by random rock formations. This is a rather mountainous region and the towering rocks offer a great deal of protection. I've settled down against the side of a particularly steep crag, certain that the position is fairly secure. I'm pressed against the cliff's western side, so when the sun rises I won't cast an incriminating shadow. It's in a secluded section of the forest, so it's unlikely that anyone will accidentally stumble upon me. To top it all off, it's near a deep river. When things settle down a bit, I'll be able to simply walk away, slipping undetected beneath the river's surface.

And I still have no clue what G was talking about.

I know it's unwise, risky even, but I suddenly find myself longing for a nap. The battle-induced adrenaline rush is ending fast and the last dregs of vigor leave my system. I'm beat. An hour's sleep over the past 68 hours. That can't be conducive to my health.

It's rash, foolish, reckless and a million other things, but I surrender with a yawn. I'm finally, at long last, going to take my nap. I'm tired of fighting it.

//Hush little baby, don't say a word
And never mind that noise you heard
It's just the beast under your bed,
In your closet, in your head//

It's two days after the mission. I'm back at Howard's, have finally gotten a decent night's rest, and have allowed myself to relax long enough to get sloshed. Though dealing with a hang-over is not my idea of a jolly good time, once in a while it's worth the trade-off. Especially when Howard himself is drinking like a fish. There's nothing more entertaining than that man when he's drunk. He gets philosophical as hell and waxes poetic. Tonight is no exception. Unfortunately, I'm so plastered myself that I can't do much more than giggle, totally unappreciative of Howard's rendition of a hula dance while reciting Descartes.

As the night rolls on and my alcoholic haze gradually thickens, the euphoria fades quickly. I lay on my back, watching the world spin around me, wishing that someone would put the stars back where they belonged.

"Saaay, Duo!" Kent is suddenly beside me, weaving to and fro. Even I can see that he's rather unsteady on his feet. "Never judge, okay?"

"Wha?" I slur. I try to sit up, but the floor is being selfish and won't let me go.

"Never think, neither, okay?" Kent is frowning in concentration. On some level I'm aware that he's trying to say something he considers very important. I try to oblige him.

"Why?" I inquire sleepily.

"Once you start thinking you become trapped in this world. In your human body. Don't think. It'll kill ya." Kent is saying some pretty weird shit, even for him. He's clutching a bottle of vodka in his hands. It's two-thirds empty.

"Wha' should I do then?" I manage to ask.

"React. Just react. If you react, it's not body. It's just mind. You need to train the mind. Before it gets trapped. Squirrels in a net! Don't become a squirrel in a net, Duo!" Kent sounds remarkably like he's sobbing. He drops to his knees beside me and the bottle of vodka falls forgotten to the floor, creating a glistening puddle. I reach up clumsily and attempt to pat Kent's arm.

"Don' worry, Kent. 'll all be be'er in mornin'," I mumble.

"Don't become a squirrel! Don't!" Kent slowly folds up on himself, huddling on the floor beside me. I roll my head around to watch him, muzzily blinking my eyes.

"S'all right, ain' any squirrels here," I tell him, but I don't think he hears me. He's already asleep. [1]

//Exit light
Enter night
Grain of sand

Exit light
Enter night
Take my hand
We're off to never never land//

I sit in Deathscythe's cockpit, staring blankly at the screen. I called up G's comp-link codes nearly forty minutes ago, but haven't entered them into the system yet. I'm uncertain if I want to. I still haven't figured out what he meant the other day. I still haven't decided if I trust him.

Why had he done that? He knew me. He knew I would lose confidence in him as a result of his meddling. And I'm certain he knew I would notice the error. He had been waiting for my call.

So why had he done it? Did he want me to lose faith in him? Did he want me to take his words and instructions with a grain of salt?

"Are you still trying to figure it out?" I jump as G's voice suddenly cackles through the speakers.

"What the hell--?"

"You've been sitting there for close to an hour. Aren't you bored yet?"

"How did you--"

"I've tagged your system. It automatically emits a signal -on a frequency only I have access to- whenever certain sequences occur in Deathscythe's dataflow. Didn't you wonder how I always seemed to know what you were up to?" G chuckles.

"You don't trust me after all," I accuse.

"Oh, hush, boy. I hardly sit glued to my computer, monitoring your every action. I only bother on special occasions."

"Like on days that end with 'y?'"I sourly respond.

"Like on days when you're being so dense light would bend around you," G shuts me up. "You're not stupid, boy, but sometimes I swear you're possessed by a retarded ghost."

"Fine," I grit out, forcing my fists to unclench. "Then why don't you explain everything to stupid little Duo so I can get on with my life."

He sighs noisily. "This exercise is pointless if I just tell you the answer! You must have the mental agility of a soap dish if you can't figure this out."

"Well, then call me a mental midget with the IQ of a fencepost!" What little patience I've retained dissipates rapidly into the air. I hate when he does this to me.

"You have quite the inferiority complex, kid, but it's not a very good one," G chortles.

"Are you just planning on tormenting me or is there a point to this call?" I demand.

"During evolution your ancestors must have been in the control group," he sighs. "They probably went to the colonies in search of bananas. Must I explain everything?"

"I'm not begging, G. Either tell me now or don't," I sourly inform him. I'm more than tired of this game and the longer the conversation drags on, the more irritated I get. Of course, anger in turn clouds my logic, so yeah. I'm sounding quite coherent.

"Alright, alright. I'll give you three clues," he caves. I wonder if he ever talks to anyone other than besides myself. Lack of social interaction would certainly explain away his eccentric conversation skills. "Are you listening?"

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead," I mutter.

"First: autonomous and confident. That is what you need to become. Second: superfluous and irrelevant. That is what I need to become. Third: Strong but not absolute. That is what must become of our trust of one another," G rattles off his explanation, sounding grim.

Abruptly things become clear. "So, all you're saying is that I have to think for myself?!" I sputter.

"Correct. A slight oversight on my part, I'm afraid, during your training. I never instructed you on how to act independently. I've always just presented you with relevant information. I never taught you how to determine for yourself what is relevant and what isn't. I'm not always going to be able to lead you around by your hand, boy. The time will come when you have to act by yourself."

Memories of my first mission on earth shoot through my mind. How I'd almost blown it when I'd stopped Heero from killing Relena. How I'd risked my skin to spring Heero [2] from the Oz hospital. Neither decision had been made with G's approval, or even knowledge, although Howard had lent a helping hand on the rescue mission. [3] "I think I've got that independent thing covered, G," I tell him.

"Do you?" He seems to uncannily know my thoughts, as usual. "I was under the impression that you had assistance rescuing that boy from the hospital? And remember who put you in the position to save the girl in the first place. Me."

That was true, I reluctantly admit to myself. If it hadn't been for his mission criteria, I never would have been at that base in the first place. Dammit. "Okay, maybe you have a point there. But what are we going to do about it?"

"Commence a new mission. You are going to learn that not every situation can be solved with explosions. Deathscythe has many abilities. Utilize them all. Think your actions through before moving forward. Examine cause and effect."

I grit my teeth. He makes me sound like a psycho, running around chucking grenades at anything that breathes. "And what about you?" I press, holding my anger in check. "What's your end of the deal?"

"I do my best to avoid capture," he states nonchalantly. "Although it's bound to happen sometime."

"So that's it?" I'm still a little blown away by what's happened. I think he can tell from my voice.

"That's it. Trust yourself to do what you must. Trust me to do what I must. But remember to question what anyone tells you, even myself."

"Why did you have to make this so complicated?" I groan. Talk about anticlimactic. "Would it have killed you to just say that flat out?"

"Your brain is like a beat-up car. Occasionally it needs a good whack to get it going." With that he's gone.

Question G? Think for myself? What did he mean, I always solve problems by blowing things up?

Oh. Yeah.

First he tells me I'm a highly-skilled soldier, then he says my training was sketchy. First he's pleased with the way I noticed the error, then he's informing me that I follow his information too blindly. What the--? He wants me to question what he says, but trust his actions. To complete his missions, but on my own terms. To function independently within his line of sight.

I let myself go limp in 'Scythe's seat, idly running my hand across the joystick. When did everything get so complicated?!

Maybe G's right. Maybe people around me are at risk of second hand idiocy.

-End-

Footnotes:

[1] I do NOT condone underage drinking.

[2] At this point, Duo doesn't know Heero's name. However, it would have been too confusing to refer to him otherwise.

[3] He did. Before he entered the hospital, Duo made a phone call -riddled with codes- that was undoubtedly to Howard. And where else would he have gotten that nifty helicopter stick?

Author's Notes:

Ick! I hate, hate, hate this! Why am I posting it? Why?! *bangs head on desk* Oh, constructive criticism. Right.