Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ The Creed Arc ❯ The Creed: Sticks ( Chapter 6 )

-Sticks-

Sticks and stones may break my bones but it's the words that always hurt me. That's how it should go. And I should know. I've had more broken bones than anyone I can think of, except maybe Heero, and I can tell you now: not a one of them hurt like a single word can. Pick the right word and you can destroy a person. Believe me, there are worse fates than death. Destruction is one of them.

So many people seem to think death and destruction go together. Maybe that's why they sound so good together, right? Wrong! Death is so much better than destruction. Death is final, everlasting and unavoidable. But destruction…that's where the real tragedy is. That's when a person is really destroyed; when you can watch them fade away, disappearing until you no longer recognise them. And the cause of this destruction? Certainly not sticks. It's the words…those burning words.

I'm sitting in a café. It's small, rather lonely and in my opinion quite pathetic, which should tell you why I'm here. I belong here; among the destruction. It's a normal day. The sky is grey, but its not going to rain. The people are going about everyday schemes, thinking they are content. Hell, maybe they are. Who am I to say?

It is the first time I have been alone in four weeks. After my return to the world of the living and my `reception' I set to work on my Gundam. After all, with my senses `so obviously' returned, not even Heero dared to tell me I could not go back to missions as soon as my Gundam was in commission. I think Wufei had a lot to say on the subject but he kept his mouth shut. After all, with the good ol' Duo Maxwell returned to them all my fellow pilots knew they would get a mouthful if they dared insult my abilities. That is the way it has always been.

So here I am, in a café, mission complete, waiting for the air to clear a little before I head back out to where I stashed my fully repaired, better than ever Deathscythe, drinking a hot chocolate and thinking It's alright. At least, the mask thinks it's alright. And for once, I think the mask is right.

I'm away from them, out of sight and out of mind. I can't help but think if they can't see me they can't be touched by me, and if I can't touch them, either can death. They are safe. It's back to the way its always been while I sit here. It's quiet; not many people in this crap little café. It's dark; I'm in the corner and the light is broken. It's empty; I'm hungry as all hell.

So it's not quite the same; the doctor's, Heero and Wufei having conspired to strip away my retreat into nothingness, but its familiar. I feel…safe here, and if I am safe away from them all, then they are safe in my absence.

That doesn't stop me from being lonely. I wonder why my fingers keep making their way to my lips, trying to remember the warm touch of other lips. My ewars keep straining to hear a voice, but the soothing Chinese words are never there and I'm awake, by myself. There is only the murmured hush of the crowd, the aching muscles and burning skin.

Why is it that I can't seem to go on a mission without something catching on fire? Every time I get so close my skin starts to blister and peel, yet I am otherwise untouched. I always come out alive, braid unharmed, warm, a little feverish, but otherwise fine. Why doesn't it want to swallow me in flame? Isn't that the fate hell has awaiting me anyway? What difference does it make if I go now or later? Does God hate me so much he's not even willing to let me into the flames? How horrible.

I'm still jealous. I think that's half the reason I'm not hurrying to my Gundam right now. After all, it's been hours since I attacked the base. I'm jealous of this mask, that makes the girl at the counter giggle and give me strange looks. I'm jealous of this fiend that inhabits my skin and tells me what I do and don't like. Most of all, I'm jealous of the way Heero looks at this creature, and the way the others enjoy its company.

I hate that Wufei ignores this mask. He pretends it isn't there, and talks to me as if I'm still comatose on the bed. That's why I'm sitting here, I swear. It's not the jealousy, but the hate. Why can't I fool myself anymore? It used to be so easy.

I want to go back, to be around them, but I can't bring myself to do it. I can't bring myself to hurt them. And that's what's given me this crazy idea.

I promised Heero I would build the mask. I didn't promise to stay with him…I can leave. I can do what Duo does best; I can run, hide and not lie.

I'm already on my feet, the cogs in my head turning as I wave to the girl at the counter and hurry off down the street. I know where I'm going, and I cringe because I know. That doesn't stop me. My heads already working on the things it has to do. Number one is get away, number two…call G. So not looking forward to that one. G can see through me like no one else. He might figure out what's happening and try to take Deathscythe, but I won't allow it and hopefully he knows that.

Funny how your feet know what to do without being told. I wish I could blame my whole life on my feet; maybe my only problem is that my feet keep walking in the wrong direction. Maybe if I chopped them off I would finally be able to die. Too many maybe's for my liking. They're just feet after all, and I know it's not their fault I'm poison.

I hurt like hell, and not just on the outside, though that's bad enough. The mission really pulled me a hard one. I didn't get caught, and it was a success, but that doesn't mean it was easy. I don't want to think about the things I did just so Heero could type `Mission Compete' on his damned laptop. And what's inside, it's an old hurt, just waking up. I thought it was dead, along with the rest of the real me when I built the original mask that is Duo Maxwell, but I was wrong. So very wrong. It was just sleeping, the ancient dragon in my soul and now its burning up my insides with its need to get out.

So many sticks stuck in my throat I want to scream, but I can't. I have forgotten how. All I know is lying down in defeat, staring at the ceiling and waiting for death when I know it won't come. Just like Solo…

But it came for him.

Not for me. I'm sighing, trying to pull myself away, but what's the point? My feet will take me where I need to go; they always do. My feet know how to run. I wish my head could do the same.

My feet are getting faster, I wonder where I'm going…We're headed for Deathscythe. That's when the hands will take over. I wonder what they'll do, those sleek white spiders. What will they do? I'll let them decide, I'm too confused. If I think too hard I'll know this is a bad idea and turn around, go back to them, to the safehouse. I'll go home. And they'll all burn.

There are tears in my eyes. I brush them away, climbing up one metal leg and crawling into an all-too familiar cockpit. The seat is so familiar, the leather worn to the shape of my body. The ceiling…it's changed. It's missing the hatch with the override system. I can't die with my buddy any longer. I can't die at all. I never could, and that's a hard realisation to face. I'm stuck here, full of sticks that were poked into my soul years ago, the epitome of destruction.

I don't know this ceiling, and I can't help but feel I don't know the hands on the controls. I don't know this skin. This face. This voice. They are not mine, I'm just trapped inside. And they love that skin…while they don't even want to know me. I'm so jealous…

Run!

I command myself, and Deathscythe is moving. We're leaving. I will not kill them with my jealousy and selfishness. This is the best way; the only way. I promised I would find a way to save them, and I have. The same way that is always left open.

I'm running. Am I a coward? Maybe, but I don't care.

After all, what did the perpetrator do after he threw a stick at you? He ran. Everyone runs. That's life.

Sticks and…