Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ The .45 Colt War ❯ Sex Machine, Hate Machine ( Chapter 3 )

Part 3

"Sex Machine, Hate Machine"


You know how in every movie you've ever seen, the sex-kitten character, the swanky woman in a scandalous, arrest-me-red dress always storms the room and glides past the main characters in liquid slow motion, usually dripping with sleazy ZZ Top guitar riffs? Well, I'd say Heero's theme song is a roaring anthem done by spasmodic heroin junkie guitarists fresh off a bubbling hot batch of black tar. That, or an aggravated mountain grizzly bear. I grin awkwardly in the harsh blue skeletons of light streaming in the dark room, grasping just how fucked up and mildly psychotic my possible last thoughts are. I need to do something; I feel pinned like a raccoon under a squealing tire when he glares like this. But as soon as I realize how much angrier it makes him, I regret ever having facial muscles. It's like red-hot coals under a gargoyle's ass, instantaneous and brutal.

The door rattles dangerously as Heero's fist lunges down on the brass doorknob and slams the door shut like an incensed demon would throw a human body against a wall. The beam of dim yellow light outside in the hallway like a last beacon dies along with the image of Wufei's injured shadow limping indignantly to his room. I can still hear Quatre's voice soothing the battered, moderately bloody Latin pilot, our precious stoic Trowa, as he slumps bodily against him like a sack of dead potatoes. Their voices drift away, like butterflies whirling away from the spark of a malicious fire. Smart butterflies. The peace in here doesn't last long, either.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Anger and hellfire roar in my brain. "Duo."

No, wait; it's just Heero's voice viciously growling at me, just loathing enough to sprout a malignant tumor. The slim brunette glares at me, face set in a taut grimace, eyebrows furrowing despite the large, strawberry red gash running a long vicious line across his temple and around the crook of his grinding jaw that's just now scabbing over. An hour before, it was a torrent of thick cherry red down the entire left side of his face, clotting in his eyelashes and hair. The nausea and dizziness must have been hellish, even for a soldier. Let alone a soldier in a sweltering dark cockpit being incessantly thrown against the metal consoles like a bag of bones from attacks and as blind as a bat. Unfortunately, Wufei and I, infiltrating the computer control room, ran into a hair-trigger lieutenant lagging behind to combat our decoy team currently slicing suits, leaving Quatre, Trowa, and Heero to fend off the war dogs for another twenty minutes before we could haul our asses out of there. Ten minutes by itself can be the difference between scabbed knees and a bloodbath massacre.

Heero had taken the vicious blunt of the onslaught, scorching off all but his armor in the process, causing temperatures to shame even nasty hellfire in his cockpit and frying his monitors into blithering, sparking slabs.

(Like the damn hero he is.)

And so, in pitch black, he had slashed through the suits dog piling him, with the worse intent to kill, single-handedly, and come out swinging, trying to slice the every damned scrap of metal, bleeding profusely and with an animal glint in his shadowed eyes that sickened me to my stomach to see.

It was the sick war souvenir of the week.

Glancing fearfully at him, my spine arched into the arbitrary table in the room in surprise, I can see spots of red still caked into his angular collarbone. My eyes, painfully wide, lock onto his face, daring not the slightest to enrage such a loose firing pin. Blue ones burn me down. "Answer me, Duo!" the Japanese pilot snarls, dilated pupils like black holes that suck all the audacity out of me. Oh, crap. He's close. I've just noticed.

Someone coughs in the second story, spooking my gaze from that angry, beautiful face.

Nervously, my fingers dig into the old, yielding soft wood table jabbing me and I cling to my scraps of nerves that haven't abandoned the Maxwell ship and… suddenly remember. Hallelujah.

"I was saving you, that's what!" I shoot back snappishly, feeling all too insolent and inclined to raise my voice to him, stare at his beautiful rage. When the Japanese pilot shifts backward slightly for whatever reason I hungrily pounce on the inch he relents like a dog. I'm angry. "I don't care what you think about what I did, I at least know it wasn't wrong! Bitch at me all you like, it's never wrong to save a human life. I saved your stupid ass!"

Sloe blue eyes... those insane, undecipherable things, for an instant, turn pale and confused, rimmed with stunned white.

Good Lord who art in heaven... I've actually left him speechless!

****Okay, now let's move onto a game called "Scenes From a Hat" (assorted cheers from audience hailing the game) for Trowa, Quatre, Heero and Duo. (performers automatically rise from their chairs and walk down towards their appointed steps on opposing sides of the stage in pairs.) If you're not familiar with this game, before the show we ask the audience to write down suggestions that they'd like to see acted out and put the good ones in this hat and have our performers try to act them out, starting with...

(shot of Trowa and Quatre, and Heero and Duo prepping as Wufei draws from the upturned American top hat.)

"...Bad times to celebrate too early." Go ahead.

(Duo steps down into the center of the stage, Heero following mutually.)

Heero: [pauses.]

Duo: [pauses, looking blankly at his partner, then yells.] I saved your stupid ass!

Heero: [pauses, looking surprised, then bashes him into the wall.] *****

I crumble helplessly under his fist and take the vicious fire that is his knuckles slashing me as I stagger back. It's black and swirling blue as my teeth squeal and whine for mama. I recover hazily, sprawled on a mahogany table without a scrap of pride left to my name by now. Luckily, the door is closed, otherwise someone would have heard the pathetic yelp I emit as the raging Japanese pilot seemingly gets ready to attack me again, head bowed slightly and face hidden. Wood squeals as well as Heero jolts the table viciously and leaves me unharmed for a second. He growls to himself and then backs off with a shaky step, still radiating red-hot waves of undiluted aggression like an open stove.

"Heero?" I ask, half-undaunted still, my leg hanging off the table in a damsel fashion.

"You were acting so stupidly, endangering the mission that way!" he snaps, dishing another vicious, almost immature whiplash to the table. He no longer acts the mysterious, fickle lit fuse; he glares forthright at me. "You could have screwed up the entire initiative! Do you have any idea what you were doing?"

Every word is like poison dripping from his lip. Mission-driven, heartless asshole poison.

"Yeah, I do!" I retort, climbing to my feet brashly, although I would be infuriated if it's suddenly illegal to just stand myself up in His almighty Soldier's presence. Great. I even stagger as my clothes catch on the wooden table and I testily rip it off the corner. Ignoring the look of mild frustration and surprise, I brush past him and head to go check up on my injured comrades, the ones who haven't set their sights on incurring damnation for me helping them.

I've decided to let the first punch go.

By the time he shoves me I'm in the red and nothing but Sister Helen herself will stop me from throwing any scraps of good religion left in me to the wind and smacking Heero back. A forceful hand locks my shoulder against the cold wall, and I'm glaring angrily up at my captor like he just ran over a little poodle and left it to bleed to death, like he's a piece of shit. And honestly, he is right now. I thought I knew him... Bodily hunching in the effort to pin me and hissing short, strained breaths through the thin, dangerous gap between his teeth, Heero nearly snarls his words so badly I barely understand him, drilling me into the wall.

"Listen to me."

"I guess I have to, now don't I? Since someone," I hiss back, taken up in the moment with my American temper --damn my New New York roots-- "just fucking slammed me into my wall and I can't even touch the ground!"

Heero's eyes flash and he angrily whips his fist at his side. "No, Duo, shut up and listen to me!" I've seen this thin, deceivingly waifish boy snap steel like pencils during boring math lectures, so when the fire in his blue eyes flares, I decide to abide and seal my lips shut. Acid pain shoots through my shoulder as short nails dig in. "You didn't follow your orders and threw yourself recklessly in and became a liability for us all! What the hell were you thinking!"

"I don't know Heero!" I mock. My eyebrows furrow dangerously, watching the blue skeletons of light pale his face. Equally drawn and taut as mine must be, only streaked with faded red. "I'm sorry I didn't let you die! I'm sorry I took any fucking bullet for you! Huh, is that it? You jealous of death?!"

Jesus, I'm yelling loud.

Japanese eyes narrow, a precarious, trapped anger flittering behind them. Tighter grip, more pain. "No," he hisses.

"Denial!"

Loose tongue will be the death of me, but anger rolls so sweetly out the mouth. I thunder on, like a derailed, flaming train.

"I don't know why the fuck I'd want to save my friends! I see now how weak and imperfect it is to ever help anyone, oh thank you Heero Yuy, for showing me the light!" I rant, every syllable climbing dangerously closer to an enraged, chaotic shriek. Thundering adrenaline and blood begin to distort my brain, and each frame of an incensed Heero throttling me is opposed by another of Solo, beautiful green-eyed Solo, slowly rotting in a dirty, worthless junkyard. Strings in my heart already slashed and torn, bleeding by a splinter thread wrench tightly. I hate him. "You want to die, Heero?"

"No."

"Liar!"

"Duo."

"Fucking liar!"

"...Duo!"

"Even if they're an asshole, huh, Solo?" I shriek and simultaneously claw at the Wing pilot's wrist, now sinking into dementia. Limply, I loll my neck to face toward heaven. Everything is black. I'm alone with my demons and they laugh as I claw at them in vain. Green-eyed demons. "Well, that's what I have right here! A fucking liar who wants to die! Ha ha ha ha!"

"Duo!"

"Wants to! What an idiot he is!"

"Duo! Stop it!"

"If only he knew huh, Solo! Huh, Solo?!"

"S-stop!"

"He must realize how foolish he is!" I laugh, hysterically, hot salt smearing my dimmed vision, lacing red pain withering my senses. "'Duo' he says! But he doesn't fucking know, Solo! He doesn't know that he's tempting death, flirting with Shinigaimi! I was never really Duo!"

"Stop!"

"I'm always Death!"

"Your name is Duo!"

"I'm nothing! I have nothing to prove! I am Death! You died, Solo! He'll die!"

"You're Duo Maxwell!"

"He wants me to be Shinigami! He embraces death by denying my help, by denying my genuine fucking help! I hate him! I hate him!" I'm wailing shamelessly. I can smell it again, in the blood traces left on Heero's forehead, caked in his hair. Blood and death. I can taste Solo rotting.

"I don't want to be Shinigami! He knows nothing about me when I know everything about him! Why does Heero want that, Solo?!" Blood leaks beneath my fingertips.

"I don't!"

"Shinigami can only kill!" I choke.

"Duo... Please!"

"I fucking tried not to kill Heero! I tried! I tried to do what you said! I can't love him, I'll kill him!" I sob, anemically clawing a quivering hand. "Please come back, Solo!"

"Stop it Duo, you're scaring me!!"

With that the violins playing the dramatic C minor music snap and I unceremoniously clatter to the floor like a disowned Pinnocio doll, blood flaring in my nostrils. I feel thunder vibrating through my bones, cheek flattened into the cold, chipping wooden floor, and the golden light returns, burning on my face before reality fractures. Lying there, stained by blood but not quite bleeding. Then I grasp it's a gun magazine emptying into the floorboards, slicing my calves. Time is freezing as the butterflies return to the scattering ashes of dead orphans.