cozzybob (cozzybob) wrote in cozzybabbles, @ 2008-02-25 23:53:00 |
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Entry tags: | drabble, duo, gen, trowa |
[GW] In The Line Of Duty
In The Line Of Duty
by cozzybob
Rated: R
Pair: Trowa, Duo, doomed OC
Warning: OC death, killing, tragedy, war-ness, angst. TWT?
Note: For gw500's "cross", #136.
Summary: Infiltration is just another word for betrayal.
"Whaddya doin', man?"
Panic. A powerful human emotion, the result of fear and flight. Will you run, when you're afraid? Or will you stand there, hands upraised and waving hysterically?
Don't hurt me, your body says, even though your mind knows better. Please. Don't hurt me.
The safety clicks, and you cringe as a bead of sweat runs down your temple. You wipe at it, and you wave, wave me away or wave for attention, to stop, I don't know, but you wave your hands and you cry out when I box you into the corner. You're not even a soldier. You've never carried a gun after surviving basic training; your name is Tom and you're an engineer. The Alliance and OZ and various other counterparts tell you and your lab-mates to build things, and invent new ways to use the older things, and you do it. You're not the best or the brightest in your league, but you do your job, and you never ask questions.
You have a wife and two children back in New Jersey. Every time we talk, you pull their picture out at least once and tell me their names. Samantha, Tommy Jr, little Leslie. It was your daughter's birthday two days ago, and you sent her a video with you and your buddies singing the birthday song. You tell me she's going to like it, you just know it. You had me sing with you. I remember I smiled.
You didn't come here because you wanted to. You came because America had a draft, and you managed to sift through the front lines and become a scientist. People die every day with the weapons that you build, but you wouldn't know, because you have an office and your buddies joke about it every Tuesday over beer.
I infiltrated your base two months ago. I have what I came for, now, but you're standing in my way, and I need to remove you from the situation. You don't know who I am, or what I want. It doesn't matter. You'll find out if you're smart, and I don't think you're nearly as foolish as you like to pretend to be. And even then. It doesn't matter.
You beg with your eyes. Mouth open, slack.
"Hey, Jace, dude, please, I got kids--"
"My name is not Jace." I don't know why, but I need to tell you this. You're an innocent on my hands now, another face to avoid under my pillow on a dark and stormy night.
"Yeah?" Your eyes darken. Panic moves on to anger. I wonder if anger will make you act, but it doesn't. "Wha's your name, then, traitor?"
The trigger doesn't even twitch.
"I don't have one."
"Everybody's got a name."
"I don't," I tell you.
Softening. You soften, and you bite your lip. You shake. You think about your three year old daughter in New Jersey watching the video of her dad and his mates and even me wishing her a happy birthday.
"Don't do this."
Please, your body cries.
I hate it when they cry.
I frown at you, tilt the gun a little. I raise it, aim for your head. I'll make it quick. You'll be dead before you even feel the pain.
What's it like to be killed by a friend who wasn't real?
Sorrow. It doesn't come in spies. It comes in battalions.
You fall to the floor.
"Please..."
When I finally pull the trigger, the bang is muffled. You don't even get a clap of thunder, and my silencer takes away your dignity. I watch the stunned hurt in your eyes remain even after the blood spurts and pools, and your body trembles into death. I bend down on one knee and I close them. Not out of respect, but because I hate it when the dead look back at me.
The pound of heavy boots hit the floor. The steps are silent, but I can feel his eyes raking your dead body for his own personal status assessment. I don't turn around and he doesn't come close enough to enter my vision, but I know his highly illegal .99 is trained on me as much for your benefit as it is for his own.
"You hesitated," he says.
I don't bother to deny it. I stand up, turn away from you. You're dead, but I know you're listening, and I almost feel nervous.
The God of Death is glaring at us, and his gun does not come down from my empty, straining heart. "Nearly thirty seconds," he says. "What the fuck's wrong with you?"
If it were Heero, I would've walked away. But Duo wouldn't hesitate to kill me if he really wanted to, and when he gets like this, it's so hard to tell. We don't get along, you must understand. I don't know him very well. There is no attachment between us.
He looks at you. He looks at me. He puts his gun down and says, "We don't have time for this, 03. Get your shit, I wanna get out of here."
Normally, I wouldn't let him speak to me like that. I should put a hole in his head just for looking at you.
But I shrug, holster my gun, grab the duffel waiting for me on your office desk next to the picture of your wife and two kids.
I wink at your children. Death smirks.
Yeah, I think. Don't we all...
--Fini