"Locical Progression"

Disclaimer: Shin Kidousenki New Mobile War Chronicle Gundam Wing is copyright Setsu Agency and Bandai Inc., and is not property of this writer. There are a few subtle references to the film "Meet Joe Black," as well, and I obviously don’t own that. Likewise, Meteora is the explicit property of Linkin Park and Warner Bros. Records. I take no credit for any of the talent that went into their songs, and I thank Mike Shinoda, Chester Bennington, and the rest of you guys for your inspiration. Your lyrics are genius.

Lol. As if I didn’t have enough people to keep at bay, I’m certain that the title track of this chapter is also in the compilation soundtrack of the recently-released "Matrix: Reloaded," which sucked, so sorry to whatever shitty film studio is raking in billions in revenue off of ticket sales to that let-down.

Pairing(s): 2x4x2, and then who knows?? (What? Switchblade, there’s no Trowa?? Calm, down. This is just the first chapter…)

Warning(s): A little bit’a bastardization in this chapter, but if I told you whose character was being slandered I’d have to kill you.

Rating: NC-17

Archive: www.wuffie.net Lmao.

Notes: I love the movie "Meet Joe Black." Brad Pitt’s portrayal of Death was actually touching, and I’m a guy saying that. Of course, I write gay fanfiction…

Review Raves: Heh. I’ve got ‘regulars,’ now!
Takaro: Hey, buddy! I promise I’m working on "Fight Club." Promise. Honest……
Rapsody: Thanks! Glad you like it. I’ll try to update as frequently as possible.
ShenLong: Hey, long time, no see! Yeah, man. I love Aussies. I think I was watching the "Crocodile Hunter" when I wrote Duo’s character sketch.
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Logical Progression
Chapter: II—Session

Another long day at the office for me, Quatre thought idly to himself as he climbed the thin metal stairs to his office. It was Saturday, but he had decided to leave Duo sleeping soundly in their oversized four-poster waterbed to retrieve a few files that he’d forgotten the night before.

The blonde winced slightly and blushed. His extracurricular activities from the previous night had taken a toll on him; Duo was a professional athlete, after all, and the braided menace could go for hours on end if Quatre was up to it.

The German youth sighed as he unlocked his office and pushed through the doors, only to stop, dead in his tracks, at what he found inside.

A young man, perhaps no older than twenty-five, was lounged vicariously in his high-backed desk chair, patent leather boots propped up on a corner of his bureau, and had Quatre not been so shocked at the audacity of his intrusion, he might have been appalled by the stranger’s ill-bred conduct.

"You must be Quatre Winner."

He had the richest tenor that the German had ever heard, more enchanting than even his lover’s, a subtle Western European accent coloring the sound. He was captivated, standing dumbly in the center of his dark, spacious office and feeling very awkward and out-of-place, a novel sensation for the blonde.

The young man at his desk slumped back further in the chair, his arms behind his head, though his presence wasn’t sloppy; it was simply rude. But there was an air about him that spoke of unearthly power and wisdom.

He looked up at the Winner heir from behind a jagged spike of red-brown hair, and, with a flick of one elegant wrist, he produced, he produced a standard black business card. "I have no name, but I suppose that ‘Joe Black’ will suffice."

Quatre stepped forward cautiously and took the proffered card from the finely-boned fingers, turning it over to read the embossed read lettering. It proclaimed, simply, "Joe Black," and under it in italics, "Death."

The blonde’s brow furrowed in a mixture of annoyance and apprehension. "Death?" he half-laughed, half-choked, an automatic reaction. He looked up to meet the cool, piercing countenance before him. "You—You can’t be serious?"

One thin auburn brow arched skyward in amusement, and the young man said quietly, "As a heart attack, Mr. Winner."

Quatre was captivated by the stranger’s cold emerald eyes, and he swallowed hard around the lump that was forming in his throat.

"Okay," he whispered, the complete gravity and authority in the intruder’s voice convincing Quatre that he should take his words very seriously. "Well, Mr., um, … Black… Why are you here?"

Joe Black held his gaze in an easy, commanding one of his own for a moment before taking his shoes down and standing to his full, intimidating height gracefully. He was dressed in dark slacks and a tie, even suspenders, and he had a very business-like aura about him.

"Well, to put it bluntly I’m here to inform you that you have exactly two weeks to get your affairs in order." He delivered these lines casually, even as he opened an oak box on the edge of Quatre’s enormous desk and removed a single cigar.

The shorter man blanched a shade lighter than his naturally pale, fair skin. "My ‘affairs’?" He scoffed, outraged at the stranger’s gall. "Mr. Black, if you are Death, aren’t you supposed to take me by surprise? You’re warning me!"

Joe nodded, pacing to the large floor-to-ceiling window which dominated the far wall of the office. He lifted the tobacco to his nose and inhaled lightly, appreciatively, the other slipping into the pocket of his pants.

"I’m well aware of how Death is portrayed in your media, but," he smirked here, "Rest assured; I’m not doing you any undue courtesy. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, tucking the cigar behind one ear to pluck at one sleeve of his immaculately pressed and starched white shirt, and Quatre noted dimly that the sleeves were cinched at the elbows with black bartender’s ties. "I’m only buying myself some time." He paused, shoving his hands into his pockets, once more. It seemed to be his only idle habit. "I like it here."

The German’s jaw set itself at an angle and he sighed. "All right, Mr. Black. Let’s suppose that, hypothetically, you are in fact who you claim to be…" He lifted his head in a small gesture of defiance, of questioning. "Why now? Why take me when I’m in the prime of my life? I’m days away from closing on the largest merger that Western business has ever seen, and now you pull my card?"

Death regarded him with his calculatedly impassive face. "Technically, if I take you in two weeks," he stated smoothly, and his double entendre brought a riot of color to the blonde’s cheeks, "then the prime of your life took place sometime before you hit puberty."

He turned back to the pane of inch-thick glass that looked out over the hustling New York City skyline, green eyes always moving. After a moment, he spoke. "A man said to the universe: ‘Sir, I exist!’ ‘However,’ replied the universe, ‘The fact has not created in me a sense of obligation.’"

Beautifully frozen emerald eyes gazed at him from across the immense office. "Mr. Winner, I kill hundreds, perhaps thousands of people every day." He stepped closer as he spoke. "While you’re groping for the snooze button on your alarm clock, there’s been an devastating earthquake in South America. As you sift through reports during your lunch break, there’s been a midair collision in the airspace over the Pacific. I take husbands, wives, sons, daughters. I steal unborn children from their mothers’ wombs and soldiers from their comrades."

"My sole purpose is to destroy that into which God breathes life." He was now no more than half a foot from his counterpart, and his eyes narrowed in distaste. "Do not seek pity where none is capable of being harbored, Mr. Winner."

Quatre looked over the young man before him silently, his lean build, tall and willowy, his auburn-red hair, and he frowned.

The CEO wasn’t contemplating his impending nonexistence, or the ethereal circumstances surrounding his morning, or even the arrogant, condescending sarcasm that dripped like venom from the other man’s every word. He was pondering over the being standing in front of him, framed in early-morning sunlight. How can someone so young carry such a grim responsibility?

"I’m not as young as you’d think," Joe retorted, turning to face the blonde directly. "I’ve seen things on our timeline that Jules Verne himself couldn’t fathom. I’m as old as Creation, as Eden itself."

The German gaped. He’s good-looking and psychic?

Death acknowledged him, his thin lips curving an amused, dazzling smile. "’Good-looking,’ hm? Now, won’t Mr. Maxwell be jealous…"

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TBC.
Lyrics:
"Session"
<none> Ha, ha! It’s an instrumental piece! Just to add more mystery to Tro—I mean, ‘Joe Black.’ J

Lmao. And I need to give credit where it is due. Death’s line about the universe is actually section twenty-one of Stephen Crane’s War Is Kind poetry collection. It’s full of irony, sarcasm, and naturalism, as is apparent from the title:
"A man said to the universe: ‘Sir, I exist!’ ‘However,’ replied the universe, ‘The fact has not created in me a sense of obligation.’"

Chapter 3

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