|
" Mind Games"Written By: Karen The Huntress Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its
characters Rating: R Warnings: Language Pairings: 1x2x1 Summary: Songfic based on Hotel California by
the Eagles " Mind Games "
****** On a dark desert highway. Cool wind in my hair. Warm smell of colitis rising through the air. Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light. My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim, I had to stop for the night. ******
Space is perpetual night. An ebony infinity where pinpoints of starlight are the only assurances I haven't succumbed to blindness.
Space is utter silence. An encompassing hush where a gasp or a whisper can be deafening.
Most merciless of all—space is absolute cold. An invisible glacial current seeps into the cockpit and bleeds through my enviro suit to numb body and mind.
In this solitary soundless vacuum my only respite from winter is humid breaths sighing inside my helmet. Control panel arrays, the only reprieve from monotonous gray.
Power level indicators glow red. Vid-screens cast pale blue auras. Green system check lights blink in cadence with Wing Gundam Zero's pulse.
Adrift on this cosmic highway no footprints mark my passing. On this trajectory to nowhere no signal points a path and no one bears witness to my reclusive existence.
"Am I lost forever?"
Wing disregards the speculative query or, perhaps, the white-winged titian is also ignorant of the answer.
In the distance, nestled among stars studded like lustrous pearls on the inky fabric of space, a peculiar shimmer suggests I may not be alone.
Head heavy. Bones weary. Eyesight dim from staring into endless gloom. Forsaken I entreat the guidance of fallen warriors and set course to my destiny.
****** There he stood in the doorway. Thought I heard the mission bell. And I was thinking to myself this could be Heaven or this could be Hell. He lit up a candle and showed me the way. There were voices down the corridor. I thought I heard them say. Welcome to the Hotel California, such a lovely place, such a lovely face. Plenty of room at the Hotel California, any time of year, you can find us here. ******
I have no memory of this journey veiled in darkness. Much like my amnesic flight the vast expanse of sand and sagebrush resembles a surreal dreamscape rather than a factual location.
Ahead a house cocooned in russet plaster and roofed in terra cotta tiles looms against the moonless sky. Arched windows, armored in dusty panes, divulge no secrets. Yet, opposite the secrecy, an opened sun-bleached door emits pale amber radiances.
Above the glowing portal a scarlet lantern, contrary to the promise of divine sanctuary, puts me in mind of an infernal brothel.
Dull clangs from an unseen bell counts out the midnight hour. A lone figure suffused in scarlet light summons with enigmatic curiosity.
I have no reason to trust this anonymous apparition most likely spawned from sensory deprivation even so, eager to escape utter isolation, desperation compels me to take each fateful step.
Face to face I discover a man clad entirely in black. Indeed flesh and bone. Slender physique. Flawless skin. Graceful cheekbones. Silver hoops adorn both earlobes.
Eyes the oddest shade of violet gaze into my soul. "I'm Duo." is underscored with the elusiveness of breezes rustling fox grass.
"Heero." I reply, but volunteer no surname should the stranger be a spy or enemy agent.
Without further words Duo puts fire to a candle wick. A nod bades me to follow. Not heeding soldier instincts, overruling common sense or because prudence wouldn't decipher the riddle, I copy his pace to an uncertain destination.
Long chestnut braid, infused with cinnamon highlights, swishing across firm buttocks offers additional enticement to disregard the probability of danger.
****** His mind is Tiffany-twisted. He's got the Mercedes Benz. He's got a lot of pretty, pretty boys he calls friends. How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat. Some dance to remember. Some dance to forget. ******
Phantasmal shadows flutter like roguish butterflies newly emerged from metamorphic cocoons. Restless spirits hiss from every crack and crevice. Behind nocturnal gloom devours the murky corridor.
Diffused glow.
Duo blows out the candle, steps into a spacious courtyard illuminated by torches. Stucco walls, so high it is impossible see beyond the solid boundaries, ensures seclusion.
In the center a circular three-tiered fountain, decorated with glazed tiles in variegated hues of indigo and aquamarine, spews water that pools on each level before cascading over scalloped edges.
White marble benches circle the fountain in measured placements. Large earthenware pots contain aromatic lavender. Japanese cherry trees speckle white clover grass.
Intermingled amidst pots and plants, three young men seem oblivious to the newly arrived visitor.
Long brown bangs partly obscures emerald eyes. The tallest of the trio is dressed in sliver gray trousers, matching tunic and soft leather boots. Lean legs transports as he meanders amongst countless bundles of smoldering sandalwood incense.
Coaxed by nimble fingers his flute crafts elusive melodies ruled by artistic whims with no regards to rhythm or tempo. Never missing a note his head tilts to watch a second male.
Fair, blond, attired in an azure silk robe that scarcely covers his nakedness, the dancer flaunts contempt for modesty.
As if entranced by the siren song, half closed eyes tease with a hint of blue. Slippage of slick fabric expose pink nipples. Levitating hem grants glimpses of erect genitalia. Arms sway like willows stroked by the wind. Toes touch so lightly he appears to float.
Lastly, slanted onyx eyes and shoulder length raven hair distinguishes the third man. Barefoot and shirtless, black hakama pants cinched with a wide crimson sash is his choice of clothing.
The Asian neither makes music nor engages in mesmerized dancing, instead, he practices the deadly art of the dragon kiss.
Exceptional muscle control demonstrates the strength of a tiger. Supple limbs move with the grace of a crane. Powerful punches aimed at invisible opponents strike with cobra swiftness and soaring kicks mimic swallows in flight.
Side by side Duo and I observe the flutist and dancer and fighter through an intoxicating incense haze that blurs the past, clouds the future and causes me to wonder if remembering and forgetting are warped reality doppelgangers.
****** So I called for the Captain, "Please bring me my wine." He said, "We haven't had that vintage here since nineteen sixty nine." Still those voices are calling from far away; wake you up in the middle of the night just to hear them say. Welcome to the Hotel California, such a lovely place, such a lovely face. They livin' it up at the Hotel California, what a nice surprise, bring your alibis. ******
Drawn tight. Burgundy velvet drapes ward off sunlight and conceal clandestine rendezvous. To temper perpetual twilight dozens of haphazardly arranged candles illumine mahogany paneled walls.
A solid walnut bed, swathed in satin sheets and eiderdown coverlet, dominates the inner sanctum. Medieval scenes etched in the headboard depict hunters, horses and hounds.
"The valet de chambre failed to refill the wine." Duo states crossly. He raises the empty Waterford Crystal carafe to eye level. "I suppose that vintage has been depleted."
Despite tangible evidence of sight, sound, smell and touch I fully expect the bedroom to evaporate into candle smoke and the beguiling courtyard trio to disintegrate into dust.
Now faced with the possibility nothing is real I'm prompted to doubt my own corporality. Am I a figment of imagination? An illusion of light and shadows?
Perhaps a hollow-eyed corpse with mummified skin entombed in Wing Zero's cockpit? Fingers curled in rigor mortis grips around unresponsive controls. Final breaths frozen on ashen lips.
****** System failure lights blink urgently. White noise static crackles over the open com link. Monitors return blank stares. Defective electrical circuits belch gray smoke which guarantees asphyxiation if air exchange units fail to filter acidic vapors.
Direct hit.
Cockpit shudders.
****** Mirrors on the ceiling, pink champagne on ice. We are all just prisoners of our own device And in the master's chamber they gather for the feast, They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast. ******
Manic abandonment. Mantras of moans. Kiss. Stroke. Suck. In the throes of unbridled passion they copulate, alas, the beasts of anguished memories and tragic mistakes can never be slain.
Transfixed I don't realize Duo is also naked and aroused. A wave of his hand. My clothes slither away.
Taking advantage of my shock, Duo slips his arms around my waist. Ignoring protests, he crushes our bodies together and assaults my lips with a bruising kiss.
Less than a heartbeat the surreptitious masquerade is undone. Human guise dissolves. Massive black wings unfurl to encase me in an eternal embrace.
Surrender.
Duo whispers huskily. "Welcome home."
****** Last thing I remember, I was running for the door, I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. "Relax." said the night man, "We are programmed to receive. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave." ******
Swarms of Mobile Dolls bank in a high arc, pause momentarily to savor the kill then swoop down for our final danse macabre.
Flashes of blinding light.
Deluge of images.
Data streams.
Statistical possibilities.
Tactical options.
Breaths seize in lungs.
Heart hammers.
Convulsive twitching wracks the body.
Hallucinatory mirages splinter the mind.
Too much.
Too fast.
Blessed oblivion.
"SHUT THE DAMN THING OFF!" Duo screams.
He shoves the supervising technician aside, slams his fist down on the Zero System emergency shutdown.
Immediately Duo is beside his counterpart. A nanosecond more the hellish helmet is disconnected and removed.
Not bothering to hide his concern, "Heero." is called tensely.
No response.
Duo raises his voice. "01 can you hear me?"
Low groan. Eyes open, regain a measure of focus.
Barely audible sigh. "What happened?" struggles through a raspy throat.
"It's okay." Duo reassures. "Can you stand?"
"Yeah."
A sturdy attack of vertigo mounts exasperating opposition. Ultimately standing up is accomplished by Duo wrapping an arm around Heero's waist and shoring him up until rubbery legs decide to cooperate.
"Goin' back to our quarters." Duo declares defiantly.
"Stop!" Doctor J. rushes from an observation area into the glass enclosed control room. "The training exercise hasn't been completed."
Duo aims a fierce glare at the devious scientist. An enraged growl emphasizes the seriousness of his warning. "Touch him, old man, and I'll banish your depraved soul straight to Hell."
****** Duo deadbolts the door against unwanted intrusions. G30 Glock dissuades anyone foolish enough to insist they return to the research lab.
Heero yields to exhaustion. "Want to sleep."
Every inch of clothing is damp and sticky. With Duo's help Heero strips and slips naked between thin sheets.
Duo scoots a metal chair next to the bed and takes Heero's hand. "Don't worry 'bout J. nosin' around. That fuckin' bastard won't bother you on my watch."
Heero gazes at his lover. Stray stands of reddish brown hair, backlit by the bedside lamp, fashions a scarlet halo that's definitely out of character for the God of Death.
Before the Sandman issues a command to sleep Heero expresses his gratitude, "Thank you for finding me."
Intuitively Duo understands the odd statement. "You're welcome." ****** Transformation.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of Heero's psyche, within the last intact fragments not breached by the Zero System, a transmogrified hybrid of mind and spirit bursts to life.
Subliminal candlelight flickers. Flute plays haunting refrains.
Shinigami and Perfect Soldier—Death and Vengeance—unite forever.
Senses enhanced. Feral disposition unleashed. Heero throws down the gauntlet.
Let the mind games begin.
OWARI
Mind Games—Karen Hickman—August 2017
Chapter |
