This boring night is a blessing, for it allows me to study him in silence
The clicking of the keys of his beloved laptop fills the silence as the two
of us sit in quiet contemplation, I with a book in my hands, he with his
computer. Duo is snoring slightly on the couch, wrapped in his travel
blanket- black, of course, with little silver embroidered scythes on it,
courtesy of Hilde- with his long chestnut braid twisted around his wrist.
Quatre is still in his library; this is one of his many houses we're staying in, although the rest of us are unused to such opulence. Wufei is presumably already asleep, unaware of the fact that his sword hilt has been covered with Super Glue in his absence, thanks to Duo.
I lean back against the leather back of the chair, looking over the anthology of Shakespeare I hold in my hands. The keys stop clicking momentarily; I look up at the sudden absence of rhythmic noise.
He is sitting before the fireplace, staring at the screen of the laptop. A sudden shiver rolls across his skin as his closed, blank eyes darken in some unidentifiable emotion. I prepare to inquire as to what is wrong, but am cut off with a wave of the hand.
Slowly, almost regretfully, he pulls his pistol from wherever he conceals it (we've never been able to find out, which makes it a running joke that he has some sort of secret portal in his shorts) and loads it with an audible click.
He goes to his room and returns, shrugging into a tattered denim jacket. I set down the book and watch silently as he arms himself with several knives, hidden in the sheaths sewn into the jacket. He looks up at last, chocolate hair messy as usual.
Words float across the silence in his clipped, flat tone. He tells me that he's leaving, that he doesn't know when he'll be back, and in event of his death, to tell the others that he's sorry. A rare smile, beautiful in its angry sadness, crosses his lips before he turns and leaves, door closing behind him.
I pick up the heavy volume again, but am unable to read it, thinking about him. It is obvious that he thinks of himself as only a weapon, and why not? It is all we have been used for; faceless machines of war, dogged by regret, guilt, and self-doubt.
He shows no sign of that, but Quatre has told us that he feels much more then we do. All the accumulated emotion of his life is still locked inside him, as though it is a weakness. He tells us to follow our emotions, and that advice has always been right, but it seems as though he can't do it himself.
All of us fear him, at least a little. In battle, we all have our rituals. Quatre apologizes, Duo screams nonsense and self-praise, trying to block out the screams, Wufei lectures the enemy on justice as he kills them, I am silent, praying to whatever God might exist as I fire.
He laughs.
It is a torn, mad laughter, seeming to be ripped from his throat. Tears stream down as he laughs, a howling shriek of unholy mirth. We know why he laughs; it is Zero. Quatre, under its influence, destroyed a colony, killing millions; the other has somehow learned to control it.
Like a tiger in a cage, it claws at his mind, and Quatre has told us sometimes, even as he fights, that the Zero System is driving him to insanity. That is its curse; that is its price. Of course, no one can say that he wasn't insane before.
We are all weapons of war, children who can never be children again. The side door opens and he comes in, soaked to the bone. Blood trickles from a deep gash across his cheekbone; yet another scar to add to his collection. He nods to me and walks upstairs, hand catching the droplets of crimson life.
For now, we will all wait and watch, and listen.
Listen to his laughter.
Quatre is still in his library; this is one of his many houses we're staying in, although the rest of us are unused to such opulence. Wufei is presumably already asleep, unaware of the fact that his sword hilt has been covered with Super Glue in his absence, thanks to Duo.
I lean back against the leather back of the chair, looking over the anthology of Shakespeare I hold in my hands. The keys stop clicking momentarily; I look up at the sudden absence of rhythmic noise.
He is sitting before the fireplace, staring at the screen of the laptop. A sudden shiver rolls across his skin as his closed, blank eyes darken in some unidentifiable emotion. I prepare to inquire as to what is wrong, but am cut off with a wave of the hand.
Slowly, almost regretfully, he pulls his pistol from wherever he conceals it (we've never been able to find out, which makes it a running joke that he has some sort of secret portal in his shorts) and loads it with an audible click.
He goes to his room and returns, shrugging into a tattered denim jacket. I set down the book and watch silently as he arms himself with several knives, hidden in the sheaths sewn into the jacket. He looks up at last, chocolate hair messy as usual.
Words float across the silence in his clipped, flat tone. He tells me that he's leaving, that he doesn't know when he'll be back, and in event of his death, to tell the others that he's sorry. A rare smile, beautiful in its angry sadness, crosses his lips before he turns and leaves, door closing behind him.
I pick up the heavy volume again, but am unable to read it, thinking about him. It is obvious that he thinks of himself as only a weapon, and why not? It is all we have been used for; faceless machines of war, dogged by regret, guilt, and self-doubt.
He shows no sign of that, but Quatre has told us that he feels much more then we do. All the accumulated emotion of his life is still locked inside him, as though it is a weakness. He tells us to follow our emotions, and that advice has always been right, but it seems as though he can't do it himself.
All of us fear him, at least a little. In battle, we all have our rituals. Quatre apologizes, Duo screams nonsense and self-praise, trying to block out the screams, Wufei lectures the enemy on justice as he kills them, I am silent, praying to whatever God might exist as I fire.
He laughs.
It is a torn, mad laughter, seeming to be ripped from his throat. Tears stream down as he laughs, a howling shriek of unholy mirth. We know why he laughs; it is Zero. Quatre, under its influence, destroyed a colony, killing millions; the other has somehow learned to control it.
Like a tiger in a cage, it claws at his mind, and Quatre has told us sometimes, even as he fights, that the Zero System is driving him to insanity. That is its curse; that is its price. Of course, no one can say that he wasn't insane before.
We are all weapons of war, children who can never be children again. The side door opens and he comes in, soaked to the bone. Blood trickles from a deep gash across his cheekbone; yet another scar to add to his collection. He nods to me and walks upstairs, hand catching the droplets of crimson life.
For now, we will all wait and watch, and listen.
Listen to his laughter.