[Gundam Wing] A Conversation With God
Title: A Conversation With God (working title)
Author: Jak Frost
Rating: PG-13 (Purple prose focusing on blood and gore. Read at own risk.)
Word Count: ~1000
Warnings/Comments: Unbeta'd. Written for tigriswolf's comment_fic prompt: Gundam Wing Mobile Suit, Duo, Death comes calling; Duo refuses to go.
This isn't the first time they've met, though he doubts the boy's memories reach that far back. Nor the second, he doubts the boy wants to remember.
Not much has changed over the years. Oh, he answers to a different name and has learned to tie back his hair, but he still tastes of broken glass and bitterness. Underneath the decay and ash, metal and scorched flesh, the gutter-ripe scent of old vomit and burnt sugar still linger. His skin has stretched over adult lengthened limbs but the look in his eyes burn with the all-consuming hatred of a child wronged and untempered by the empathy of an older mind.
The years have not been kind as he knew they wouldn't, but how does one, even one such as Death himself, make it clear to a child less than two years what horrors can await in life? Especially when said mind rings clear with images of a fat red-suited man, a crucified saint, and a black-haired singer in sunglasses wearing a white caped and bejeweled suit with the lingering thought of "if they can stay, why can't I".
It makes him almost sad to think about, but then he remembers that this was what the boy chose, not just once but on two occasions, all those years ago. True, he didn't specifically choose to be tossed into a smoking crater of his own making, shrapnel opening rivers of blood that collect around him in ever spreading waves. His choice was to ignore the invitation to sleep, to rest with those who had gone before, with every one the boy had held dear. He hadn't known the price of pride and vengeance then, but still, he had to pay. And pay he has, in full: in sweat, in blood, in torn flesh and in terror shattered nights.
Now the debt is gone and Death has come once again to collect his spoiled and wayward charge but the baleful glare in pain clouded eyes gives him pause. Maybe, just maybe there is some recollection of their last meeting.
"You." The word is gritty and ragged, edged with echoes of the boy's tortured screaming and bitter accusation stemming from a nightmare only half remembered. A blurred image forms of a younger self raging against a body turned upon itself; failing and flailing as systems die and senses and sinuses overflow with pus and mucus. It is there that this raven figure is refused by his charge a second time, still denied his duty, and now coveted of his name and title, shinigami. "I know you."
The smile of reply that graces Death's terrible black visage is reflected in cooling bloody pools. "You do." His voice is a dry rattle that the boy feels more than hears.
"You can't-" Here is where broken ribs and punctured lungs collide and words become painted in red, where a whimper is drowned until a weak cough can clear the way for sound.
"I can." Truly he can, though not so easily, unless they agree. Very rarely do they refuse, for Death has a silver tongue: he knows his way through a person's heart and is not opposed to coercion. Even more rare, he does not force the boy when refused in the past. There is no attachment, no love, Death cannot feel those, just a whispered hint from his sister Fates that says this boy might serve as scythe in a reaping never before seen in such scale. It was enough to stay his hand once, twice. But no more.
The boy fights against gravity and suffocating limbs as he struggles to stand proud in the face of Death, and fails. He chokes on the stale and useless life filling his lungs and throat. The body is a tattered wreck, and the eyes have seen too many horrors. Enough so that Death just knows he will not be refused again and he can finally be finished with this strange, mad creature.
Mad of the mind and not the body for Death can read properly that the clenched jaw and dirt clawing fingers are actions more suited to holding in the soul and cleaving to the earth than riding out pain. For what man of sound mind would fight to see these personal horrors continue another day when a choice for the opposite was presented?
With a sigh that sounds of a hull breaching the vacuum of space, Death kneels next to the boy whose face wars between fury and terror. Thoughts of "I'm not ready", "they haven't paid enough", "they need me" and "no, no, no, I said NO" stampede across his mind in a panic and are almost enough drown out the creeping "but I've done it all in your name". This gives the shadow figure pause. How long has it been since his avatar moved among the living? Not since ancient times at least.
"I do this for you and you do not fight me next time we meet." Convulsions rock the faltering body at the touch of skeletal hand to cooling flesh, as crypt-still words clutter around an ear that hears nothing but rushing blood and remembered voices calling out a name. But still there is a sense of agreement that lingers in a mind barely cognizant.
The stillness is gone, and the boy is left alone with the voices that grow louder and more distinct until the familiar call of "I found him! He's here!" brings a flood of relief so great that his only action is to start convulsing once more and then there is nothing for a very long time.
It's months before Duo bounces back to his old self, against every doctors' prediction and even vaguest hope. Months more before he realizes what the price is for his miracle. For the rest of the war, it is a price he is willing and almost eager to pay, but the war will end eventually and his debt will still hang heavy over his head. For now, though Death is Duo's master and Hades walks the earth once more.
Author: Jak Frost
Rating: PG-13 (Purple prose focusing on blood and gore. Read at own risk.)
Word Count: ~1000
Warnings/Comments: Unbeta'd. Written for tigriswolf's comment_fic prompt: Gundam Wing Mobile Suit, Duo, Death comes calling; Duo refuses to go.
This isn't the first time they've met, though he doubts the boy's memories reach that far back. Nor the second, he doubts the boy wants to remember.
Not much has changed over the years. Oh, he answers to a different name and has learned to tie back his hair, but he still tastes of broken glass and bitterness. Underneath the decay and ash, metal and scorched flesh, the gutter-ripe scent of old vomit and burnt sugar still linger. His skin has stretched over adult lengthened limbs but the look in his eyes burn with the all-consuming hatred of a child wronged and untempered by the empathy of an older mind.
The years have not been kind as he knew they wouldn't, but how does one, even one such as Death himself, make it clear to a child less than two years what horrors can await in life? Especially when said mind rings clear with images of a fat red-suited man, a crucified saint, and a black-haired singer in sunglasses wearing a white caped and bejeweled suit with the lingering thought of "if they can stay, why can't I".
It makes him almost sad to think about, but then he remembers that this was what the boy chose, not just once but on two occasions, all those years ago. True, he didn't specifically choose to be tossed into a smoking crater of his own making, shrapnel opening rivers of blood that collect around him in ever spreading waves. His choice was to ignore the invitation to sleep, to rest with those who had gone before, with every one the boy had held dear. He hadn't known the price of pride and vengeance then, but still, he had to pay. And pay he has, in full: in sweat, in blood, in torn flesh and in terror shattered nights.
Now the debt is gone and Death has come once again to collect his spoiled and wayward charge but the baleful glare in pain clouded eyes gives him pause. Maybe, just maybe there is some recollection of their last meeting.
"You." The word is gritty and ragged, edged with echoes of the boy's tortured screaming and bitter accusation stemming from a nightmare only half remembered. A blurred image forms of a younger self raging against a body turned upon itself; failing and flailing as systems die and senses and sinuses overflow with pus and mucus. It is there that this raven figure is refused by his charge a second time, still denied his duty, and now coveted of his name and title, shinigami. "I know you."
The smile of reply that graces Death's terrible black visage is reflected in cooling bloody pools. "You do." His voice is a dry rattle that the boy feels more than hears.
"You can't-" Here is where broken ribs and punctured lungs collide and words become painted in red, where a whimper is drowned until a weak cough can clear the way for sound.
"I can." Truly he can, though not so easily, unless they agree. Very rarely do they refuse, for Death has a silver tongue: he knows his way through a person's heart and is not opposed to coercion. Even more rare, he does not force the boy when refused in the past. There is no attachment, no love, Death cannot feel those, just a whispered hint from his sister Fates that says this boy might serve as scythe in a reaping never before seen in such scale. It was enough to stay his hand once, twice. But no more.
The boy fights against gravity and suffocating limbs as he struggles to stand proud in the face of Death, and fails. He chokes on the stale and useless life filling his lungs and throat. The body is a tattered wreck, and the eyes have seen too many horrors. Enough so that Death just knows he will not be refused again and he can finally be finished with this strange, mad creature.
Mad of the mind and not the body for Death can read properly that the clenched jaw and dirt clawing fingers are actions more suited to holding in the soul and cleaving to the earth than riding out pain. For what man of sound mind would fight to see these personal horrors continue another day when a choice for the opposite was presented?
With a sigh that sounds of a hull breaching the vacuum of space, Death kneels next to the boy whose face wars between fury and terror. Thoughts of "I'm not ready", "they haven't paid enough", "they need me" and "no, no, no, I said NO" stampede across his mind in a panic and are almost enough drown out the creeping "but I've done it all in your name". This gives the shadow figure pause. How long has it been since his avatar moved among the living? Not since ancient times at least.
"I do this for you and you do not fight me next time we meet." Convulsions rock the faltering body at the touch of skeletal hand to cooling flesh, as crypt-still words clutter around an ear that hears nothing but rushing blood and remembered voices calling out a name. But still there is a sense of agreement that lingers in a mind barely cognizant.
The stillness is gone, and the boy is left alone with the voices that grow louder and more distinct until the familiar call of "I found him! He's here!" brings a flood of relief so great that his only action is to start convulsing once more and then there is nothing for a very long time.
It's months before Duo bounces back to his old self, against every doctors' prediction and even vaguest hope. Months more before he realizes what the price is for his miracle. For the rest of the war, it is a price he is willing and almost eager to pay, but the war will end eventually and his debt will still hang heavy over his head. For now, though Death is Duo's master and Hades walks the earth once more.