Title: Rendered Living

Chapter 1: Cuckoo

Author: Gillywrist

The story continues as I try to find answers to things un-addressed within me. Like 'I Once Knew A Man' this is not preconceived for a story, it is an exercise in free-writing to find some of my truths, and hopefully hint at some of yours.

As always, my dearest readers, reviews are most welcome and greatly appreciated.

He did just that for awhile.

He fixed things. He ran his shop. He rested.

He did not try to figure anything out, or complain, or long for anything.

He stopped wanting things. Sure he would eat, he would shower, he would brush his hair.

He just stopped wanting things. He had broken his animal mind somewhere by wanting and never fulfilling that need. The animal finally gave up. It was a freedom, not having to do the things his mind wanted. It was a freedom to discover all the things he could live without.

God, he sounded like a monk.

He was, for all purposes, he reflected, chewing on his lip.

Quiet, ascetic, celibate.

He would stay up late into the night, one energy saving bulb in one energy saving socket, his set of screw drivers, and some ancient gadget.

A long time ago, he had described fixing things with magic words and curses. That had worked for shitty cars and gundam repairs. He quickly found it did not work on instruments corroded and delicate by the sands of time. They were fragile, these collections of old things. These clocks and radios and microphones and sound amplifers. They had been dead a long time. They needed to be whispered and soothed and prayed upon. They needed to be encouraged, ever so slowly, to spark back to life, one more time.

The clock was all that was left.

His rent was paid for the month on the squalor of a junkyard store, the back lot, and his small apartment upstairs.

His crackers and beans and nutrient shakes would see him through the next 14 days.

The rest of his meager earnings was spent on this last box of antiquated gadgets from another yard going under.

After this clock was done the box would be empty.

He would have to wait for a repair to come in, or he would have to find other old gadgets for the 7 credits left he had to spare. He would be lucky to find a broken transistor for 7 credits. And even that, one transistor, would only occupy his time for half a day.

He had stopped going to the old boxing gym awhile ago. He did not have the energy or need to hit anything. A lot of things had fallen away-up vanished in the night. He had not been paying enough attention to really notice.

Duo frowned as he stared out the barred window of his shop. The street was deserted. Judging from the amplitude of L2s artificial lights, it must have around noon. The lights were always brightest at that hour, the old generators humming from the strain of producing noon-time "sun."

The boy jumped as part of the clock popped open, dragging his attention back down to the wooden object under his fingers. "Cuckoo, cuckoo" the strange bird called weakly.

Duo managed a wry smile. It's like the bird wrote that song just for him.

It had been a hard battle to slow down like this.

At first, when his mind would not rest, he tried to rest his body. When that did not work, he forced his body to rest with opiates. He would stare at the ceiling of his apartment for days on end, thinking every thought and pissing in old beer bottles. Yea, he realized in afterthought as the timeline congealed, he had still been drinking back then.

When his mind finally realized it could not make his body run or fight or drink or eat, it had finally given up. With a final shudder it surrendered and seemed to flop down beside his body in defeat. The two of them, his mind and body, were finally able to rest together like man and dog.

And that was the beginning of the real silence.

With nothing in his head anymore, Duo had nothing to say. His mind was a lapdog of sorts. It would whine a bit for dinner, or to relieve itself, but it otherwise sat beside him, silent and sleeping.

Duo finally had a dog, after-all.

Cuckoo, cuckoo.

So the clock was repaired then.

And he had seven credits to find a puzzle that would last until a new repair or customer came in.

He hopped off the stool and searched about his shelves for a space for the cuckoo clock to occupy.

And then he grabbed the last apple and a book titled "The Grapes of Wrath".

The streets outside his shop were quiet save for the occasional sound of a motor. It hardly piqued his interest. He had learned, over the last couple months, that the sound of a motor was answered with "that's not for you." The rumblings of a larger truck was sometimes a different story. This district of L2 was so deserted, junkyards often traded between themselves. And junkers had big trucks.

Duo sighed, rubbing at his stiff knee as he began to read, wincing as he felt the bone shift. It was with great irony, that his one lasting physical wound would occur months after the war ended.

The times were as tough as now. 4 credits and no puzzles. And so he scaled the barbed wire walls of the district dump, searching through piles of waste for anything salvageable to steal. He should have known better. The piles of scrap and sewage were as precariously balanced as always. He had still had some energy back then, he thought. Remembering how he would nimbly scramble up the cliffs of refuse and dare to pull out anything glinting under the artificial sun.

A rat had startled him.

Even to his own head, Duo was embarrassed enough to explain his comfort with rats. The mammal had just caught his attention mid-step and before he could realize he had placed his weight on soft refuse, his leg had been lost in the pile up to his thigh. It collided with a broken handsaw blade. It had been less than desirable to scale back over the barbed wire wall with a leg covered in blood and garbage juice.

The resulting fever of infection lasted 4 days. The ache, still apparent after 4 months. The final scar, rather small.

"They's a time of change, an' when that comes, dyin' is a piece of all dyin', and bearin' is a piece of all bearin', an' bearin' an' dyin' is two pieces of the same thing. An' then things ain't so lonely anymore. An' then a hurt don't hurt so bad."

Duo read over the lines again, swallowing back some spit.

The boy glanced up quickly as he heard the loud clinking of his silverware wind-chime tied to his door. He frowned. He had not heard a truck.

The man looked like he was in his late forties. Clean-shaven, sharp eyes.

Duo glanced at him with a what.

"You've got a reputation." The man said.

Duo did not answer.

The man shifted his weight, glancing around at the antique gadgets stuffing the shelves.

"You collect from a forgotten time."

The boy nodded, putting down his book.

"Not many customers looking for things so old."

Duo shrugged. "That suits me fine enough."

"But you could use a sell," The man's eyes raked over the boy's hollow cheeks, the loosely clinging t-shirt, the ratty hair, the scrawny arms.

Again Duo did not respond. He was not used to much company anymore. The nervous chatter of his youth had long since rusted out. It was not gone, probably, just all gunked up with atrophy. "Is that my reputation then? That's every dealer in this section."

The man did not answer this time.

"Whaddya got?"

The man's mouth pursed.

"It's hot," Duo said flatly.

"No," the man answered. "But it needs a certain discretion."

Duo coughed, "No proof of ownership? no license? illegal?"

"Rare," the man answered. "A bit.. volatile."

"Weapons," Duo breathed.

"From a forgotten time, like the rest of the things you collect."

Duo rolled his eyes. His brain was starting to race ahead, chemical, military-grade, decommissioned. There were many questions. It would yield, whatever it was. Whatever it was, he could move it. He sighed.

"Traceable?"

The man shook his head, shifting again on his feet.

The nerves in the man made him frown.

"How many other yards you try?"

"First lot," The man grunted.

The frown stayed on the boy's face. It was too much luck for a man to stumble into an ex-gundam pilot with weapons first. The hairs on his neck tickled in alarm.

Something was off.

Duo sighed again. Something was always off in this section, or for that matter, on L2 in general. He could handle hot, one-overs, re-worked, but something was more off than usual.

"Check the other lots. If you got no-takers, I'll think about it."

The man opened his mouth and Duo quickly raised a hand.

"Don't. I don't want to know what it is until I know no one else will lift it."

The man turned and left the shop as brusquely as he entered.

The boy winced as the door slammed shut and the silverware-chime clattered in protest. Guilt, guilt, guilt. He ran his fingers through his oily bangs, pushing them off his forehead. It was probably low-grade, appropriated, and going to be used as some cheap energy supply. Or a chemical sold to a militia keen on wiping out some unsavory population like natives, indignants, orphans, his brain taunted. Fuck. He drummed his fingers against his counter-top, twitching with remorseful energy. It was better that he didn't know. Someone else will lift it and he'll be none the wiser and back to his seven credit situation.

He was off the stool and out the door before he realized it. "Hey!" he called to the back of the man, coughing he pulled in a big gulp of the fiberglass dust that positively coated this section of L2. The man turned. He pressed his bandanna to his face, wiping the spit off his jaw before shaking his head. It was a slower measured breath and a lower voice as he caught up with the man on the road, "Lemme see what you've got before you go shopping it around."

The man looked unsure.

The glaring brightness and hum of the artificial afternoon light made the decision.

"Yea, alright," The man said, motioning to his car.

The corners of Duo's eyes tensed as he followed the man, careful not to stumble on the debris littering the road. In his experience, small usually meant dangerous. He cursed himself as he remembered not hearing a big rig earlier.

The lights of the car flashed as the man fished his keys out of his pocket and popped the trunk. Inside, a metal suitcase.

"Well that sure looks hot," Duo managed.

"What is unaccounted for is below radar," the man replied.

"By the look of that case it's dirty."

"I wouldn't cuddle with it," the man replied.

Duo pulled a small digital notepad from his pocket and unhooked the stylus pen. "The contents?"

"BTX."

"And a dispensing mechanism?"

"A neurotoxin is hardly of use without one."

"This is.." Duo trailed off.

"Out of your league?" the man sounded a bit snide.

"Not the reason I got into this business," Duo finished. "I'm assuming you want this passed quickly on a grayer market," he paled as he stared at the unassuming metal case. Howard would know what to do. Duo grimaced, maybe he would even try to track down Heero. A government agency like the Preventers might buy it off him to dismantle the thing. Old missles he had moved before. Small quantities of ammunition. No hollow points, no assault rifles. He had stuck to that promise, mostly (recalling the one box of 5.56mm lead-free M855A1 he took and moved to even a debt). "This is not something that should linger."

"What's the commission."

"Usually 15%. For this? 25%. It's a risk."

"Done," the man answered too quickly. He reached into the trunk and pushed the handle of the case into Duo's fingers.

"How long do you need?" the man said.

"48 hours. For 30% I'll do it in 10."

"48 will do," The man said tersely. "Make sure it is between 15 and 20."

"So only rich militias then?" Duo replied sardonically. "That might take longer."

"48 and no less then 12. Don't fuck me."

"48 and 12," Duo repeated back, throwing his head back to glare at the artificial lights.

12grand at 25% would cover him for a long while.

The man sped off and Duo was left in the road, gripping the metal suitcase in his numbing fingers. The thought of tracking Heero made him ill. But the bureaucracy of a government agency would be painful without 01's connections. Howard was a safer bet. The side of his mouth twisted in a small grin, he hadn't thought of the Sweepers in a long time. He missed that eccentric old man.

The distance between them had been on purpose. Howard always had an uncanny ability to read past his mannerisms. He had not been able to bear the man's gruff concern and pointed jokes. Howard had said sometimes certain people like pain. They hold it close to their chest and try to grow it like an aspidistra on a window sill. Howard said some people don't know when to quit. Don't know what it means to feel sated and stop. That some people eat far past full. And that these people, with fucked instincts, need a certain level of discipline or schedule to keep on, keeping on. Duo had never called it quits on pain. He'd never found his fill of it. It was too hard to stay on that ship of oddballs, whizkids, and mercenaries. The constant company had made him feel hounded. He had not answered a call from Howard since.

He cursed the heat in those artificial lights.

It was almost a year since that damn radio came back into his possession. A year since he had finished his own rambling account of his time with the Merquise. He had shoved those papers among his old junkyard filings. A move to dismiss and forget. He could not bear to glance the pages over. He had begun with no intention really, hoping that writing would exorcise some demon from him. Howard had recommended that. To write whatever shit he had rattling around between his ears to make space for something else. Something new. It had hardly worked. There was no new. Just empty and replaying memories he was sick of. Howard was probably right, he didn't know how to stop.

The only way a fairy tale ends is in medias res. It was a damning conclusion he could not shake from his mind. It was rendering living useless.

He walked back towards his shop, swinging the suitcase at his side like he was holding someone's hand. His knee was tight, protesting the run he had made after the man earlier. Refusing to walk with a limp, he simply ignored the pain and protest.

He would call Howard. Maybe the man would front him the 9 the seller needed and they would dismantle the thing and send it out the airlock.

Then Duo would be back at the start of his day with seven credits and The Grapes of Wrath. That suited him fine enough.

The braided boy gingerly nudged open his front door to avoid the clattering silverware, and the homemade alarm gave a few sleepy clinks. He pushed it closed with the back of his heeled work book, pressing the bandanna to his face to wipe off the dust caked on his cheeks and sweat-soaked forehead. He needed a shower.

He froze, pulling in a sharp breath. His ears had caught the breath of another.

And there was the cocking of a gun. If he had to guess a Glock 22 or 23.

Duo closed his eyes in an exhausted and resigned blink.

"Place the case on the floor," a haughty voice ordered from across the room.

He knew that voice.

"Nice to see you, Chang,"

The man was in an impeccably pressed suit, both hands on his gun as he stalked towards Duo. "An absolute disgrace," he spat, scanning the boy's clothes for a concealed weapon.

"I thought you guys always said 'Stop in the name of the law,'" Duo tried. "I'm unarmed."

The Preventer holstered his sidearm as he grabbed Duo's wrists, jerking them up behind his back and cuffing him tight. Duo hissed as he bent forward to alleviate the pain in his shoulders, scowling down at his workboots. The shoes on Wufei were shiny and black under L2's film of dust.

Wufei did not answer as he patted the boy's pockets, his calves, and his outer and inner thighs. "I didn't know you rolled that way," Duo said.

And the man's angry huff and a hard jerk to the cuffs was the only reply.

Duo's face burned as the agent palmed his ass as he checked back pockets, digging keys, a wrench, and a pocketknife out of them. The man waved the pocketknife in the boy's face.

"That's hardly armed," Duo defended, swearing as the man tugged his cuffs again.

"This is all a fucking game to you," Wufei growled, grabbed the boy's chestnut braid fiercely and Duo's body bent backwards, neck straining to alleviate the pain of his scalp. Fingers dug up under his braid, searching. During the War, Duo sometimes kept pins and picks in his hair to get in, or get out of certain circumstances. It wounded deeply that Wufei knew this. Few people ever did.

"I'm not a soldier anymore," Duo growled but there was a whine in his voice in protest to the pain in his shoulders, back, and neck. Wufei was busy digging out simple bobbypins.

"No you're a criminal," Wufei answered, wrapping his knuckles around the braid and tugging harder.

Duo had enough. He stomped the heel of his workboot into Wufei's shiny black foot as he struggled to wiggle free of the man's cruel hold. The man swore but refused to release his hold on his captive's hair, jerking him backwards. Off balance already, they both backwards on the plywood floor, Duo's back and cuffed hands smashing against the chinese boy's chest.

Duo bit his mouth in pain, struggling to get his knees under him. It was a precarious position, straddling the Preventer's waist backwards as he tried to find leverage to climb off.

A sharp snap on his braid had him reeling backwards and rolling off to the side, face crashing into the ground since he did not have free hands for balance or to brace his fall. "Damn," he swore as he felt the other man scramble to his feet and yank the boy up by his cuffed wrists. "Easy, easy," he winced, struggling to get his feet under him.

Other Preventers had stormed in at the commotion, and he felt himself pushed with disgust towards them.

"Remove his boots," he heard Wufei command, trying to stifle his winded pants. "And shackle his ankles."

Duo was mute as he was braced up against his own counter top. He was compliant as they removed his shoes and shackled his skinny joints. An agent looked at Wufei in question, a long chain was meant to attach to cuffs in front of the body. Duo's hands were cuffed behind him.

"Clip it in the back," Wufei snapped, answering the wordless request. "On a short line. He's a terrorist, agents."

The boy's eyes widened at that remark. It was an interesting choice. The pilots hated that word, they had all been disparaged in the media and disparaged themselves quietly during the war when sides got complicated and it was too easy to think they were, in fact, terrorists.

Duo swallowed a yelp as he was bent backwards as his ankles were attached on a short chain to his wrists. He wriggled his fingers, already numb and cold from failed circulation.

An agent pulled a commlink out of his waistband and turned to Wufei. "The vehicle is out front."

Chang nodded, mouth tight as he turned to once-over Maxwell. The tight fist made Duo flinch. His waist pressed forward and his back arched to take some stress off his hands, the position was unnerving in the wake of the agent's dark anger. Like he was positively advertising a hit to the guts.

"I have honor enough to not strike you," Wufei seethed, sneering at the flinch. "I uphold the law. Unlike those who live to defile it."

Duo did not try to shrug, eyes flat and serious. "Out of 10 thousand sperm, it's a wonder you were the fastest. Then again, you always did hitch your ride to whoever seemed most likely to win."

The man's eyes darkened with fury at the spin about his days with Mariamaia Army.

"Liar," he accused in a soft low voice, anger reigned in by a thread. He motioned for the agents to move him to the car.

"Yea well I thought you knew me better too, pal."

(My dear ones who took the time to read this! I thank you and I am deeply humbled. More soon!)