My specially designed program is already finished with the calculations, and I skim the results, registering the sounds on my left; Duo is dressing himself. All in black- he has to break in tonight. He rolls up his braid against his neck, pinning it down so the long rope of hair won’t bother him in his work. I never suggest to him to have it cut- I’m positive he’d kill me for the mere suggestion. His hair is not a token of vanity. It’s a symbol of everything he lost. I remember that in the first months that I knew him, I actually regarded him as some lightweight clown with a hair fetish. I couldn’t believe back then that his hair wouldn’t be nothing but a liability. I carefully brushed aside how he managed to save me from the hospital, not only showing quite the nerve, but improvisation and courage as well. Did I love him from the moment I saw him? No, he shot me the very second he laid eyes upon me- it’s still good for some inside jokes between the five of us. When was the first moment I fell in love with him? I don’t know. I can’t recall the moment I started to love him, if there could ever be a moment where you consciously are aware that you just have fallen in love with someone. I do know the moment that I realized that I cared so much for Duo that I didn’t want anything to happen to him. I guess that was my moment of love.. my moment when I didn’t want my Shinigami to go. I stare at the screen. It’s been a long time since I thought about Duo as Shinigami.. because he doesn’t like the reference. Does it remind him too much of the Gundam he sent to the sun to be destroyed, or does it remind him too much of the lives he’s taken? Or does it.. remind him too much of the person he could’ve become?
We’re both murderers. We’ve killed in the name of peace, and we got rid of our instruments to bring peace. We work behind the scenes, on the sidelines. We still are murderers- because if any one of us gets in danger, we don’t hesitate to eliminate the threat. Is that why we do this work? Because we know how to kill, and don’t have a problem with it?
I look to my side, watching Duo dress himself. I don’t need to catch the faint flicker of the knives to know that he’s hiding them on his body. Duo’s danger himself- living danger. The living God of Death, as he once claimed the name Shinigami to be his own, in a war where millions of voices were crying out for him to bring relief.
It’s not fair. “Life’s a bitch and then you die…”, one of Duo’s other favorite expressions. He’s not pessimistic, my Duo. He’ll always see the positive side of things, but he’s got this natural, maybe innate, sarcastic and slightly distrusting streak in him. He’s concentrating on getting dressed- his clothes fit snugly, his outfit is clinging to his body.
What is it that made us who we are today? Would we be different without the war? Would we be different growing up without the Gundams? I guess so- without the war, I probably would have parents like any other normal kid, and I would go to school and make friends and hold a birthday party every year.
If the war made us into the persons we are today, I don’t think I can blame it. Wars are started by people, nameless people, and can be ended by other nameless people, as long as the masses are big enough to put a collective halt to it. It’s people like me and Duo who are caught in between- establishing peace, maintaining peace, but killing and eliminating those who are threatening that peace. Are we bad?
“Earth to Heero Yuy,” he laughs right in my face.
“Sorry about that,” I say and receive a kiss on my nose.
“It’s all right,” he mumbles. “Is it time yet?”
“Another two hours before the dinner starts,” I answer. The program is analyzing the footage from the cameras, processing image after image. More guests are arriving, obtrusive paparazzi are trying to get in, bodyguards and security guards are trying to keep everybody calm and in order.
“Throw a charity ball, perfect distraction,” Duo mumbles, brushing his chestnut bangs across my cheek. I faintly smile. “Especially when you invite some celebrities and politicians.”
“Aren’t they going to hold a debate as well?”
“There are multiple activities, all broadcasted live. Even an auction, I believe. Remember that they want to raise 10 million in one night.”
“What did you find out?”
It takes me a second to realize that he’s referring to the camera program, and I pull up the list of results. “According to the calculations, the most activity concentrates on here.. the east wing.”
“Masterson’s study.”
“Someone passes the study every fifteen minutes, and Masterson himself was there yesterday evening. The image is too static to see the password he enters in the computer, but that’s not important.” I hold up the small modem.
He takes it, hiding it on his body in one of the impressive number of pockets. “I need you to hook it up so I can download the information.”
“Understood. East wing, top floor.”
“Second room on the left at the end,” I add. He nods, reaching with his hand behind his head, as if to reassure himself his hair is still tied up. I type commands, my fingers flying over the keyboard. With the earlier taped footage I replace the view of the cameras on the aforementioned location, my program automatically changing the timestamp in the lower right corner to the current time.
“Still in the air?” Duo sounds amused. I point at the screen.
“They see what I want them to see.”
“All right, time to go.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
He looks at me with a slightly bewildered look on his face. “Forgetting? No, why?”
I hold up a headset. “I’m your eyes and ears, in a manner of speaking. I want to at least warn you when something goes wrong.”
There’s a slight flicker of irritation on his face. Duo doesn’t like to wear wires, headsets or anything similar for that matter; I don’t know the exact reason, but he once mentioned that ‘it hindered him in doing his work’. I shrugged it off that time, because I really didn’t understand how a light-weight, hardly noticeable piece of equipment could’ve hindered him in his work, while its purpose was invaluable.
He accepts it without further hassling, and I’m thankful for that. Duo’s tongue works many ways, and I’d rather not be the recipient of a scathing remark, nor a heated discussion. He puts the transmitter behind his ear, and the small translucent microphone reaches halfway across the cheek; it’s strong enough to catch any pronounced sound.
“Test, test, one big fat lady in the woods,” he taps on the microphone. I wince at the other end.
“Loud and clear. Don’t tap on the microphone, Duo.”
The grin I receive is rather mischievous, and I turn my head around, waiting for a kiss on my cheek. He always kisses me before he goes away on a mission. My eyes turn huge when I realize he’s already through the window; I don’t know whether to feel extremely hurt from not getting a kiss or to feel highly irritated because he demonstrates once again that he’s silent and fucking fast like a shadow. I think I know him, my Duo; but he keeps demonstrating me that I really don’t.
There’s nothing else for me to do but to keep an eye on the cameras. The most vital ones - on the top floor, close to the study- are displaying the images I want to see, while I look at the actual footage. The men in the camera room are seeing what I want them to see; I have control over the expensive equipment and what they see. They’ve been fooled- and we can do what we want. I watch the surroundings, keeping an eye out for Duo. The mission is on a timer; the clock is ticking. He has to reach the study within twenty minutes; we’ve calculated that much for his walk over the roof and finding the exact room. I see movement in the upper picture of the screen; the fifteen-minutes patrol, exactly on time. It makes me wonder why Masterson has arranged for such a patrol anyway- is he really that afraid that his guests are snooping around? Why bother with all this charade- with high exposure comes much suspicion. Quatre mentioned that the man uses his philanthropic attitude to make contacts, to work his way up; and any man with powerful friends is a dangerous man. If Masterson is abusing his position, if he’s blackmailing his celebrity friends or bribing his way into the ESUN, I’ll find it. His computer is the key in this mission; if he has any dirty files, I’ll find them.
I hear nothing but silence. Contact is limited to the extreme minimum, but Duo knows how I appreciate a “I’m in” or a “I’m there”. I want to know if he’s already there- the timer is almost at its twenty minutes.
“I’m in.”
I refrain from heaving a relieved sigh; it’ll only piss him off, as if I doubt his abilities. Sometimes he can react so... childishly on a perfect natural reaction. I lower my voice.
“Proceed.”
My eyes glue to the camera in the study, flicking every nanosecond to the surrounding cameras. Any movement and I’ll pick it up. The adrenaline is giving me a boost, even though I’m the spectator now, and not the participant. There’s a faint light; Duo is shining his small flashlight around, examining the room.
“No visible alarm system. Switching over to infrared.”
Another flicker of light, for only a matter of seconds. “Nothing to see.”
I bite back my “Be careful”. There’s a patrol every fifteen minutes, and no inside security? Duo knows as well as I do that it’s a very strange situation, and I see him checking the interior of the study. We don’t have all the time in the world and I spur him on.
“Install the modem and get out.”
I don’t receive an answer, but I see him moving. He’s hardly noticeable; black against black, a shadow in an already dim room. The camera loses sight of him as he ducks behind the large desk and with my eyes half on the footage, I pull up another one of my special programs- it scans telephone calls, from landlines as well as cell phones, and when entering keywords, it’ll pick up any conversation containing those keywords. I quickly type the commands. If anyone uses the words “east wing’ ‘study’ ‘noise’ in the same sentence, I’ll know it.
“Rock on,” Duo says, his voice crystal clear through the microphone. My laptop beeps at the same time- connection with the computer established. Excellent, now I can get to work.
“Return,” is my simple command and just as I’m about to concentrate on hacking my way into Masterson’s computer, I detect movement close to the study. One of the outer cameras is picking up someone approaching the study- is it the fifteen-minutes patrol? A quick look on the timer tells me otherwise; not even seven minutes have past. Duo has installed the modem and turned on the main computer in under five minutes.
“Get the fuck out of there!” My voice is too loud and he’ll probably tear me a new one for it, but now, right now, I want him to get out of there. Duo can take care of himself -he can take care of himself extremely well-, but I can’t help but feeling.. protective, upset that I’m not around, that I’m not by his side. I remind myself firmly to get a grip; I don’t need to hold his hand, he doesn’t want me to hold his hand. Not in active missions. He knows what to do.
I watch the camera, but I can’t see Duo and I feel the fear dying down. He’s already out of the window and up on the roof, returning safely to me.
The door from the study is opened, and a man enters. It’s not Masterson -probably too occupied with his fund-raising event- but a rather burly person. The servant? The image is too unclear to make out his features, and I don’t care as Duo is…. I gasp out loud. Duo’s still in the study! I want to yell- what’s he doing? Doesn’t he see the man? Why is he hiding? Why didn’t he go out of the window as soon as I told him to? It doesn’t help much that I lose image the next second, and the little picture goes black.
My training -yes, again with the training- kicks in the next second. Mission priorities come first, so I work fast to hack Masterson’s computer; the password is cracked in a minute and the files roll over my screen, copying every single one to my hard disk. Saving and securing retrieved data is the next priority; I attach the memory cable so the files copy themselves another time. Next step is to get the hell out of here; one of us has to get out of here alive to make sure the mission is successful. My mind works at top speed: pack the most important gear and haul my ass out of here. It’s not that I’m expecting the worst; Duo can defend himself and if he’s been overpowered, I can always rescue him later, no matter what. I close the suitcase with his equipment, zipping it up. Clothes and toiletries aren’t important in the heat of the moment, salvage things belonging to the mission and in support of the mission. My laptop is still copying, almost rattling from all the hard work. It has plenty of memory to do the multiple copying of the files and running the programs I’ve pulled up. It indicates that there’s still some 60% of files remaining to be copied. What kind of shit does that man have on his computer? I slap myself mentally. Stay calm. I close my suitcase, after locking and loading my handgun. The microphone’s silent and I don’t dare to talk; who knows in what kind of predicament Duo is, and me calling out his name wouldn’t be the smartest of ideas. I’m hardly aware that my mind’s already working on rescue plans even as I turn around to focus my attention on my laptop, when there’s Duo, standing right behind me.
“Jesus Christ!” Now it’s my turn to be scared out of my wits; this is an ‘excellent’ occasion to give someone a heart attack. “Duo!”
I don’t know whether to maul or to hug him. “What the fuck happened?”
“Nothing.” He stares back at me rather blankly, clearly not understanding my worked-up behavior. “What’s the matter?”
“Didn’t you see that guy? He was standing in front of you!”
“He was not,” Duo makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I saw him, but he didn’t see me. You warned me early enough.”
I look at my laptop screen, as if expecting the man still to be in the study. “He didn’t see you?”
“I took refuge behind the 16th century divan,” Duo snickers. “That thing was massive enough to hide an army behind. I told you I’ve been talking to his interior decorator- I knew exactly where to hide.”
Before I can say anything in return, he looks around the room, with that amused, smug grin on his face. “Ready to bolt?”
“What are you talking about? Of course! As soon as the laptop’s finished, we’re out of here!”
“Always the mission first, right?” Duo reaches behind his head, untying his rolled up braid, freeing his hair.
“What?” is my instinctive response.
“If we’re leaving now, isn’t that more suspicious? Quatre Raberba Winner’s trusted assistants, fleeing in the middle of the night?”
“There are plenty of guests arriving and leaving,” I point out, not really knowing how to respond to this... vehemence in his voice. “We can always claim we had to catch a late flight. Gatwick is an hour away from here, and it’s not that long after midnight..”
“Nothing happened, the guard didn’t see me. What’s the fucking problem? I’m going to take a shower and then it’s naptime for me.”
My mouth falls open. “Duo!”
“What?”
“We have to leave,” I insist. “That guard came after you touched the computer to install the modem and fire it up. There must’ve been something installed to alert an extra guard when the computer was touched by someone else but Masterson.”
“The guard didn’t see me,” he repeats, sounding more irritated with every word, “and he certainly did not check the computer. He quickly flashed his flashlight around and left. I’m not leaving. As a matter of fact... scratch going to bed, I want to see the fireworks and see if there’s a celebrity I can dance with.”
He’s in the shower and running the water before I can come up with a retort to that. Me, knowing Duo, and him, showing me everyday that I don’t? Now he has just shown me that probably no one will ever know him.
My laptop indicates that all the files have been copied. I close off the program and yank out the memory stick. I’m irritated and bothered by Duo’s behavior, and I hardly notice my movements being even brusquer than ever. I close off the laptop, secure it with the necessary passwords before doing so, and I place it back in the suitcase, closing it as well. I still want to leave, but it’s not really practicable if I leave and Duo stays behind. He’s adamant about the guard not having seen him. I of course want to believe him, I always believe him, but I still want to leave. We’ve tampered with the camera footage, we’ve tampered with Masterson’s computer that obviously set off some kind of alarm, and we left ‘marks’ behind; the modem, the little spider in the camera network. I’m not exactly worried about that since I’ve designed my inventions to become useless after services rendered. They will malfunction after two days. Long enough to do their work, short enough to not give anyone any clue what they’ve been doing and who would’ve placed them there. The surface is too smooth to leave imprints on. Lady Une offered me a fulltime job in designing more of those gadgets, but I politely refused. I’m not the one to sit behind a drawing board and think all day about new equipment. When I’m in the field, I think up my own gear, knowing its applications and its uses. The ideas come to me, instead of sitting on my ass and thinking about them.
It’s best to go with Duo’s plan; I wouldn’t be able to get him off this idea anyway. I put on my fancy suit, hiding the memory stick. I originally intended to give Quatre a written report about the files, not to give him the copied ones, but because of the potential involvement of the ESUN, I think it’s for the best if he receives the files immediately. Duo wants to go to the charity ball, and if he’s really convinced that nothing’s the matter… well, let’s say we’ve worked our way out of more difficult situations. I put the gun back in its secured compartment; no reason to cause a commotion.
“I’m in the mood for daaancing!” He sings, his voice not really fitted for it; I cringe, but don’t comment. Duo has different ways of reacting to the adrenaline of a mission. He either completely explodes with energy -like now, as he wants to dance and have fun, even though I don’t like to be so close to the source-, or he turns silent. It’s those extremes that make up Duo, and his personality. He’s not unbalanced; nine out of ten days, Duo is just Duo, doing his job, responding, commenting, laughing, having something to drink, just living. It’s just that sometimes his reactions go a little to the extreme, with nothing in between; that’s something that defines a lot of his personality, I guess.
He bustles out of the shower, a towel clinging to his hips. He winks at me, full of an outrageous enthusiasm. It’s hard to not get caught by his contagious, vibrant way of life. He doesn’t need long to dress himself, changing into the suit, making him look even more irresistible. His hair is again in its braid, not exactly dry, and the droplets still in the chestnut mass give it a strange, almost silvery shine.
Our room looks tidy with the suitcases closed and neatly pushed aside; no scattered clothes or personal belongings lying around. We can leave within a matter of seconds. In and out, like moving shadows. We’ve never been here, and the people who do remember us, won’t remember enough to pin us down.
I feel his arms around my shoulders and his warm lips against my cheek. It reminds me of the forgotten kiss before he left for his mission, and I turn my head a little. He uses that to his advantage to kiss the exposed skin, nipping exactly on my jawbone.
“Duo,” I grumble.
“Yes?” His voice is nothing but a whisper, a husky, low whisper. A dangerous whisper.
“We should really leave.”
“Everything’s all right,” he answers, lips so close to my ear. “If we leave now, it might arouse suspicion when the two assistants of Quatre Winner leave in the middle of the night.”
“Nonsense,” I firmly say, not about to budge. “We’re finished here, literally- Quatre’s held his speech and there’s no reason for us to stay here.”
“No reason but to dance and mingle with the guests and have some... fun.” He stresses the last word, almost blowing it into my ear. I still don’t want to give in. It’s just not sitting right with me. His casual behavior concerning that guard in Masterson’s study irks me. I can’t stand it that he sometimes refuses to see the danger, his own needs or wants more important to him than the mission.
“Com’on, let’s see how Quatre’s doing,” Duo uses his normal, louder voice again and pulls away from me, though not removing his arms around my shoulders. “He’s probably dying to be rescued from whining politicians and yakking ass-kissers.”
“Fine,” I finally submit. “But at the first sign of trouble...”
“There’ll be no trouble,” Duo interrupts me and slides his hands from my shoulders, over my arms, reaching for my hands. “Give the memory stick to Quatre and then the night is ours.”
“Fine,” I repeat, not really sure if he hears me; his smile is bright enough to blind me and he launches into an enthusiastic babble about the ball.
We leave the room, with me throwing a last look over my shoulder before closing the door; everything looks perfectly in order. If needs be, we can be out of here within the minute. I shouldn’t be so tense. Duo says that everything’s all right... so why do I have this strange, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach?
To say that Masterson has outdone himself isn’t really an exaggeration. To say that the hypocrisy displayed with this ball is ironic in the bitterest sense of the word isn’t an exaggeration either.
Who in his right mind hosts a charity ball that obviously costs millions to organize, to raise funds for war victims? Why even bother with the whole charade, and why not donate to the funds directly? I shake my head while the thick carpet muffles my every footstep. The direction the music is coming from is unmistakable. I don’t pay attention to the luxurious flower arrangements and the crystal chandeliers tingling in the soft wind from the gold leaf ceiling fans. Duo looks excited and he doesn’t mind exposure, unlike me. He doesn’t mind the charade this ball really is either, submerging himself in this night of glitter and glamour regardless- who am I to deny him this? Two butlers open the large doors to the ballroom for us, and a few other guests walking with us as well. I recognize the male of a couple; he’s a prolific politician dealing with environmental issues. He once got into this huge scandal because he had the audacity to call the colonies ‘clutter in outer space’. He was promptly demoted, as far as I can recall- but he’s apparently still worthy enough to appear on Masterson’s guest list. No one is asking for invitations after this point and we mingle with the crowd. Lots of television cameras, one popular talk show host flailing wildly with his arms, all around happiness and excitement because of the 8.3 million already raised. I tune out his loud talk and encouragements for people to donate more or to bid more on the auctioned celebrity items. Duo tugs at my hand, spotting Quatre’s blonde head immediately.
He’s surrounded by well-dressed men, their costumes screaming their fancy and expensive designer’s names at me. The topic is politics, of course, though the tone of the conversation is amiable and light. These people have come here to network, not to pick a fight. I don’t know what they’re hoping to attain by bothering Quatre. If it’s to ‘be seen with him’, they sure do a lousy job of getting on his good side.
I push a little, not to be deterred, as Duo clears a path through the crowd. “Quatre! Heey, I thought you already left!”
Quatre looks relieved to see us, more because we’re familiar faces and not out to get something from him. We don’t have a hidden agenda. I ignore the slightly irritated and frowning faces. Not everybody is on ‘first name’ terms with Quatre Raberba Winner, one of the most promising politicians and personal friend to Relena Peacecraft.
“I thought you had already left!” He laughs, the strain hardly noticeable but to us. “I missed you this afternoon.”
“There was a problem with the report, but we fixed it and everything’s all right now. It took us longer than expected,” Duo tells him, voice confident and strong. “The laptop crashed and we had troubles recovering the hard disk.”
“All the data is gone?” Quatre asks with a horrified look on his face, for a moment thinking that the mission has been unsuccessful. His comment elicits some mumbling from the people surrounding him, quickly picking up on the ‘unfortunate mishaps with a computer’ subject. I shake my head.
“Everything has been recovered, everything to the last file. I have a back-up.”
“Excellent,” he answers, the relief very much real. He extends his hand to me. “Thank you very much for your troubles. If it weren’t for your fast intervention, a lot of work would’ve been lost.”
“No problem,” I answer him, shaking his hand. The memory stick is exchanged in mere seconds, and nobody knows it, even though it takes place under their very noses. He releases my hand, smiling his usual smile. I pull back my hand, empty. Nothing to see, nothing happened- the security cameras that are bound to pick these images up, will be showing nothing but friends shaking hands, thanking each other for the cooperation.
“Mister Winner,” one of the guests tries to get his attention. “About your speech this afternoon...”
“Have fun,” Duo grins. He makes eye contact with Quatre, asking soundlessly if he needs to be rescued from the people around him. His reaction is again hardly noticeable, just like we learned in our training. We can hold conversations with merely a blink of our eyes. It all depends how you blink, and we can tell enough from the body language the other displays.
“Enjoy the ball,” Quatre says, an extra confirmation that everything is all right. Duo nods, turning around to leave the crowd behind him. The raised funds are now at nine and a half million, and the orchestra’s playing the first tones of a tango.
Duo knows I’m not a dancer, so he doesn’t ask me to dance. He looks around, spotting the large buffet and walks towards it. I don’t mind much. If Duo enjoys the evening, I enjoy the evening. Suddenly, I notice Masterson and his wife; surrounded by as many fake ass kissers as Quatre. They wallow in the attention he receives, hoping to get a crumb from the table of the rich and famous, or in this case the philanthropist with his beautiful young wife. It’s like a pack of wolves preying on two deer. Masterson may think he’s invulnerable, he may think he’s popular and top of the bill right now, but he doesn’t know about the axe that’s about to be sharpened and dropped on his neck. What would be left of this tall man after it’s been decided that he’s guilty of bribery and blackmail? He brought it upon himself, my cold conclusion would be. Aren’t we all responsible for our own actions… or are we driven by circumstances? No matter what, there’s always a choice- always. But what if the two choices were horrible and even more horrible on their own, what would be left to choose? The lesser of two evils, of course. There’s always a price to pay. Always.
-----------------
We leave the mansion at the crack of dawn, Duo yawning, but wide awake. We wait for the attendant -it’s not the servant who ‘welcomed’ us before- to get our car, and it’s a little cold outside. Duo wears that typical smile of his; like a child who’s been indulged with a beautiful gift for Christmas. He enjoyed the ball very much, even danced with a few celebrities, and ate lobster for the first time in his life. Undoubtedly, the memories of the night are being replayed in his mind. He has an extremely vivid mind- and a photographic memory. I’ve a knack for remembering names, facts, and dates- he’s the one who supplies the accompanying picture. Duo wears a black scarf around his neck, his lips are hidden behind it, and the large bangs hide his eyes from view. He’s really cold, and he hates the cold. We’ll be in a warm car soon. Our flight from Gatwick awaits us.
“Your car, sir,” the attendant catches my attention and hands me the keys. I thank him, walking towards the back of the car to open the trunk.
“Did you enjoy the ball, sir?”
“Very much,” I answer truthfully. Duo has enjoyed himself, and that was all the entertainment I needed. To see his eyes shine, to see him smile, to see him swing and dance in that suit, just simply enjoying the spur of the moment. I really hadn’t needed to worry about last evening; nothing happened, our own calm departure the most evident proof.
“The total came to thirteen million,” the attendant tells me, and it takes me a few seconds to realize he’s talking about the fundraising.
“That’s an excellent grand total,” I say, not really in the mood for superficial chitchat. Duo helps me loading the two suitcases, the laptop case and a smaller bag into the trunk, I close it and we both walk to our respective side of the car. I tip the attendant, who thanks me profusely.
Duo snuggles into the passenger’s seat, tucking the seatbelt around him as if it’s a blanket. It’s an hour drive, and nothing complicated.
“What are you thinking of?” I ask.
He snorts, softly. “Do you know what I’m thinking of?”
“That’s what I asked.”
“I’m thinking of the fucking lobster,” he answers me and laughs. “I can’t get over the fact that I ate lobster last night.”
“Duo... you didn’t have it easy,” I chide him gently. “And what you witnessed yesterday was the summit of decadence and hypocrisy.”
“Fuckers,” he mumbles, but I overhear it. He looks out of the window. “I could’ve fed them for a year from what was on that table alone.”
I know to whom he refers- the gang of kids he was a member of, war orphans on the street of L2. They vowed to look after each other, to take care of each other, forming the base of Duo’s need to belong to a group in his early youth: you look after me, I look after you. A terrible plague put an end to their vows and Duo has probably buried more lives in that time than I in my whole life. He doesn’t talk about it that much; it’s rare references like these that act as pieces of a jigsaw puzzle; little pieces of information that I crave to form the bigger picture of Duo’s past. Who am I to ask about it? Who am I to pry? Who am I to judge, me, who doesn’t even want to share his own biggest nightmare?
The signs to Gatwick are racing past each other up faster and faster, leaving Eastbourne and its grain fields behind us. Duo doesn’t like to drive on the left side of the road, and seeing as how I don’t have a problem with it, I do the driving. My mind is already processing a complete schedule; return the rented car, take the flight, work on the reports, brief Lady Une… and if there’s time left, check the footage I captured from the camera in Masterson’s study. I cast a sideward glance. Duo’s not asleep, but yawning nonetheless. We’re on standard leave after a mission; at least three days before we can be called in again. He can sleep in the plane and he’ll write his part of the mission report as soon as he feels up to it. Duo types faster than I do anyway. He can type as fast as he can talk. Snickering a little, I concentrate on the road. The airport’s really close now. Our journey won’t hold any surprises or delays for us, and I’m looking forward to the in-flight entertainment program. With a bit of luck, the airline company has an interesting movie to offer.
Chapter 5 | Chapter 7