Two Lives

Duo’s
beautiful violet eyes sparkled laughingly as his hand reached out to grab the
sleeve of the boy in front of him. Heero’s face, turned to look at Duo, was
splashed with an uncharacteristic smile as stared behind him.

There
movements, frozen in time, where quickly flipped over as another image was
turned to. This time it showed Duo, carefully chopping vegetables, the knife
blade, obviously sharp by the way it caught the light, poised in mid cut over
half of an onion, while Heero in the background stirred a boiling pot. His head
was turned to look at the boy, a warning of precaution on his lips, about to
remind Duo to move his fingers from the path of the blade.

A slight
chuckle, sounding more sinister than amused, stared at the picture, stared at
the picture, memorizing every detail of the boys. Flipping the pages of the
giant scrap book, he paused on one. The picture was a close-up of Duo, sleeping
peacefully with his head on his arm, in a large, comfortable bed. A hand was
draped over him and Duo was cuddling it like a teddy bear. A small smile
crossed his lips, giving the boy an innocent, almost angelic, look.

A growl
sounded through the empty room, as the scrap book was hurled, hitting the
opposite wall and closing with a thud as it landed on the ground. A newspaper
clipping that had been hanging to the wall fluttered down to land on the book.
Its title, “Gundam Pilot Captured!” in big, bold print was spread across the
top with a picture of Duo underneath.

The
clipping, obviously taken during the war, was one of many that adorned the
walls. Information on the Gundam pilots covered the apartment, ranging from
battle information, to pilot profiles, to satellite pictures taken in outer
space.

In one
particular picture, the pilots were all gathered around a pool side, possibly
taken at one of Quatre’s homes. Duo and Heero were lounging in a chaise lounge,
Trowa was helping Quatre out of the pool, and Wufei was reading at a table
under an umbrella. Across the picture, scrawled in large, black, messy
handwriting was a single word. “MINE.”

A cackle
arose from the corner of the apartment. It started softly, almost timidly, but
quickly rose in pitch, reaching an earsplitting shrieking that continued for a
long period of time. As the laughter died down, the figure whipped away the
tears that had sprung up, leaving a trail of black soot in his wake. He
desperately clutched at the charred remains of a photo, older than the rest,
showing a young boy, in line with several other children, in a black robe and white
color. His hair, unnaturally long for a boy’s, was braided down his back, and
he had a slight scowl on his face. The class photo, taken several years before
the war, was burned along the edges, with some spots missing in the middle.

Mumbling,
the figure stared at the picture, glaring at the young Duo much in the same way
Duo was glaring out at him. “It’s all mine,” the figure said, his voice hoarse
and soft. “I’ll make it all mine, just you wait and see.”

With that,
the figure pulled a pin out of a box in his pocket. He stared at the picture
one more time, before carefully inserting the pin into the young Duo’s vibrant
violet eyes, poking at them until they were gone from the picture completely.

**Thanks so much for taking the time to read my short little
prologue. This is the first story I have posted here and it would be greatly
appreciated if you would review and tell me what you think! I love both praise
(who doesn’t?) and constructive criticism. I would love to here if you think
there is somewhere I could improve. Thanks again for reading!**

~Winged Scribe