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Prologue: Mind Ruin

Duo Maxwell was screaming.
It wasn't something he did often. In fact, if asked Duo Maxwell could only recall screaming twice in his entire life, excluding the infancy of which he had no control. The first time had been the moment that he, at age 10, stumbled upon the body of Sister Helen in the smoking husk that was once an orphanage. He remembered screaming that day in a way he never had before, screaming again and again and again, over and over, until a firefighter lifted his wracking child body and carried him out. After the unknown fireman set him down outside and gone back to his responsibility, Duo had looked up into the green eyes of a young man in an Alliance uniform, a man that told him "…some things were better off burned." That day was also the first time he ever hated. But unlike screaming, hating was something Duo had done a lot of in the years that followed.
The second time in his life that he screamed Duo could also remember very clearly. He was fifteen then and he had watched, crying, as his only friend, and his only way to make a difference, was shattered before a camera that went into the homes of every family on every colony in human space. He had stood on a crowded street, his desperate screaming lost in the cheers of the mob.
The transient vision of the on-screen explosion and the nauseating scent of the burned flesh within the Maxwell Church filtered into Sabriel's mind as she ripped open Duo's psyche. She raped him in the most appalling way possible, and from that act she received the flashes of thought, and the clusters—collections of sights, sounds, images, tastes, movements and emotions that made up each of his diamond-clear recollections. If she had been the kind of girl to giggle she would have. At that moment she could force her way into any part of him that she wanted. What Sabriel found even more exciting was that his memory was eidetic—perfect beyond even a photographic memory. Where the latter only gave faultless pictures, the former provided the memory exactly as it had been experienced, with each and every sensory impression of the moment intact. People with eidetic memories were always more challenging at first, more clear-headed and thus resistant to invasion. It meant she had a lot to work through, but it also meant that whatever she was supposed to find was still there, hidden in him, waiting in mint-condition for her to drag out into the sunlight.
Sabriel had no compassion for the 18-year-old, nor would she have had any even if she didn't know herself to be a "text book sociopath". Duo Maxwell's recently peaceful lifestyle did not negate his exhaustive guilt. His hands were bloodier than anyone she had ever met, herself included. She found his mind simply fascinating. The boy-god of pain, reaper of death, had his psyche stretched out between the two them like a huge desert span of pain, shock, hate, loneliness, and grudging cynical despair, tempered only by an incredible, unexplainable optimism that somehow allowed him to go on living each wretched day. Grey and black and blue, with rivets of gold and flashes of bronze and coppery orange—it was a wounded paradise for her to explore at will. And all they had wanted of her in return was one memory— his entire self, at the asking price of a single, long forgotten thought.
With her forehead pressed to his and her hands on his shoulders, Sabriel smiled as Duo Maxwell screamed until his ears and nose bled, and digged deeper.

Hours it seemed; hours she had been there, searching the young man’s memory. It was there, she knew it was there—why could she not find it? It had to be there-somewhere. Maxwell had passed out long before, all resistance spent. He was literally an open book, but she couldn’t find the damn page. For the last three hours she’d been tossing random words into his mind, hoping to spark a memory chain reaction that would lead her to the correct information. Those thoughts brought up by words like “Gundam”, “experiment”, “angel”, and “haven”.
However, it wasn’t until she broached the word “stone” that she found something fruitful. First she mentally swam past assorted junk, until she reached pay dirt. It was old, one of his oldest memories by far. This was it, this was what she had been paid so delightfully to find. It washed over her, flinging her far back into the past.

/// She/he was being carried, kicking and yelling. She/he looked down at his body. He was young, maybe three of four years old. It was twilight, and they were crossing a field at night. In front of him and his unknown carrier was a short, hunched man with a mass of uncontrolled, umbrella hair. He could not tell any more from his position over the other, younger, man’s shoulder.
He—Rictor, his name was Rictor -- kicked and yelled again, trying to struggle out of the muscleman’s hold. But the man ignored him, and followed the old man in silence through the waist-high grass. Rictor eventually stopped screaming and instead began to cry. “I want my mommy!” the four year-old wailed. “Let me go! I want my mommy!”
Rictor Langley; he was Rictor Langley.
“Your mother’s already dead,” his captor hissed. “But don’t worry, we’ll take you back to your father soon enough.” It was meant to pacify the child, but Rictor still wanted his mother. He wailed even louder. “Are we almost there yet Professor?”
“Yes, Harrold. It’s just over that ridge.” The mushroom-haired man stopped to point a knobby finger to the west slightly. In minutes they were at the cave.
Rictor had stopped wailing once he ran out of breath, but the child still sniffled loudly, breaking the tense silence of the night air. The Professor held up a flashlight and led them tiny group into the darkness.
After twenty minutes of walking, and taking various turns, they finally arrived at a dead end, like a hundred others in the cave. The Professor made a satisfied noise, and laid his hand on a certain corner of the rock face. His fingers searched a moment, then found the niche and pressed. Dust fell form the door in sheets and the rock face slowly opened. The four-year-old Rictor and the twenty-five-year-old Harrold watched in wonderment at the spectacle before them, both finally silent.
The professor entered, and Harrold followed, the young Langley still tucked under his arm.
The darkness was lit faintly by the flashlight, but even then Harrold and Rictor could see the glistening of jewels embedded in the walls. In front of them was a round stone table, chest high and about twelve feet in diameter. On it rested a single plate made plainly of polished wood, no bigger than a common eating dish. The stone and the simplistic wooden plate belied the treasures of the cave. Everywhere Rictor looked, it seemed like he could catch the faint sparkles within the rock.
“What is this?” Harrold breathed. He turned swiftly to the Professor, his voice suddenly tight. “What is this?” he repeated. When the older man did not answer, Rictor, from his vantage point under the man’s arm, saw Harrold scowl. “Professor G,” Harrold said coldly. “What is this place.”’
Professor G turned to let one beady eye, black in the darkness of the cave, focus on Harrold. Young Rector gulped slightly in fear, even though the eye wasn’t on him, but on his captor.
“This, young man,” Professor G stated with flat, humorless tone, “is the gathering place of the gods.”
Harrold’s eyes narrowed. “Which gods?” he snapped back, just as serious.
“The first ones.” The old man turned back and began to make his way toward the table in the center of the cave. It seemed to rise up from the cave floor as if is was naturally part of the structure, and had been that way since the beginning of time. It was impossible to tell where the stone table ended and the floor began. “Bring the boy,” he commanded.
Harrold dutifully strode forward, Rictor in hand. He placed the softly sniveling four year old on the stone structure, which left Rector at eye level. The table, apparently, had been made for larger denizens. “Why this boy anyway?” Harrold asked, finding in this strange setting the strength to question his boss’s decision. “He’s had a nothing life. He’s got no influential family, no real money, and he’s completely sheltered. Why choose him?”
Rictor was confused. He listened, but he was too young and didn’t understand what they were talking about.
“That’s exactly why I wanted him.” The voice came from the above Harrold, where the older man was, with less difficulty than one would expect, pulling himself up onto the stone surface as well. “After the experiment failed, we had no choice but to try and find someone to be the heir. But it must be a total innocent. Only one who is completely innocent in all ways can touch the blue stone and live.”
“Blue stone?”
“Blue stone. The Orb, I was told it was once called. It can break the earth, and is the most powerful thing in existence. It was made by one of the first seven gods of existence.” Professor G stopped to take a deep breath, as well as fish an item out of his pocket. It looked to be something like a polymer cloth.
Professor G moved forward, and ever so carefully reached out into the center of the table. Just within his reach was the wood plate. And sitting on it, glowing like pearl in the faintly lit darkness, was a sphere. With the plastic cloth to cover his hand, Professor G grasped the shining bauble and pulled back. On his knees he turned to the shivering little boy, while Harrold watched from below.
The Orb lay in his palm, only slightly larger than a golf ball. The Professor reached out and grabbed Rictor’s right hand. Rictor tried to pull away, but he was tired and cold and unhappy, and had no strength to speak of. The Professor looked the little boy in the eyes, his gaze hard and dark, his smile frightening. Rictor shivered, and his violet eyes welled up, but he could not cry anymore.
“Rictor,” the Professor hissed. “You may be only four but I want you to listen to what I’m saying very carefully.” His grip on the child’s wrist tightened, and Rictor nodded, biting his tiny lower lip.
Professor G held up the glowing stone. “This,” he said to the boy, “is the Orb of Aldur. It is the most important object in the world, and the oldest. It used to be watched and kept by a prince and his descendants, but they all died a long time ago. The Orb was taken and hidden here. Now, only an innocent soul can touch it without risk. You are not the heir, but you can be.”
With that, the Professor swiftly pressed the stone into the child’s palm. Rector screamed, and he felt fire racing up from his hand into his whole body. It was a blue fire that filled his mind, filled everything. He couldn’t see anymore, all he could do was feel. It was too much for one so young, and body was wracked with pain.
Then, the flow of blue fire stopped, and a cool mist settled over him. Somewhere, far back in the depths of his mind, he heard a lilting chorus of voices. And as they filled his ears from far away, all they said was “Yes.”
Rictor slowly blinked as he regained his vision. He rubbed at his cherubic face and yawned. He blinked and saw the Professor climbing down. He looked back at the center of the table, and saw that once again the Orb was there, pulsing its mellow light. He had an urge to stand and try and walk over to it on his short legs. The pulse seemed to call to Rictor, to whisper to him all of its secrets. He started to wobble to his feet, but rough hands grasped him around the middle and pulled him down of the table.
Those same hands grabbed his own, and twisted his right palm upward, so it could be seen in the light. There, in the center of his hand, was a faint silvery white half-moon mark. Rictor looked at it with the surprise one expected of a four-year-old who had just made a new discovery. Above his head, Harrold’s breathing got short.
Harrold twisted around suddenly, pulling Rictor up with him. He looked expectantly at the mushroom-haired man. “I want out of this place, now.”
Professor G was already opening the door, and walking. Before long they had almost reached the exit to the outside world, the night.

***

"A little snippet from a later conversation, talking about the Orb of Aldur in Duo's possession"

"What’s it like?" Trowa asked, in a rare display of curiosity. Duo looked down at the Orb, currently being kept in the pouch. He preferred not to come in physical contact with it--strange things always ended up happening when he did.
"Well," He gulped and looked kind of sheepish. “When I touch it, it, um… It sings.”
Wufei looked up to gaze at him with a look that said less than nice things about Maxwell’s mental state. Trowa’s eyebrows raised slightly in disbelief.
Shifted uncomfortably, Duo said, “Look, it like this: Take a church choir ok? Only, instead of twenty or thirty people, it’s seven hundred. Then interlace that sound you get when you hold a seashell up to your ear—you know what I’m talking about right?” Duo paused, and realized that three out of the four faces looking at him were blank and devoid of expression. He guessed that except for maybe Quatre it wasn’t something they’d ever actually done. No real surprise there, he supposed. “Okay, anyway, when you do that it sounds like the ocean. SO, you have this huge church choir, then overlay the sound of the ocean, and then on top of that add the sound of whale songs, and then you take the whole thundering, trumpeting thing and dim it till its just barely enough for you to hear, but not enough for anything else. Then fill you head with it. That’s what it feels like every time I touch it.”
There was a long pause.
“That’s kind of strange,” Quatre announced.
“Extremely,” Duo agreed.

***

"random conversation snippet between the Duo and Heero"

Even though his eyes were swirling in and out of focus, Duo managed to notice that there was something strangely long and furry hanging on his friend’s arm. “What the hell… is on… your shoulder?”
“A ferret,” Heero stated without pausing. In moments he had Duo’s shackles off, and was supporting the other pilot’s weight. The situation was frighteningly familiar, and Maxwell grimaced, this time of embarrassment and not of pain. Why did Heero have to be the one saving his rear end? They had been even, but now he owed him one again. In Duo’s opinion, while he was grateful for the rescue, the situation still really sucked ass.
He pulled himself out of his self pity and took a better look at Heero’s new—Duo hesitated in using the word—pet. He wasn’t sure if he thought he trusted the safety of an animal in Heero’s care. After all, TLC wasn’t the guy’s forte. But the thing looked reasonably healthy, buried into the other side of Yuy’s neck like that. Then one golden eye opened and looked detachedly at him. It blinked, once, then chirped terse, happy nonsense into Heero’s ear. Accordingly, Heero turned his face to glance once at Duo. Maxwell could have sworn his saw a ghost of a smile grace Heero’s face, but that was just flat impossible. “So what’s its name?” he finally asked as they turned a corridor.
“Key,” Heero replied. Duo frowned slightly, a memory of many years before flitting before his already blurry vision. The glittering eyes, and the lightning-quick tongue of a boy named Solo lent themselves to his mind, as well as the name that same boy had given him. Then Duo sighed melodramatically, and gusted, “Well, that’s just goes to show you that life really likes to fuck your head.”
“What are you going on about?” Yuy snapped, trying to get Duo to hurry along before the second squad of goons arrived.
“Nothing, nothing, nothing.”

***
***

"Someone interrogates Heero on the other pilots and Relena. Kind of has a staged feeling to this snippet."

Tiny threads of red wove across the whites of Heero’s eyes, a new vein for every ounce in the drug needle they shot up his arm. Moisture beaded on his forehead, and his breath became slow.
“He’s ready for questioning now.”
“Are you sure the stuff you gave him will make him speak the truth?”
“Just ask your damn questions so I can get out of this place. My girlfriend thinks I’ve been cheating on her because I spend so much damn time with all of you.”
“I don’t give a rat’s bald ass who your girlfriend thinks you’re fucking, Jakinson, and you, Marle—just ask the questions; the kids drugged enough.”
The old redhead nodded and stepped up to the figure that sat prone on the chair.
“Start on a familiar topic to him.”
The man’s look was deadpan. “I know what to ask, sir. Let me do it.” He knelt in front of the brown haired young man. “What is your relationship to the five men who pilot the Gundams?”
A flush spread across Heero’s cheeks, and his breath quickened slightly. “He’s fighting it,” Marle announced, “But he’s cave in a few moments. Ask him again.”
“What is your relationship to the five men who pilot the Gundams?”
Yuy’s voice was quiet but steady. “They are my comrades. They fight… beside me.”
“Is it that simple? Do the ties go any deeper?”
“Yes.”
“How close to them are you?”
“They are my brothers. Brothers in blood.”
“Tell us about Trowa Barton.”
“Trowa is reliable, smooth, and unpredictable. His is my kindred soul.”
“What do you mean, your kindred soul?”
“He is like Relena. He understands me.”
“And Duo? Does Duo Maxwell understand you?”
“Duo doesn’t understand me at all.”
“Tell me more about Maxwell and yourself. In full.”
“Duo is my rival, my-- twin. He challenges me. He makes me unbalanced. I have to rescue him all the time. He’s insanely persistent. He’s a brilliant pilot and engineer. He’s only half-sane, and he angers easily. He smiles too much—all the time. He’s too clever; I hate him 20 times a day, but I--- I enjoy what he brings out in me.”
“What are you trying to say? Is he your best friend?”
“Maybe, if I could have such a thing.”
“What about Winner?” a voice interrupted. “I want to hear about the Winner kid.”
“Tell me your relationship with Quatre Winner. In full.”
“Quatre is our leader.” There was a pause. More sweat collected on Heero’s tan skin. “He doesn’t believe it, but its true. They look to me for inspiration, but they trust in him for direction. He keeps us together, on the right path. Quatre keeps us human.”
“Is it true that Winner is the least likely to pose a threat?”
“No. Quatre is delicate emotionally, not mentally; backed into a corner he kills swiftly and thoroughly.”
“And what about Wufei? How do you relate to him?”
“Wufei is my enemy.”
“Explain.”
“Wufei is wise, but he is an extremist. Wufei is my friend, but he will always be my enemy as well.”
There was a sound of teeth being ground together in frustration. “Elaborate more completely. Use detail. Why will he always be your enemy?”
“We’re allies, but that won’t always be so. For all his wisdom in seeing others, Wufei is blind to himself. Someday soon he will lose his way, and then he will come looking for me.”
“Why would he come looking for you? Why not Quatre?”
“Because Wufei would think Quatre is too weak to kill him. When Wufei comes, with whatever destruction he brings along, I will be there to stop him.”
“How are you so sure this is your destiny?”
“I just know. I know someday I will fight him, and for more than something inconsequential. He understands me also, but he doesn’t understand himself.”
“Why haven’t you done so already then?”
“He is my comrade. He is doing his duty.”
“Hm…Earlier you said Relena also understood you. Who is Relena?”

“He’s resisting again! There’s something about that girl that he doesn’t want us to know.”

**
**

"Random covnersation snippet between Quatre and Duo, about the ZERO System."

“He was never this fast before,” Duo said, surprised. “Not without the ZERO system. I used to be easily a match for him in pure piloting, but now he’s beyond me. He was good, but I’m *sure* not this good.” Duo’s eyes flickered back and forth, following the movement of the mobile suit in the sky.
“You’re right, he wasn’t. But it works both ways,” Quatre replied, his eyes also tracing the rapid battle movement above them
“What do you mean?” Duo said sharply.
“It works both ways,” Quatre said again. After a moment he continued. “Wing ZERO manipulates the pilot’s thinking to reach a better reception/response time, but it also, conversely, teaches you to think differently, to analyze data and react more swiftly. Over long exposure the pilot’s mind is affected. So even when you are not in the system, the process remains part of your fighting mentality.”
“So he’s thinking as if he had the ZERO system to back him up even outside of Wing ZERO.”
“Yes. He’s still less compared to using the ZERO system itself, but he’s better by far than before he took on the Gundam.”
Duo let a deep breath out. “And did this affect you at all?”
Quatre shook his head, his eyes still on the intense, yet far away battle. “You have to master the system. I didn’t, and I don’t think Zechs ever did completely either. He got a lot farther than me, but he still didn’t go as far as Heero. His purpose was not clear enough.”

**
**

"Idle conversation between Duo and Heero as they commit standard breaking & entering mission with intent toward either political burglary or espionage."

"Maybe I should dye my hair," Duo speculated as he worked. "I've never done that before. I could do the blue thing, like that chic Noin's." Heero didn't say anything, as was usual. "Then again," Duo continued, "It'd take an awful lot of dye, and I'd probably hate it after five minutes."
"Waste of time," Heero said curtly.
Duo let an eyeball trail up to his comrade's face, surprised at getting a reply. "Yeah?" he said. "Aw, you're probably right. No sense trying to change what you're born with I suppose." He fingered the thing a little more, moving the small metal pin around and trying to grasp the tiny trip-wire within its cavity. He could feel Heero growing antsy beside him, and knew that the other boy was undoubtedly ready to simply blow the door out. But they were going for total secrecy here, and unfortunately the mission overkill, not discretion, was Heero's specialty. Duo tried to hurry the process along, but the mechanism was being irritable.
"You know," he chatted blithely and quietly to distract himself and Heero from any rash inclinations toward explosive devices, "I bet you could do that blue-black hair thing pretty well. Yours is almost black now anyway. Of course, you'd have to get a decent cut first, which is about as likely to happen as a zambone driver* finding a steady job in hell."
"Hey… I wonder what Relena would look like with blue hair. Would she still be cute? The question of the ages. I can just see it now," he took on a bad, high-pitched imitation of Relena's voice.
"'Well Heero, what do you think of me now? I'm sure to stand out in a crowd, so you and any Romafellar schmuck that happens to pass by can shoot me without even having to look around!"
"'Wow Relena, you went punk! Of course I'll marry you—you know my weakness for wild, dangerous chicas from the wrong side of the tracks! And after, we can have lots of blue eyed, blue-haired babies we'll name Zechs-1, Zechs-2, Zechs-3, Zech—-"
Heero gave up trying to ignore him, turned partway around to face the Deathscythe pilot, and hissed disgustedly, "I *know* you can be quiet when you want to be, so why put so much effort into being loud?"
Duo stopped picking the lock for a moment. "Because," he said in a subdued voice, not looking up, "If I'm not being loud people forget I'm even in the room."
Heero frowned slightly. "I doubt that," he muttered as if he found the idea frankly impossible.
Duo laughed slightly at Heero's words, then sighed. "It’s a natural talent, or curse, or something. No one ever notices me. Unless I'm being obnoxious, I fade right into the wallpaper. Even with hair like mine." He bent back down and finished the lock, then pushed the door open softly with a click. "Bingo."
"What?" Heero said sharply.
"Nothing," Duo replied. "Just an American expression they use on my colony, that’s all." He went in first, gun in front of him. Heero followed quickly, checking behind them one last time.
The corridor they entered was lit by yellow lights, spaced periodically down the way. It was poor to see by, but brighter than the previous room. There were sporadic doors down each side, all labeled with patient names.
"We're going to have to check them all," Heero said. "We won't know which one Kitsner's in."
"There must be upwards of thirty of 'em," Duo said with despair.
Heero looked at his watch. "We have two hours and twenty three minutes to find him." He took the nearest door on the left.
"Just great," Duo muttered and walked up to the next one, about twelve feet down on the right. The outside nameplate said 'Reynolds, Marren'. Duo pushed the door open easily and walked in, preparing for a long two hours and twenty-three minutes.

**

See? Really, really old snippets. At least 3 years old, most of them