Author: CleverYoungThief

Rating: R

Warnings: Death, gore, swearing, skewed religious themes, Dark/Angst/Poetic, POV (Contest fic for Elemental's "Through Different Eyes" Fanfic Contest)

Pairing: 1+2

Archive: Gundam Wing Addiction

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Don't sue. College kids are like L2 kids; we got nothin'.

Notes: This fic is a contest fic for Trisana Storm's "Through Different Eyes" Fanfic Contest, where the idea is to write from a completely new point of view, other than the Gundam pilots or any other major character. So I chose a White Fang recruit from L2... just in case anyone doesn't get it as they read.

White Band Prayer

I wear the white band. But I'm still terrified.

They say we're fighting for a good cause. But don't they always say that? Is this a case of the good government fighting the bad guys, or the good guys fighting the bad government? Does it really make a difference?

Please don't let me be wrong.

Not all of the street kids on L2 have joined. Just the ones who want to stay alive. And why not? I'd rather kill a flatlander than whore on a street corner, any day.

Please, if I die, don't let there be nightmares.

Throw me in a Taurus and get ready to rumble. Put me on the street with a gun and a blade and I'll make my own way. I am a killing machine forged by streetlights and cigarette smoke. I am a scumbag, a mugger, a pretty thief, a fast fuck in the dark. But fuck me over at your own risk, I'll give you a few new elbows. I am the cancer of civilized society, the nightmare of politicians and aristocrats alike. I'd kill a little old lady to make a buck or buy a sandwich. Sue me. My life is lit in neon, and my hunting ground smells like sex and sheared copper.

You abandoned us. You broke Your word. And the flocks have been scattered to the wolves.

The tattoo still hurts. I never liked needles, anyway. I'm no sheep, and I don't need no fuckin' brand. But it's the rules, they say. Gotta be able to recognize your own. Give the peasants their pitchforks and pistols and you've got your damned pacifist army. Is there really a pacifist on L2?

I don't want to die here.

Here's a good hard fast rule for L2 pacifism, mate: I'll leave you alone, but get between me and my next meal, I'll rip your fucking throat out.

Hail Mary, full of grace, save me from this goddamned place.

It's almost time to go out. Look myself over with the same shard of mirror I use to shave myself. There's dried blood on the edge. My gray eyes are as expressionless as dull nickels.

And the rivers shall run with blood...

Time to go meet my fellow cutthroats. We're cutting throats for principles, now, and it don't sit too right with me. I'd rather kill someone over something tangible. Like a sandwich. I could do a little ultra violence for a chicken salad sandwich.

Jesus loves me, this I know. Because that's what Foxy says, and if you disagree with Foxy, he'll put you in the fucking hospital and have you eating your chicken salad sandwich through a straw.

Love me. Please, love me. I'm lost, and someone blew out all the candles.

But I'm paid by the dead OZ officer, and I'm good at what I do. We wade in blood, we wear white bands but we have black hearts, and it ain't never been our fault.

The streets are lower here, and everyone will turn a blind eye for a price. There are no warning shots. Five year-olds are target practice. OZ soldiers throw candy into busy streets and see which kids are brave enough to try dodging hydro-cars for it. The game is more fun to them when someone just ain't quick enough.

And all who are maimed be made whole under Your eye...

Plague. We have the plague, we are the plague. A plague on both your fuckin' houses. Delirium for you Ozzie scumbags, with your thin smiles like scythes and your cold eyes. Run crazy in the streets and die shitting yourselves like us. That's the last time you use me as a target, motherfucker.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. Because I can cover my own ass like nobody's business.

We are Death, we are Pestilence, we are the ones you've been warned about. We're the reason you club your steering wheels, keep your kids home after dark, deadbolt your doors and keep a shotgun under your bed. Because Death comes for everyone. And we are His children. There's a fine line between heroes and madmen.

I'm both.

I don't have a name, so Death can't find me. He can't track me through the alleys of the dead and the feverish streets of the dying. He cannot track me into desperate missions and the churches, where abandoned, broken rosaries make a sound like rain on the worn tile floor, and the candles are never lit. We don't pray anymore. Pray for us. Light a candle for the dead. Light a candle for us all.

Please let me stay hidden. Please let me be safe.

Death is tracking me now. He wears a white band and a wolf tattoo. He calls me boy and I don't kill him for it. That makes me trapped. I'm a soldier now. I kill for cause, I kill for country, and I kill because I don't like your face and I don't like the way you just looked at me. If you have a fat wallet, that's a damned good reason, too.

Let me be faster, stronger, meaner. Let me have the conviction to kill...let me have the courage to sleep afterwards. All I want is a fucking sandwich.

I'm the only survivor. The people around me are dead, everyone's dead, they just don't know it yet. I can smell it here, like marijuana and blood and vomit and nervous sweat all mixed together.

I'm still alive, and I'm alone, because I will not speak with the dead.

The music is loud on L2, always loud, so no one hears the screams. If you hear a scream, you turn your radio up. If you didn't have a radio on, you turn it on. If you hear the scream, it's yours. You own it. You owe that life. And I won't be responsible for the raped prostitute, the shanked young couple who got off on the wrong subway stop, the old wino beaten to death in the alley, until his blood runs in the gutter with his spilled whiskey in the paper bag. Glass sparkles there on the curb, like shattered amber gems.

We push against the weight of the world, the weight of you nameless enemies in your uniforms, with your parties where "murder" is a swear word and "civilian casualties" ain't exactly cocktail conversation. I'm not gonna go down easy.

I see the soldiers fall. Death looks so peaceful, when you're the one having to live in a gutter with holes in your shoes and a dead man's jacket across your shoulders. Some cold, tired part of me wants that. I want it. I'm going to have it, one way or another, so I may as well want it, anyway.

I'm going to fight to the end. I'll die with a snarl on my face, die with tears on my cheeks and my blood trickling into a drain in the street. I'll die struggling in a dark alleyway or an open road, where everyone can watch, and no one bothers to hide the eyes of the children anymore.

Either way, if I'm going to buy a ticket, I'm going to want company. I'll drag you down with me, if I can. Even in death, we orphans get a little lonesome.

I'm terrified. But I'm gonna fight anyway. I'll drag my feet and I'll curse the man at the helm, but I'll fight and I'll die and I hate war, but hell hath no fury like a pacifist fucked over and-speaking of which-bend over, you Ozzie assholes. You're about to get rammed by the best.

I'm dead and walking. But dying is for the living, they say. So give me that cancer stick, punk, and a swig of that fine hard liquor. What, you want to live forever?

I don't know who you are. I don't know who you're fighting for. I don't even know who I am, or who I'm fighting for. So why the fuck would I care who you are? If you're in my way, I'll gut you crop to crotch, and to hell with pacifism. Pacifism is another word for prey, and I'd rather be the tiger than whatever that sucker is munching on. Eat the world, baby.

You might be someone's brother, or their father. You might be their son. But now you're just another notch in my belt. I won't tell anyone if you beg or scream. Don't worry. Just don't give them names or faces. I don't want to know.

I know what it feels like to drive the switchblade home. I know what it feels like to overcome the last of a soldier's life with a quick twist that would sever his spinal cord like a piece of string. I can hear a man's vertebrae cracking against my arm. I never flinch.

Duo was right. Duo had always been right. Death was the best treatment for the beast. Just take him right off the fucking planet. God's work here on earth. Hallelujah.

OWARI

 

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