Thanks to: All the reviewers and readers, and the War Room. ^_^

"You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go."

      --- Siegfried Sassoon, Suicide In The Trenches
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."
      --- Sicilian proverb

Requiem for the Sinners Part 39
Via Dolorosa

The Sandrock pilot's words echoed in Septem's brain as he sank into unconsciousness. If could forget the rest of this damned mission and everything else in it, he would never forget those words.

I don't know...who to fight anymore.

When he woke again, the lights in the small office he was locked in were off. The only light came from the bright blazing line beneath the door, and a small lamp that had been set on the floor on the other side of the room. Two of the enemy soldiers were kneeling on the floor, facing away from him, but he couldn't see what they were doing.

"What..." he croaked, his voice hoarse and breaking. Suddenly, one of the soldiers moved to the side, and Septem could see what they were kneeling over.

Laban. Oh, kiddo.

In the light of the small lamp, the blood smeared on the boy's cheeks and mouth stood out starkly against his pale skin. His head was cushioned by a couple of rumpled jackets; Someone had folded a white tee-shirt over his chest and tightened it with a belt. The tee-shirt was dark red, vivid in the near-darkness. Septem could hear the boy breathing, a strained low gasping noise every time Laban inhaled.

"He needs a doctor," Septem whispered. The room wavered like a mirage, and his head ached. His hands were bound behind his back, now. Word of his attack on Winner must have gotten around, he thought. "...Doctor."

The two soldiers startled at the sound of his voice. They turned to look at him silently, their synchronized movement eerie. The only thing that told him they were soldiers was the guns they wore; they had no uniforms to speak of. If the clothing they were wearing now had once been a uniform, it was unrecognizable now.

"You understand, you fucking star-siders?" he whispered, the words harsh. "A doctor!"

The two froze, glanced at each other, then looked at him with dark, cautious eyes. They were young themselves, not much older than the dying boy at their feet. Teach ‘em while they're young, Septem thought deliriously. The whole situation felt surreal to him. The glass paperweight he had used to break Winner's collarbone still lay on the floor on the other side of the room from him. It caught the light, bending it onto the ceiling and the walls.

"We speak English," the shorter-haired one said, the words soft and careful. He had a slight Oxford accent. "But we have no doctors. The civilians are gone."

Septem tried to sit up, but he couldn't keep his balance. Concussion. They fucked me up proper. He gave up and let his cheek rest against the cold, hard floor. His hair had come undone, falling in his face. "A medic, then," he whispered. "Please. Please."

The other one spoke; his voice was so thickly accented with Arabic, it was hard to make out. "The medic is dead."

Septem closed his eyes. "... Please."

He heard the door unlock, and a new, rough voice spoke a harsh language that sounded to Septem like stones being rubbed together. He heard the two soldiers stand and leave, and then felt the vibrations of the floor as someone walked over to him and kneeled at his side.

"General Septem."

Septem opened his eyes again. A towering man stood over him, dark eyes solemn in a broad face. His voice was hard, but his English was crisp and perfect. "I am Rashid. We're going to let you go, as soon as preparations are complete. Since you cannot pilot in your condition, you will be escorted. I told the young master it would have suited us better to kill you, especially after you insulted his hospitality by attacking him, but it is his wish that you live."

"The boy..." Septem whispered. He looked over, glancing at where Laban laid on the floor. "The boy..."

"Is dying," Rashid finished, softly. His gaze softened. "He will not go with you. We will try to keep him comfortable here, until the end."

"I have to take him home," Septem replied. "I can't leave him here. I won't. He's my responsibility. We don't leave our own behind. He's the only one I have left," he added in a whisper. "Please understand. We are both leaders of men."

Rashid just looked at him for a few moments, and he gazed back steadily. Rashid glanced at the boy, then sighed, the sound almost a rumble coming from that immense chest.

"I understand. But the trip will kill him. He will not make it back to your base."

"... I have to try. He's dying. Please."

"Yes. You can take him. I do not think the young master will mind." Rashid stood. He looked down at Septem with a strange expression; Septem couldn't tell if it was admiration or pity.

"You say you are responsible, and it's true. We did not want to kill your men, General. Your boys. I hope you remember this. His death is on your hands, not ours."

Septem felt a flash of rage pass through him. He knew he was under judgement from this man, the lackey of his enemy, and it pissed him off to no end. He was following orders when he did what he did. Of course he had known that it wasn't the best course of action, but if he knew how to do anything well, following orders was it.

"That doesn't change what you did, does it?" he replied, his voice seething with hate. "Does it help you sleep at night?"

"No," Rashid answered, the older man's voice clipped as he turned away from Septem. He turned on his heel and started to walk through the door; Septem barely caught what he said, but once he had, he wished he hadn't heard it at all.

"... but we have no regrets."

The door locked behind him.

~*~

"Two unidentified spacecraft approaching from sector thirty-two, Quatre. Do you copy?"

Quatre was startled out of a near-doze by the loud, buzzing static of his walkie. He fumbled for it, rubbing a hand over his face wearily. "Copy. Details?"

"These aren't Preventer ships, young master. Radar shows L2 model ships. One large flagship and a smaller fighter. No mecha that we can tell. Standard, non-threatening formation. Should we attack?"

"No!" Quatre replied quickly. "... No. Don't harm them unless they shoot first. They don't pose any kind of threat to us. L4 is under Maguanac control now. Let them come."

"Roger that."

...Let them come.

~*~

"General." The rasping, whispered word, no matter how soft, dragged Septem back to full consciousness in a heartbeat.

"Laban," he said, looking over at the boy lying across the room from him. The lamplight made his pale face seem ghostly, as if a strong wind could blow the boy's soul out like a candle. His chest heaved beneath the bloody compress on his chest.

Laban's head turned slowly to the side as he looked at the general. His eyes were half-lidded and hazy, as if he was in another place. For his sake, Septem hoped he was. But the boy's eyes were fixed on his face, innocent and damning.

"... General..."

Septem couldn't turn away from his eyes. Those damned eyes, as blue and clear as a summer day.

The boy started to say something, then closed his eyes and began to cough. It was a horrible, choked sound. Red flecked the floor as he breathed through a mist of blood.

Septem tried to move over to him. His legs were not bound, and after some clumsy movements, he was almost close enough to touch the boy, if his hands had been free. He damned whoever had cuffed them behind his back, forbidding the dying boy even a simple comforting touch.

When the boy's spasm quieted, he slowly opened his eyes. They were wide and hellishly aware. Blood ran in a small, steady trickle from the corner of his mouth, but he smiled.

"General...don't worry. It's not as bad...as it sounds. Really." It was a lie, and they both knew it. The boy's wide eyes and gasping breaths told Septem all he needed to know. He was drowning in his own blood, and he was terrified. Septem didn't blame him. Who wants to die? he thought.

And he realized that at this point, lying in the darkness with the last dying man of his fleet, he did. None of it even mattered anymore.

We're going to do it, over and over, he thought, unable to look away from Laban, taking in every detail of his death. The sheen of sweat across his pale forehead, cheeks flushed with fever, glazed blue eyes, the blood smeared on his cheekbone, the way his back arched slightly with every struggling breath. The implications of his revelation were almost too much to bear. No matter how much they talk about their damned peace, it always ends up this way. There isn't anything we can do anymore.

"Don't try to talk, Laban," he replied, wearily. Desperate. "Just listen. We're about to get in a ship, and we're going back. You're going to be all right. ... I promise."

"Don't worry about me, General. It's... it's okay."

"Laban, you shouldn't-"

"Talk. I know." The young captain shifted his gaze to the ceiling, as if he was looking for the stars beyond. He turned his eyes back to Septem. Septem wished he wouldn't, and was ashamed of himself for thinking it.

"I'm glad... you're here, sir. I thought I was all alone." The boy closed his eyes.

"No. I'm with you," Septem replied in a whisper, and felt desperation engulf him like a storm. He hadn't needed Rashid's accusations. With every shuddering cough from his younger comrade, guilt tore at his insides. A vision of the captain standing in formal uniform at his induction, eyes shining with pride, flickered through his mind's eye, and he swallowed a sob of impotent, guilt-choked fury, closing his eyes. He couldn't even comfort the boy in his last hours.

"Rick..." He cursed harshly.

Hours passed. The boy's fever peaked and the coughing fits passed into a deathly stillness, shallow gasps; Laban muttered semi-consciously, tears streaking down the planes of his face.

Septem whispered soothing words to Laban, not even sure the captain could hear them anymore. He watched the boy's chest rise and fall, rise and fall.

"Gonna get you home, kiddo. You don't worry about a thing."

Rise and fall. Rise and fall. The boy took another breath, let it out...and didn't take another one.

"C'mon kid, breathe. Breathe!" Septem snarled. "Breathe, dammit!" He nudged the boy's shoulder forcefully with the toe of his boot. The captain lolled on the floor like a ragdoll.

But the kid didn't breathe.

After a long time, Septem leaned back against the wall, gazing into the captain's pale, still face. He waited to go crazy, thought that this was the last straw, that nobody could survive this...but he didn't go crazy. He was the last survivor, his fleet was dead, and he was a POW. But he was-unfortunately-still sane.

Why the hell are we here? What is it all for, anyway? And what am I gonna tell his mother? All their mothers? What did they die for?

He suddenly realized he didn't even know anymore.

"Dear Mr. And Mrs. Laban," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "As your son's commanding officer, it is my duty to inform you... fuck. Fuck!"

Grant Septem cursed until he couldn't curse anymore. Then he wept openly, until there were no more tears to cry, and exhaustion overwhelmed him. No one living was there to see him break down, and he wasn't so far gone he wasn't glad for that.

Finally... somehow... he slept.

~*~

"Here they come, Yuy. Thirty-four mechs straight ahead."

"Be careful, Wufei. That's Trowa at the lead." In front of him, Heero saw Duo shift uneasily in his chair at the other pilot's name. He pretended he didn't notice.

Wufei's response was crisp, all business, no nonsense. Heero could easily see how the Shenlong pilot had risen so quickly in the Preventer ranks. Wufei not only had the required skill to lead a group of men, he also had the strength and will to carry them on; not for the first time, Heero was silently glad he was on their side. "How can you tell?"

"I..." Don't know how to explain, Heero finished in his head, smiling ruefully. Finally, he just shrugged at the comlink image of Wufei's head and shoulders. "I recognize the way he flies."

Duo made some kind of puzzled noise under his breath, leaning forward to peer at the radar and zoom in with his environmental camera. "What in the hell..."

"What is it?"

Duo turned in his seat slightly to meet the Wing pilot's gaze. His brow was furrowed in thought. "What kind of mobile suits are those, Heero? I don't think I've ever seen that make before. They're not Maguanac mecha. At least none I've ever seen before."

Heero looked. "Seems like Quatre's been busy. I think that's a new model."

"You're fucking with me." Duo's tone was flat, disbelieving.

Suddenly, a line of laser shot came at them from the leading mech, causing Duo to mutter a curse and dance the Morningstar between the fire lines. He saw the Sariel blaze a reply as Wufei immediately retaliated. The lead mech moved out of harm's way effortlessly.

"Christ on a crutch, he's actually shooting at us!?" Duo sputtered. "Heero-"

"I'm on it." But before Heero could trigger the missile systems of the ship, an outside relay came up on their frequency. Duo tapped it open to find an anonymous, helmeted head staring back at him. But the sound of that quiet, self-confident laughter was immediately recognizable to him.

"This seems familiar, Duo. Haven't we done this before?"

"Trowa..." Duo closed his eyes a moment, then glared at the screen. "Why the hell are you shooting at us?"

"Just checking to make sure you guys haven't gotten rusty on me." The dry humor in the other pilot's voice was unmistakable.

Wufei's voice came over the com, irritated. "If you want to see how battle-primed we are, Barton, I suggest you shoot at me again. It'll be the last time you ever try."

"Sure did bring a lot of guys out here for two incoming ships, Trowa," Heero said, smiling slightly. "Not scared of us, are you?"

"I was confident you guys hadn't gotten rusty on me. So I came prepared, in case the news was bad."

Heero read the sentiment perfectly. In case we had decided to invade, you mean.

"You must be a little rusty yourself, circus-boy, if you couldn't clip me from that range," Duo shot back.

When the Heavyarms pilot replied, there was no humor in his voice at all. "If I had wanted you dead, Maxwell, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Fair enough," Heero said. "Where is Quatre?"

"... Waiting for you."

TBC...

 

To The Next Chapter

To The Previous Chapter

Back to CleverYoungThief's Fanfictions Page

Back to Guests Fanfictions Page

Back to Main Page