Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Soul Forge ❯ Becoming Shinigami ( Chapter 3 )

Thank you to the wonderful people who reviewed!

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Author's Notes: Begins about six months after the Maxwell Church Tragedy. This is a much darker Duo than in "Soul Forge." His sanity, which was rather unstable to begin with, has been buried with Father Maxwell and Sister Helen. Whether he regains it once more remains to be seen; perhaps once the war is over he will finally be able to heal.

Note about the timeline: According to "Episode Zero," Duo enters the Maxwell Orphanage when he's seven and the Tragedy occurs a year later. The story then skips ahead nearly a decade, beginning again when Duo stows away on Dr. J's ship at the age of fourteen. I've tweaked things a bit and with good reason. In my fics, Duo is ten/eleven when the church is destroyed. (Slight spoiler for story to come!!) I leave him in the Federation Prison for about a year, meeting up with Dr. J when he's about twelve. This leaves three years for him to train with his Gundam before the start of the series storyline. Why have I made these adjustments? Well, the cut and dry answer is that the creator's timeline is just unreasonable. Duo grew up on the streets, without a possession to call his own. You mean to tell me that he met up with Dr. J at age fourteen and was able, within less than a year, to not only learn to shoot a variety of guns with expert precision, but also how to make complicated bombs, expertly pilot a mobile suit, fully master navigation and fighting techniques, learn to use complicated equipment, AND be battle-trained? That seems a bit unrealistic. I think even three years is cutting it a little close, but felt that was the biggest change I could make and still maintain the basic integrity of the storyline. I'm going for canon, here.

Warnings: STRONG language, implied rape and violence. I wanted to keep it PG, but when you're dealing with such nasty subject matter, it gets a little tough.

Soul Forge II

Intellectual disgrace

Stares from every human face,

And the seas of pity lie

Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right

To the bottom of the night,

With your unconstraining voice

Still persuade us to rejoice.

With the farming of a verse

Make a vineyard of the curse,

Sing of human unsucess

In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart

Let the healing fountain start,

In the prison of his days

Teach the free man how to praise.

-W.H. Auden, "In Memory of W.B. Yeats"

The Federation had kept its security woven tightly around the building, sealing it from inquiring eyes until the evidence of their criminal actions had been removed. The bodies were dragged off to an undisclosed location, rifle cartridges were policed up, and bullets were dug out of the walls. A constant stream of high ranking officers flowed in and out of the church doors, their objectives unknown but their intent glaringly obvious: the Federation had committed a grievous error. When they'd subdued the rebellious colonists, they hadn't counted on civilian casualties, especially people of the cloth. Intentional or not, the deaths of the church's residents were unforgivable in the eyes of the colony and they now faced the daunting task of repairing their tattered public image. It was time to begin making amends, endearing themselves to the galaxy once more, securing their place in the political food chain. It was time to begin weaving their thick blanket of lies. Public announcements flooded the airwaves, offering enticing lies of reassurance and regret.

"We of the Federation are human, the same as every one of you. As men we are necessarily fallible. We commit mistakes and make faulty judgments, occasionally with dire consequences. This is part of what makes us human. We are not perfect. Our actions at the Maxwell Church were inexcusable, but they have served to make us aware of our weaknesses. They have shown us our flaws and swift action has been taken to ensure events such as these will never happen again. We of the Federation are human, and we mourn alongside every one of you...."

At first, with the jarring reality of the massacre still fresh in their minds, the citizens of L2 had been gripped by an incessant need to pay homage to those lost. They flocked from all over the colony to express their respect and satisfy their curiosity, cameras dangling from their hands and intoxicating horror running through their veins. They pressed up against the hastily erected military blockades, leaving behind bunches of flowers and securing anti-rebellion fliers to the barrier walls.

What they had forgotten in life now fascinated them in death.

As time progressed, the novelty of the catastrophe wore off and the throngs of oglers gradually diminished. They retreated to their respective lives, leaving the reek of decaying blossoms and an atmosphere of desolation as their legacy. The streets, once pulsating with indignation and outrage, once more flowed with indifference and disregard. The Federation, finished with their operations, abandoned the premises, their barriers still segregating the church from the outside world. The violated holy grounds were left vacant, an ominous precursor to the war that would soon follow... a symbol that went largely unnoticed.

***************

It was night when he made his return. He slunk down the street in silence, shadows hugging his frame like a second skin. The sickly glow of the streetlights tarnished his flesh a jaundiced gold as he passed, revealing a motley of abrasions and contusions. His hands were tucked into his armpits for warmth, the white fog of his breath dissipating quickly into the dark winter air. He plodded along as though without direction, as if whim were his compass and chance his map. Though his head was down-turned, flopping bangs hiding his face from sight, his eyes darted about nervously, taking note of his surroundings, marking any movements. He was uncannily alert, alive with animal instinct, his body vibrating with tension .

The diminutive figure drew even with the empty shell of the church, pausing for a moment alongside the barbed wire and concrete barriers. The shadows fell more thickly there, as though even the light was reluctant to span the void that surrounded the building. Standing in a pool of black, the boy abruptly halted to stare with vacant eyes at the former religious institution. He seemed to consider, then, slipping a hand underneath his shirt, the boy drew a pair of wire cutters from his waistband. Appraising the fence with an expert eye, he examined the wire for weaknesses, weighing the pros and cons of various locations. Selecting a spot that was partially hidden from the street by an overflowing dumpster, the boy carefully snipped wires in half, patiently carving a small hole in the razor-sharp fence. Using the cutters to peel the fence back, he gained entrance to the church grounds and carefully wiggled his way through the opening. After prodding the wires back into position, creating a semblance of solidarity, he quickly darted towards the church door, eyes constantly checking for witnesses.

He reached the solid church doors and fell to his knees, taking shelter in the shadow thrown by the heavy stone walls. A cast-iron padlock held the main doors shut, a stray beam of light sparking off its polished surface. The boy regarded it for a moment, his trained eye making note of its make and construction. His arm snaked over his shoulder and caught up his unnaturally stiff braid, pulling it forward across his chest. Delicately picking through the chestnut strands, careful not to snag any of the hairs free, he extricated a set of lock picks. Creeping forward on hands and knees, the youth made quick work of the padlock and tucked his tools safely back into his thick plait. Pulling the opened lock swiftly free, he hefted the heavy cross beam, barely managing to lift it from its brackets. Finally, his hands sweaty with tension, he pushed the door open and entered the church. His feet whispered over the threshold and he shut the door with finality behind him.

Once inside, the boy paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He was aware that the church's interior felt somehow wrong, the air seeming both strangely alive and disturbingly dead. He stiffly anticipated the reuse of his eyes. When his sight returned a moment later, it was accompanied by a loud gasp. Visibly shaking, the thin form dropped bonelessly to the floor in shock.

He'd expected damage. He'd seen it himself before the Federation soldiers swarmed around him and placed him under arrest. He knew that the interior wouldn't be the same, but he hadn't expected this... this... rape of his former home.

The church had been completely gutted. The rubble, naturally, had been cleared away, but the efforts had not ceased there. The golden candlesticks and tabernacle, the few lonely statues, all had been removed, shipped to another location or forever lost to someone's personal bank account. The pews, the confessionals, the altar furniture, the religious fixtures, it had all disappeared. The threadbare carpet had been ripped up and the candelabrum torn down. Even the receptacles that had held holy water were removed, their former locations marked only by slight discolorations on the walls. But worst of all was the window.

Father Maxwell had saved for years, cutting corners and counting pennies whenever he could, daring to dream that one day he'd have enough funds to order a stained glass window from a craftsman on Earth. His efforts had seemed futile, at first, yet the day had come when his goal was achieved.

He claimed it was his only bit of pride, that window. Not because it was one of a kind -which it was- or even because he had single-handedly managed to purchase it -which he had. No, his pride stemmed from the beauty that the window gave to his barren church, the wonder it instilled in the eyes of those who saw it. His pride stemmed not from what the window brought to himself, but what it gave to others.

Now it was gone and nothing but standard glass panes hung in its void, its once-striking hues replaced with cheap memories. The church remained, but its heart was forever lost.

It was nearly light when the boy finally raised his body from the floor, his movements stiff and forced. He tread hesitantly forward, eyes trained on the floor. Stealing up the aisle, he came to a halt before the altar. A dark stain could be seen marring the floor, marking the place where Father Maxwell's blood had soaked through the carpet.

With tentative motions, the boy knelt down and reached forward with reverent hands. He laid his palms flat in the heart of the stain, tense fingers spread wide. Slowly, he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the backs of his hands.

"I'm home, Father," Duo whispered. "I've come home."

***********

They let him free without warning. He'd been lying on the narrow cot in his cell, staring numbly at the dented metal walls, when the echoing thud of footsteps first met his ears. He'd slowly turned his head, pressing his ear to the cold steel surface of his "bed," where he could better hear the reverberations shooting through the metal. He let his eyes slide closed as he realized there were three sets of footsteps and all were fast approaching his cell. But their purpose hadn't been what he'd suspected.... A pile of clothing had been thrown at his face and two battered boots had fallen to the floor with twin clangs.

"Your term is up. Get up and get out. And if I ever see your punk face again, it had best be in the obituary section of the newspaper."

He'd spent his first night as a free man wandering the streets aimlessly, but had little recollection of what he'd done or where he'd gone. Life, which had stood still for so long, was now a notion unconceivable. The fragile stability he'd once briefly possessed had yet again been stolen and his mind was left a blur. Everything was shattered, including his faith in himself. He felt ungrounded, as though he were drifting aimlessly through time without reason.

The dark cycle gradually slipped by and the artificial sun began to sputter into life.

He'd come to his senses of a sudden in broad daylight, standing stalk still in the middle of a sidewalk, people flowing around him as though he were a rock in a stream.

He'd felt more like a pebble in a river. A grain of sand in the ocean.

As the bodies had pressed up against him, brushing by him on all sides, jostling him so he almost fell, he suddenly couldn't draw breath. There were all these people, all these lives, these faces, these minds, these souls, these bundles of flesh, these grinning skulls, these jangling skeletons... they were all over him, violating him, threatening his existence without even knowing he was there.

He thought he'd screamed. He wasn't certain. When he'd returned to himself once more he was holed up in a corner in a narrow alley, half-concealed by bags of garbage and flaking cardboard boxes.

For his long year of imprisonment, through all the shame and embarrassment, the pain and guilt, the regret and anxiety, a single voice had run through his mind. So strong, so powerful were its words that he heard its words even while he slept. They were with him always, never letting him rest, never granting him peace. They were his burden. They were branded on his soul.

"God Bless you and may he keep you ...."

He would have given anything to be able to trade his life for hers.

Dragging himself to his feet, he brushed the dirt from his clothes, the once black outfit now faded to a dull gray. Steadying his stance, he turned his feet in the direction of the Maxwell Church.

***********

The two guards stood outside the cell, bored. They were supposed to be guarding the prisoner, who was deemed "high risk," but in their opinion the assignment was pointless. As the clock ticked on, minds were wandering.

"You sure you didn't piss off someone, Amhurst?" the shorter man grunted. Slinging his gun over his shoulder, he rubbed his biceps, muscles aching from long hours of holding the rifle in assault position. "You musta pissed someone off for us to get this shit detail."

"I told you, Tiverton, I ain't done nothing! Maybe if you hadn't spilt coffee all over the Commander's desk, we'd be home right now!" Amhurst retorted, glaring. His own arms were a bit on the sore side, too, but he'd be damned if he let Tiverton see that.

"It ain't home I want to be, asshole! Did you see the way that blonde was looking at me at the bar the other night? Shit, man, she was practically all over me!" The skinny redhead leered.

" 'Practically,' being the key word," grunted Amhurst. "You were a customer, douchebag, of course she was being friendly!"

"That ain't the point! The point is that I should be out having fun, not standing here with some shit-for-brains asswipe, guarding some kid. I mean, look at him! He doesn't even blink for Christ sake!"

"I have to be an asswipe, to put up with your crap. And shut your mouth. Last thing we need is for some fucking officer to put us on report."

"Yeah, yeah. Big freaking whoop. What are they gonna do, make us baby-sit the General's grandkids? Come on, Amhurst, even you have to admit this is crazy! What's he gonna do? Stare his way through the walls?"

They turned to examine the cause of their plight. Indeed, the prisoner looked anything but threatening. He sat on the cold floor of his cell, curled into a fetal position, knees clenched tightly to his torso. He was dressed in a too-large prison uniform, its sleeves and pant legs cuffed sloppily up. His feet were bare; the heavy boots he had arrived with deemed weapons due to their thick laces and rugged soles. A thick braid of hair was draped over his shoulder, but it was beginning to fray. The hair tie had been removed along with the boots, some safety fanatic declaring it a security threat.

The Federation could be anal about things like that.

Inanely enough, the boy wore a black baseball cap atop his head. At some point during the boy's imprisonment, a guard had grown weary of enduring his perpetual blank stare. It could be unnerving, feeling those unblinking dark eyes boring into one's back for hours on end. Finally the guard had had enough and, breaking orders and entering the cell, had shoved his own hat onto the child's head, pulling the brim down low so the staring eyes were concealed. The cap had remained in place ever since.

"Yeah, he sure is a quiet bugger," Amhurst admitted. "Kind of reminds me of my little Carl."

"You have a kid?" Tiverton asked in surprise. "I wouldn'ta thought you were the family type."

"They're safe on L1," Amhurst quietly revealed. "A wife and son. There's another on the way. A girl. My wife wants to name her Helen, but I don't know."

"Helen? Odd name. Where'd she get that idea?"

"I'm not sure. She said she read it in some old Earth novel or something."

"You have a wife that reads that shit? Damn, you aren't gonna get all brainy on me now, are ya?"

"Go to hell, Tiverton!"

"Fuck off!"

The two were silent for a time, then the redhead shuffled his feet and sighed. "So, does the little fucker have a name?" He gestured towards the cell.

"If you'd care to read the information posted right in front of your lazy face, you could see for yourself," the burly man replied, resisting the urge to rub his eyes.

"Duo," read Tiverton, standing in front of the file posted next to the cell door. "Duo what? Doesn't he have a goddamn last name?"

"It would seem not," Amhurst yawned.

"Shit, I can't go calling him by his first name! That's all intimate-like! What happens if I have to shoot 'im?" Tiverton whined.

"You get over it?" The wiry man's partner was not in the mood to offer sympathy.

"Fuck you! Don't you know anything? It's bad luck to call an enemy by his first name!" Tiverton was a seasoned soldier and a solid believer in every military superstition. Amhurst was willing to bet that Tiverton would willingly tote a rabbit's foot around with him, if he knew what a rabbit was.

"It's also bad luck to insult those bigger than you," he growled at his smaller companion, tired of his foolishness.

"Is that a threat?"

"Try me!"

"Asshole!"

"Shitface!"

Blessed silence fell over the hall, the irate guards steadfastly ignoring one another. Each was silently thankful that the other's weapon came equipped with a safety guard.

"Hey, did you know he's a survivor from the Maxwell Church?" Amhurst asked some time later. Their shift was nearly over and he was ready to forgive his friend for their earlier disagreement.

"Really? He must have made some deal with Shinigami, huh?" Tiverton snickered. He was silent for a moment. "Say! I think I just found a solution to my problem! That'll be his new name. How 'bout that, Shinigami?" He mockingly called into the cell.

"You can't call a child that!" Amhurst was shocked. "He can't be more than nine!" His Carl was seven. Carl and the prisoner had hair that was almost the same color...

"His info says he's eleven. Now who's the lazy jerk? And I can call him whatever the hell I feel like, you ass-raping shit-eater!"

"Watch your mouth, you cum-breathed cock-jerker!"

Caught up in their argument, neither of the men noticed as a single tear ran down the prisoner's cheek.

*************

They were back on guard duty two months later, the assignment prompted this time by Tiverton's happy trigger finger.

"Christ, I wouldn'ta shot if I knew it was a civvie! I ain't that cold hearted!" the disgraced soldier whined.

"Complaining isn't going to do any good now. Just grin and bear it," Amhurst rumbled. He was none-too-pleased to find himself assigned back to the sterile prison so soon. His nerves were always piqued by the strange echoes and grating screeches that the iron walls and floors augmented so very well. He desperately wished for a cigarette.

Tiverton sighed, but did cease his incessant moans. Bored beyond reason, he turned to the prisoner's information file for entertainment.

"Says here he's been in therapy. What the fuck is up with that? Why are we paying some fancy doctor so that this little terrorist can feel all warm and snuggly 'bout slaughtering poor bastards like us?" The redhead was outraged. "I been killing people for ages and I ain't never needed no doctor."

"Remember, though your mental age might be indicate otherwise, you're no longer eleven," the tall man rolled his eyes. "And we're not paying a fancy doctor, as you put it, to fix him. He's seeing a military psychiatrist, which you could do -for free- if you so desired. Not that anyone would want to understand that twisted pile of shit you try to pass off as your mind. And as far as I know, he hasn't actually killed anyone."

His words were ignored.

"Hey, he's supposed to be moving around on his own, now. It don't look like he's doing much moving." Tiverton shifted next to the cell, running his rifle along the bars. "Hey, in there! Shinigami! You alive?"

"Stop that, asshole! It's 3AM! He's asleep!" Amhurst shoved his partner, casting an anxious eye towards the still form inside the cell.

"Who gives a flying fuck? I'm bored!"

"I don't care if you're Heero Yuy's uncle in a tutu! Shut the fuck up!"

The two faced off, staring eye to eye, feral snarls gripping their faces. Violence seemed inevitable. Tiverton was just pulling his arm back into a solid roundhouse when he caught a glimpse of a small form out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head in startlement and pulling his punch, he teetered off balance for a second, his weight unevenly distributed.

The prisoner had moved. In fact, the prisoner had walked right up to the iron bars and was now standing not two feet from him, staring up at him with steady blue eyes.

"Fuck," he breathed, dancing back a few feet. Tiverton was no longer bored. He was too busy having an aneurysm.

"Relax," Amhurst mumbled. He turned his attention from his white-faced partner to the boy, noting how he wavered on his feet. Up close his face looked wasted and gaunt, as though he'd been starved... or chose not to eat. His hair hung loose beneath his cap, falling far past his waist, a snarled mess of tangles and knots. His sleeves had unrolled, concealing his hands, and therefore it was quite a surprise when the boy suddenly held aloft a small cloth canteen. He held it out to them, as though he expected it to be filled.

"Are you thirsty?" Amhurst asked gently. He was startled when the child stared at him as if he were mentally impaired. Would I be holding out a cup if I weren't? his eyes seemed to scream in irritation. It seemed the papers weren't lying when they said the prisoner had made progress. "I'll go get you some water." He turned to Tiverton after taking the container warily into his hand. "I'll be back in a minute. Do not, I repeat, do not do anything foolish. You hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Tiverton flapped a hand at him, his color much restored. He glared at the silent child. "We'll just have a nice little staring contest while you're gone, isn't that right, Shinigami?"

The boy returned his stare emotionlessly.

***************

Not all of the guards were as harmless as Tiverton and Amhurst.

"Damn, look at his face, Amhurst. What the hell did they do that for?" breathed the short man, his mouth hanging slightly ajar in disbelief. He and Amhurst had just arrived for their shift, replacing two other soldiers who'd looked a little too satisfied with themselves. Examination of the cell revealed why. Shinigami, as Tiverton insisted on calling him, was huddled in a corner, his face bruised and bloody, one eye swollen nearly shut. The soldier was willing to bet from the way the kid held himself that there were more injuries hidden beneath his ridiculously oversized garments.

"Because they're sick fucks, that's why." Amhurst was feeling as though his twenty-nine years of life had suddenly doubled. His rifle was a dead weight in his hands.

"Why don't the Federation stop it? Ain't they gonna get reprimanded? He's a prisoner! Prisoners got rights!"

"I doubt they much care what happens to him," the large man replied sadly. "He's only in here until things cool off outside. Once the civvies have put the Tragedy behind them, he's going straight on the streets. He's basically a political prisoner."

"That's some pretty twisted shit," Tiverton grimaced and uncomfortably shifted his weight from leg to leg. "When'd the Federation get so fucked up?"

"God only knows," Amhurst responded, dropping to his knees next to the cell bars. He pulled a square of cloth from his pocket, dampening it with some water from the canteen clipped to his belt.

"Amhurst! That's issue! You just ruined your polishing cloth!"

"Quiet!" barked the brawny man. Lowering his voice, speaking in soft tones as though to an injured puppy -or his own son- Amhurst gently called to the battered prisoner. "Here, kid. Come here. Let ole Uncle Ammie clean you up a little." He held the cloth through the bars, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. "Let me wipe that blood off your face. I promise not to hurt you." Though the boy's uninjured eye had snapped to his face the second he'd begun to speak, he made no effort to move. If anything, his posture had become even stiffer than before. Sighing, Amhurst tossed the wet cloth in the boy's general direction. "Alright, see? I won't force you. Just make sure to clean yourself up before those cuts get infected." He stood, his knees cracking.

"Uncle Ammie?" snickered Tiverton, earning himself a blinding glare.

"Well, we spend enough time with him," Amhurst muttered, flushing red. "I see Duo more than I do my own family. Someone has to look out for him..."

"Fuck!" Tiverton was abruptly on guard. "You fucking feel sorry for the brat, don't you? Shit!! I knew you were too fucking soft for a job like this. Fucking... What the hell, Amhurst?! This is why you shouldn't use their goddamn first names! You start to think of them as people. He ain't no person, you dumb shit! He's nothing but a prisoner. You think of them as people, you start to care. Then you get your fucking head blown off. Fuck, Amhurst, just... just fuck!"

"Tiverton," Amhurst spoke in a low voice, strangely not offended by his partner's biting words. "Look at him. He's a child. An orphan. He hasn't got a thing in the world to call his own, not even his freedom. He doesn't talk, he hardly eats, he refuses to do anything. Christ, he can barely sit up on his own! He stole a mobile suit, sure, but he did it to protect his family. You heard the news reports. He isn't some criminal or murderer like the rest of the people in here. He's just some kid whose luck ran out." As he spoke, he stared at the child with steady eyes. He watched, mesmerized, as Duo slowly lifted his head and met his gaze. They stayed like that, staring into one another's eyes, for a long moment. Then Duo's head turned towards the floor once more, leaving Amhurst slightly shaken, but more emphatic than ever. "We don't need to fear him. He isn't Shinigami."

"Amhurst," Tiverton ground out. "Why the fuck did you have to do this to me? I thought we was partners. Why the fuck did you have to go civvie on me?"

But Amhurst wasn't listening. His attention was firmly locked on the prisoner as the boy gingerly leaned forward, crawling forward to snatch up the cloth from the floor. He moved as though all his bones hurt him, his motions stiff and jerky. Settling back into the corner, cloth in hand, he slowly started wiping at his face.

**************

"Piece of shit," the redhead muttered, shaking his com violently. "Goddamn modern technology. Give me a good old walkie talkie any day."

"What's your problem now, Tiverton?" groused his partner.

"Piece of shit com is busted again! It's FUBAR!" Tiverton snapped.

"Then stop shaking it like that, you stupid fucker! Give it here!" Rescuing the much-abused piece of equipment, Amhurst shoved his rifle into the smaller man's hands. "Hold this," he ordered, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the chill metal floor. Reaching into one of his pockets, he pulled out a new polishing cloth and spread it in front of him.

"You just ruined another, jerk," Tiverton garbled above him.

"You want me to fix this or not?" he glared upwards.

"Fine, fine. Go ahead. Sorry. Jeez."

Amhurst reached for one of the utility pouches snapped to his belt. Pulling it free, he removed a tiny set of tools.

"That's not issue. What the fuck is it?"

"An eyeglass repair kit," Amhurst muttered sheepishly.

"You don't wear glasses," Tiverton suspiciously noted.

"Contacts," came the grunted response. Amhurst's attention was focused on the tiny screwdriver he pinched in his fingers. Holding the tool in one hand and the com in the other, he contemplated his task. Delicately, he began loosening the miniature screws holding the com's plastic casing together. Each extricated screw was carefully placed onto the polishing cloth. When they had all been removed, he carefully pried the back off the com, revealing a mess of wires and chips. Running a practiced eye over the machine's guts, Amhurst grunted in understanding. "Your transmission chip is loose," he explained. "And a couple of wires are twisted." Laying the com on the blanket, he selected a small set of tweezers from his tool kit and set about to making the repairs.

A short time later, he looked up. "Okay, I think I've fixed it. Try it out now before I put the back on." He held up the device. Tiverton slung both rifles over his shoulder and took the com from the beefy hand. As his partner futzed with the small machine, Amhurst glanced into the cell, absently checking to see that the prisoner was secure. He was surprised to see that Duo was right up against the bars, squatting back on his heels, examining his tool kit with open interest. "You liked that, huh?" he asked the boy with a grin. Duo looked at him and seemed to consider before blinking his assent. His eyes darted between the com and the Amhurst. "Want me to show you how it works?" he offered, amazed at the sudden animation the child displayed. Duo earnestly met his eyes and Amhurst laughed. "Why not? It's not like either of us are going anywhere."

"Yeah, it's fixed. Thanks, buddy." Tiverton had missed the exchange between the other two. Looking up from his com, he handed it back to Amhurst. "Slap the back on there and it'll be damned great." Then, as Amhurst took the com and scooted over to the cell, "What the fuck you doing?"

"Kid's interested. I'm gonna teach him how it works," the large man explained. He turned his attention to the prisoner, pointing to the com's jumble of pieces with his screwdriver. "This is a com. It's what we use to communicate with one another. Com is short for communication device, but I guess that's a no brainer, huh?"

"You're a no brainer, asshole! What the fuck you doing, teaching the damned kid how our shit works?! Dammit, he could turn right around and use that info to hack his lock open! And don't sit so close to the little bugger. Fuck knows what tricks he's got up his sleeves," Tiverton spat, waving the two rifles in indignant outrage.

"Watch the pieces, nitwit! They're loaded and active!"

"If you can teach the enemy how to build a goddamn bomb, I think I can wave a couple of rifles around!"

"I'm not teaching him to build a bomb, you shit for brains! I'm teaching him how basic technology works! Christ, he probably won't understand anyway!"

"You can't take that chance! Shit, you're a damned pathetic excuse for a soldier, you know that, Amhurst?"

"What the fuck did you say?"

"Pissed you off, huh? Good, 'cause you've been pissing me off for a long goddamn time. I'm sick of your shit!"

"And I'm sick of your mouth!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!"

This time the two men did begin to brawl, fists flying as furiously as their slurs. The guns were kicked to the side, discarded, and the com lay abandoned in front of the cell. Surreptitiously, Duo snatched it up as his guards toppled to the floor, Amhurst pinning Tiverton's shoulders. As they continued to grappling, sweat rolling down their faces, the child examined the precious equipment he clutched in his shaking hand. When security arrived to break up the fight a few minutes later, the com was safely returned to the hallway floor and Duo was once more in his corner, curled up around himself, the com's construction securely etched into his mind.

That was the last time he saw Tiverton and Amhurst.

****************

Case #: 1039584000116

Patient's Name: Duo ?

Date: August 28, AC192

Doctor: Palladino

Patient Evaluation:

Continues to display aversion towards physical contact. Continues to refuse to speak. Continues to avoid making eye contact. Continues to refuse to eat. Continues to display hostility towards offered assistance. Continues to avoid facing the reality of his situation. Continues to.... nothing has changed since the last session. See previous notes.

Patient Prognosis:

I wash my hands of this.

Comments:

This patient has been in my care for ten months now. I have seen little progress made, yet remain certain that this is solely by the patient's choice. I am positive that his intelligence is fully active and functioning, probably at above average levels. It is of my opinion that we are not dealing with a mentally incapacitated child. Though I make no claim that the boy is free of mental problems, I feel this course of therapy is doing little to redeem the situation. At this time, there is no trust between the patient and myself. This is the largest barrier against his progress and until a bond can be forged, there is little that can be done. Frankly, I don't feel it to be worth the time. The patient frequently displays paranoia, self-induced catatonia, anorexia, suicidal inclinations, self-mutilation, and depression. I suspect a number of underlying, far more severe problems that cannot be diagnosed from the information currently available. This child is not the Federation's responsibility and I strongly recommend his therapy be ceased at once. Any further sessions would be a waste of time and money. No answers will be forthcoming.

The general slapped the file down on his desk, his heavily lined face contorted with irritation. "Son of a bitch!"

"Sir?" an aide hesitantly ventured, poking his head into the general's office. "Did you need something, sir?"

"Nothing, Wang," the man replied, his tone belying his words. "Go back to your tasks." He sank down into his leather desk chair, slumping slightly.

"Sir, right away, sir." The aide's eyes were wide as he turned to leave.

"Wait!" barked the general abruptly, his posture suddenly ramrod stiff. A dangerous glitter was in his eye.

"Yes, sir?"

"Call Commander Rojas. Tell him I want to speak with him. Now."

"On the double, sir!"

Within a half-hour's time Rojas stood at attention before the general's desk, his uniform impeccably pressed, his lower legs encased by spit-shined leather boots. "You wished to see me, sir?"

"Please, have a seat, Rojas."

"Thank you, sir."

"Would you care for a glass of wine?"

"No, thank you, sir. I'm on duty, sir. Wang said you wanted to ask me something, sir?"

"Tell me, soldier, would I be correct if I said you'd been in charge of security operations for the past ten years?" The general spoke with remarkable civility, his hands neatly folded atop his massive wooden desk. It appeared to all the world that he considered this to be a social meeting.

"You would, sir," the man replied without hesitation.

"And would I be wrong if I said that we'd never had a security breach since you came into command?"

"You would be correct, sir," Rojas agreed with pride.

"Really? And what would you call that incident with the boy? A success?" His voice rising, the general shot to his feet, looming above his quaking inferior. "I'd call that a noted failure, Rojas, and yet did I demote you from your position?"

"N-no..."

"No. I did not. Because you said, give it time. Give the boy time to calm down and he'd give us answers. He'd tell us how he breached our code red security measures and managed to steal a billion dollar piece of equipment out from under the noses of several dozen highly trained soldiers armed with deadly weapons! We could learn from him, you said. We could pinpoint our errors and tighten our security. Well, guess what, Rojas?"

"S-sir?"

"You've both run out of time."

*********************

Duo raised his head. He knew not how long he'd been lying there, crouched on the floor of his former home, pressed against the cold bloodstain of the Father. He noted without emotion that it was now bright out, that the artificial sunlight was pouring through the cheap glass windows of the church, casting pools of light wherever it fell. He shut his eyes. No amount of light would ever counteract the darkness that had occurred there. Off-handedly, he wondered how many days had passed since he'd arrived. Judging by his body's stiffness, at least two or three. With a stifled groan, he dragged himself to his feet, joints cracking and muscles aching. Remaining here further would do no good.

He stood in one of the few places of shadow for a long moment, his hands clenched into fists and his eyes squinted shut against the sun's blinding assault. Gathering his reserves, he turned his back on the bloodstain and took a tentative step forward, leaving the darkness behind. Though his steps were slow at first, the farther he passed from the altar the quicker his progression became. By the time he reached the door he was practically jogging, his heavy braid flopping against his back.

He had placed his hands on the door, about to shove it open, when he paused. Twisting his head around, his eyes darted about the church's interior, as though memorizing its angles and planes. Seeming to come to a conclusion, he turned to face the altar once more, dropping down to his knees and lowering his head.

"My name," he said softly to himself, "is Duo. Duo Maxwell."

Raising his gaze, he locked his sight on the bloodstain marring the church's floor. He stared at it for endless seconds, his heart seeming to pause in his chest. Slowly, with many false starts, he began to speak, the words stumbling across his tongue, voice scratchy with misuse.

"W-we colonists di-didn't come to space to f-fight. This is a p-place for peace. If you wanted war so much, you should have left us out of it........ All you do is make orphans like me. We were happy here and you stole that away." His speech had begun levelly, dispassionate, as though he were reciting from a script, but as he spoke, his tone grew increasingly angry, hostility lending his words strength. "You stole that from us. You stole that from the whole colony. Someone has to make sure you don't take anything else. It's just by chance that I'm still alive. I might as well be the one to do the dirty jobs."

Standing, he turned to the door, firmly pushing against its formidable weight.

"I'm Duo Maxwell. I may run, I may hide, but I never tell a lie."

Then, as the light fell across his narrow frame, a slightly unbalanced grin snaked its way across his face. His attention turned in the direction of the colony's spaceport, where he knew shuttles departed for the Earth at regular intervals. Snickering with anticipation, he darted across the church yard and struggled through the barbed wire fence. As he set off down the street at an efficient clip, boots making hardly a noise against the pavement, a mere slip of black in the hectic tide of people, he muttered a single phrase to himself, a phrase that in the coming years would become the last words many Federation soldiers would hear.

"Shinigami is coming for you."

-Fin-

Zooie: My muses have decided that this is to be a trilogy. Hooray!