Insurrection

They won't leave me alone. I don't understand why they can't just let me have this. After all I've been through, all those I've fought and killed in the name of peace and now they're trying to take mine away. I know that to an extent they know how I feel; that's why I can't understand their obsessive need to take away my solace. I only wish they could find their own routes to peace; maybe then they'd leave me be. Duo's the worst of them all. My own lover. He forgets that he's the one who introduced me to this reality, who showed me that chemicals can be used to induce something other than pain. I've tried drugs, without the knowledge of my overprotective acquaintances, of course. The experimentations of Dr. J. have left me with only one poison: alcohol. I find myself having to drink more and more to gain that same heady rush a single shot would give me in the beginning. My body always did adapt quickly. Maybe that's what disturbs the others so much. It used to be simply a single glass left standing empty in the morning, now a whole row of clear and tinted glass bottles light up with the rising sun. They tell me I'm addicted. I don't care. They say I have no pride, no self-control. I've had too much for too long. They try to reason with me, it's another form of oppression, manipulation. But it gives me control. They ask me to prove it, to stop for just one week. I say no.

I'm not following orders any more. For once in my miserable existence I'm doing something that makes me happy. They're all hypocrites anyway. Always told me to loosen up, that I take life to seriously and now suddenly I'm frivolous, I'm irresponsible. Nothing can make them happy. Nothing I can do.

I have new friends now. Potential new lovers if Duo ever carries through with his empty threats, empty violet eyes brimming with tears. I wonder sometimes, if I tasted his tears would they be tainted with bitter salt or laced with sweet whiskey? If I wept would absinthe green trek down my cheeks? Maybe one day soon I'll find out.

You people romanticise love. Turn it into this wondrous, magical force which rights every wrong in your life, makes the stains on your soul disappear. Deluded fools. I love Duo and he loves me, there is no doubt about that. But we both wake up screaming; on our own or in each others arms it does not matter. Love is not all you need. And it's not just us. I've seen the demons in Trowa's eyes and heard Quatre cry in his sleep. You can receive comfort in another's arms but it's not that miraculous haven promised by the masses. My solace is not to be found in Duo Maxwell. It's in that warm glow and unstable dimness where the past and the future never has or will happen and inexorable destiny is forgotten. That is what I find in the drink.

I can sense that they want to stage a coup. Lock me away somewhere with only water to quench my thirst. Well I won't let them. I won't be shut in the dark again. Maybe I should leave. Get away from those who can't understand what I need, can't accept who I am. I won't be forced to change again. There're always plenty of offers in the clubs. Always people offering to provide me with a place to stay. Warm, accepting bodies to fuck or be fucked by. Once upon a time it was my extraordinarily naive belief that the five of us would stay together until we died. Five survivors of a unique situation. No one else can ever understand what we went through. Ironic that understanding does not breed acceptance but rejection and arguments, blood, sweat and unspilt tears. I don't want to hurt them; but I am. They've all told me so. They tell me the only way to stop is to give up the drink. There's places you can go, people you can talk to, they know how to deal with people like you!

People like me. There are no people like me. They have no files on their shelves to reference; I am not a textbook case.

I can see this situation coming to an end soon. I can't live with the constant disapproval, they can't live with me. In the coming week everything will be decided. Not to over dramatise but once again life as I know it is about to come to an end.

My worst nightmares are coming true. I keep hoping that this isn't real. That their hands haven't grabbed me by the shoulders, waist, legs. They aren't taking me towards the basement. They won't lock me down there. They wouldn't. But even through the panic that envelops me I know that they will throw me down there, they know not what it is they do. They don't know what happens when people are locked in the basement. I plead with them, let them see the fear in my eyes, but I am met with only disgust. They think I fear to go without the drink. I don't care about not tasting sweet alcohol for a few meagre days if it would spare me a trip into hell. I turn my face to my lover; will him to understand my deeper phobia. It isn't to be. He looks back at me with violet eyes holding the pain I have put there and speaks only one sentence.

"This is for your own good," It was then that I snapped. Sheer terror tore through me, adrenaline surging in its wake. That childlike fear, hammered into me by the wisdom of age, took me away. All that was left of me was the instinct to run far away from that dark doorway. I fought them then, too far gone to care what damage I did. They were ready for me though. Before I even managed to build up a struggle they had me trapped in their grips, limiting my movement, upsetting my stability and steadily herding me towards the door.

They literally threw me inside. All of them have seen me fall from far greater heights and survive. It didn't stop my arm from breaking as I landed awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs. Still I jerked to my feet as soon as I hit solid ground and ran back up towards the door: only to have it slammed shut in my face. Total darkness fell upon me but I knew where the exit was and didn't intend to give up without a fight. I threw myself at the door, good shoulder first, only to hear not the dull thud of wood but the deep clanging resonance of metal. I breathed deeply through my nose and caught the unmistakable tang of gundanium alloy. I went wild with fury, unconsciously knowing that as long as I was mad I didn't have to acknowledge my situation. I screamed obscenities until my throat bled, I clawed and pounded at the door, endorphins blocking out the pain which would soon radiate from my broken arm.

Eventually the adrenaline fled from my system and I collapsed shaking by the top of the stairs, one hand still slowly banging on the door. I wondered where the others were. Listening on the other side? In the kitchen sipping tea? Outside, bathed in warm sunlight? My fear was returning in a slow but steady rush. The pilots hadn't put me down here to die, they'd probably placed a supply of water, maybe food, at the bottom of the stairs. I didn't want to go down into the dark as the damned descend into hell.

I guess I must have been bad again. For year upon year this was my punishment. I refused to kill, the basement. I miscalculated, the basement. I collapsed from exhaustion, the basement. Dr. J. was a master at making monsters of the dark a reality. It always happened the same.

I'd get thrown into the blackness and eventually, when my hysterics had calmed to mind-numbing fear, I'd make my way down. I'd stand at the foot of the stairs, deafened by my own harsh breathing and pounding heart. Then the monsters would come. When I got older I began to try and convince myself that what attacked me down there wasn't demonic spawn but man, machine, beast. I couldn't see them but they always saw me, smelt me, sensed me. I'd get a split seconds warning, a swift breath of air, before the first attack hit me. Hands or claws pulled me down, tore into me. The beasts tried to devour me, sharp teeth slicing cleanly through skin, muscle, through to bone. The human shaped monsters hit and kicked with steel tipped boots. They tore away protective clothes and left me naked in the dark. Did things to me that no child should have to experience, in that basement of deepest black.

Here I was once again. A fool for thinking I had left all this behind, that I was now a person in my own right. There will always be rules and I will always be punished. Let's just forget the fact that I ended two wars. Pathetic achievement that anyone could have done with the right training. Have other champions lived lives like mine?

How long have I been crouched here, paralysed by my past? Hours, maybe days? I was already dehydrated before I was thrown in and now it is really becoming painful. Not surprisingly I'd had a drink last night. Glass after glass, alone in my room, after a passionate argument with Duo. I should have just done as he told me and given him the bottle. I've been taught more than once the consequences of defying authority. There was my downfall; I always viewed Duo as an equal. My head is spinning violently. My body aches for liquid. I'm going to have to go downstairs. I slowly pull myself to my feet, injured arm throbbing uselessly by my side. I lean against the wall and begin to slowly edge down, down.

With every step I take the pressure on my throat, in my chest, increases. My heart beats triple time and my mind clouds with terror. I stand at the bottom of the stairs as I have for so many years, waiting for the violence to come. I hear the scratch of movement against concrete. I move before whatever is hiding in the dark has time to hit me, headed back up the stairs. My foot catches beneath a step and I crash back down. My head collides with the cold, hard floor as my broken arm screams under the full weight of my body. I lie there dazed, unable to move and feel something nudge against my foot. Shooting pains stab through my chest as I begin to hyperventilate. This is it, this is all there is for me. They'll eat me alive and leave what parts they don't like to rot. The pilots will open the door to the familiar smell of decaying flesh. Will they even remove my body from this pit to give me a funeral? Or will I be unable to escape the basement even in death?

A scream tears itself from my throat as sharp teeth sink into my heel. The pain in my chest rises in crescendo, ever more, ever more, until black fades to black.

I come round slowly, hearing my name called, feeling hands lift me into the air. I do as I'm trained and feign unconsciousness, my breath and heartbeat remaining steady. I can hear the voices of all four pilots as they speak to each other in lowered tones. I feel them carry me up and out of the basement, sheer relief washes through me followed by an equal rush of determination. I won't give them the chance to put me down there again.

They set me down on my own bed, I can feel the texture of the sheets beneath my hand and smell the reassuring tang of metalwork and gunpowder tucked under my pillow. I feel Duo's hand brush my hair from my face in what he probably means to be a soothing gesture. The only emotion I feel is utter fury. He can't expect to betray me and then comfort me. He can't be my equal and my superior. I can't be his lover, can't be his, and live in fear of him. This situation is more horrifying and destructive than anything J. conjured up.

I won't drink again. They've complete their mission. Even if I did risk it I know that the solace it once provided will be gone. That aching fear forever associated with what once offered bliss, if only for a short while. I can't stay here. What if some other trait of mine offends them and they decide to correct me? I can't, won't, do this again. If I could try to leave but I doubt they'll let me, not after all this. I'll just have to fight my way to freedom. Freedom from those I called friends. From him I called lover. The element of surprise is on my side at least. My right arm might be broken but I can shoot just as well with my left, the good doctor made sure of that.

I make a good show of waking up, stretching my left arm beneath the pillow, expecting my fingers to meet cool steel. It isn't there. I sit up, all pretences of stupor gone as I demand to know where my gun is. All of my bravado though is false. They have control of me now; they outnumber me and are most likely armed. I feel like destiny is mocking me, allowing me to feel free of J. at last, only to have my "friends" invoke his methods.

How will this work now? If I burn breakfast for the pilots will I be punished? If I shy away from Quatre's hugs or fail to please Duo in bed will the darkness be my reward? They tell me they've taken my gun and will only return it once I've proven myself stable.

I just don't know what to do any more.

I really do not know.

I can feel fine tremors running through my body. The others have gone, leaving me alone with Duo. He folds his arms around me and gently kisses my neck, his own, usually effective way of calming me down. The sensation conjures up the same feelings as always; warmth, comfort, love. At the same time darker emotions fight for my attention. What he did to me, how can I let him hold me as if it never happened?

Just one more. Just one more night, and that's the last. We lie on the bed, both fully clothed and do not speak. My back is to him, his arms wrap around me as I try to convince myself that moments such as this are worth living in fear of those you once trusted. My eyes sting and fill with tears which slowly trickle down my face. One single drop leaves its companions to travel to the corner of my lips.

So now I know. My tears taste only of salt, sorrow and bitter reality.

Fin?