Angel On A Prayer
By: Solo Kitsune

Even after the wars, V08744 was a very noisy, crowded colony with noisy, crowded cities and noisy, crowded minds. And through the crowded throng a boy of around sixteen years of age walked. He seemed just like any other person in the crowd, but he was set apart, special. He was a killer. He was Death. And he never walked alone. No, even though he looked alone, it wasn't so. The boy never ventured alone. It was that eternal presence that allowed him to survive the hell of war. That allowed him to go on smiling despite the kaleidoscope of death that spiralled around him. But there was no smile on Death's face today. The blue-violet eyes of the boy where very old indeed, and etched with much sadness.

The crowd pushed and flowed by him, noisy, disorganized and chaotic, like a herd of cattle going to the slaughter. Some would stare at those ancient eyes with looks equally bovine and dumb. They did not know. They did not know that Death walked among them. Death in the form of a boy whose innocence was dashed to pieces long ago. The boy looked as if he was searching for something that could not be found. He was clad in the garments of a priest, and his sandy-colored trenchcoat billowed in the wind as he walked by. Even though the fighting was over, the war that Duo Maxwell waged was never over. It raged on, bloody, chaotic and bitter. Without rhyme nor reason. It waged on in his dreams. Dreams of giant toy soldiers and bloodstained soil reeking of copper. Over and over, he could never erase the memory of the slaughter of his childhood.

Duo paused in front of the burnt out hulk of the church on Maxwell Street. His heart skipped a beat. There was nothing much left of the Maxwell church, save for its crumpled stone shell with its fragmented stained glass windows. No longer would faithful parishoners pay a visit to the rectory, which too, laid in ruins. And no longer would the convent be teeming with screaming children and nuns toiling over buckets of water and filthy clothes. But even now life seemed to go on, to repair itself. The ruins of the church where flecked here and there with green patches of wild-growing foliage and fungus. Birds had made homes in what remained of the roofs. Duo could hear the soft whispers of their feathers in his ears as they fluttered here and there from their dusty lofts, nests now abandoned and useless from the winter weather. Yes, life went on, with or without the poor souls of the Maxwell Church Massacre.

Duo hesitated. He was stricken with an unknown fear, as if he was about to go to court for murder. But he was a murderer. Despite the presence that had protected him all these years, saved him from the virus and had kept him company in the silent vaults of space and oppressive enemy prison cells, it could not wash away the blood. No matter how hard he tried, there was no way to wash off the blood dripping from his hands. And now, he thought, I will have to pay for that. Sooner, or later.

He stepped into the ruins of the church, and as he did so a large flock of pidgeons rose before him and ascended into the sky, leaving behind lazilly floating dust motes and feathers which seemed to glitter in the cracks of light which seeped through the fractured windows and brittle walls. The stale smell of dust, mold and rotting vestments hung in his nostrils as he approached the altar. He walked by rows of pews, some of them burnt and broken, grey with dust and pidgeon mutes. Somewhere in between the aisles he found a pile of bottles and beer cans, and a sick feeling entered his stomach. How anyone could sit here and defile a place where so many people died was unfathomable. But then again, he thought, I was a defilement to this place, too.

Before Duo reached the altar, he stopped at a spot where the sun showed through a fracture in the ceiling, leaving a golden patch of light on the dusty ground. He reached inside his trenchcoat and produced a red rose with a bow tied around its stem. He stared down at the patch of light for a long time, eyes growing hot with tears.

"Boys don't cry, boys don't cry, boys don't cry, boys don't cry..." he repeated in a quivering voice. He did not even realize how hard he was gripping the rose stem. The thorns bit hard into the palm of his hand and long rivulets of blood flowed forth, snaking along his skin and dripping to the ground, forming scarlet red patches and splotches. Soon he eased his white-knuckle grip on the rose. He took it in his hands, supporting it as reverently as a newborn baby, and slowly knelt down, placing the rose in the patch of light. He stood back up again, and a single tear escaped his eye, falling downward. It landed on one of the rose's tender, fleshy petals and twinkled for a moment in the sunlight before it slid out of view, leaving a long silvery trail.

"I'll never forget you, Sister Helen. Oh, why did you leave me? Was it because I stole the mobile suit, or called Father Maxwell stupid, or didn't believe in God? I...I'm sorry. Its all my fault this happened. Do you still love me? Do you think about me in heaven? Too bad I'll never see you again. There's no place in heaven for those such as me."

He turned away then, trying to erase the memory of her soft touch, her warm embrace. Like the embrace of a mother, he thought. He continued his way down the dusty aisles. The altar loomed up before him, a rotting wreck of torn and disintegrating cloth and broken marble. With a cry of despair he fell just short of the shallow altar steps, kneeling prostrate on the dirty ground, hunched over and head bent, hands clasped in a bloody white-knuckled motion of prayer. Yes, for the first time in so long, Duo Maxwell began to pray.

"Oh why, why damn you, did you allow me to live, when everybody else around me died? They where good people. Sister Helen, she was always there for us. She comforted me when everbody else around me left and went away. And Father Maxwell, he was a fool, but he meant well. Or did he?"

He stared imploringly at the large dusty cross at the altar, but it stood silent, offering no answer. Duo continued.

"Oh Father, I...I killed all those people. You, who talked of peace and nonviolence...you would hate me now. I'm stained in with the blood of thousands. I'm an ingrateful brat. I wasn't worthy of your kindness Father...I never was. Yourself and Sister Helen.....Momma a-and Dad, S-Solo...You didn't deserve death. It was I who deserved it! Oh why Solo, why, why did you shield me from that damned disease?! I wanted to die, oh I wanted to die so bad, and now I'm left like this, left to suffer. Is that my punishment? Is that why I was left to live? WHY?!"

Some birds who had remained scattered in the rafters with Duo's pained cry. Then everything fell silent again. Silence. Oppressive silence. A sob escaped from Duo's throat and, as much as he tried to repress it, the tears came harder. They streamed down his cheeks, leaving silvery trails, and landed on the dusty floor to mix with the blood from his lacerated palm, which began to sting from the salt of his sweat and tears. His voice took on a pleading tone.

"Please, tell me something, anything. Oh please...a word, a message, a sign. Something. Oh please oh please..." The tears overtook him, and he cried freely. Everyone had abandoned him. I am unworthy of their love...Everyone in my life left me, died because of me...

"The others told me I'd find you here," a voice said flatly from behind him. Duo snapped out of it with a start at the sound of the familiar voice, his heart in his throat. He turned around to face him, the boy with a shock of dark brown hair and burning cobalt eyes that lanced straight through his soul. Of course he can see my soul, Duo thought. He's been through the same things I have. He understands me. Or, does he truly? Had he been worried about him? Or was he just sent on behalf of one of his companions. Quatre, probably. It was then a wave of shame came over him. He, kneeling prostrate on the ground, face glossy and wet with tears, blood seeping from the cracks between his tightly clenched fingers. Boys don't cry. And here he was, a wreck, and crying in front of the Perfect Soldier.

But there was something in the war-hardened boy's features that changed suddenly. In a motion that surprised Duo, he knelt down and touched Duo's bloodied hand ever so slightly, a touch as delicate as mist after a hard rainstorm.

"Duo...I've always envied you, from the first time we ever crossed paths."

Duo seemed perplexed. This was so not like him. "He-Heero?"

There was something in those deep blue eyes that Duo noticed. Something...Could it be? Pain? Sorrow? Regret? He wasn't sure.

"Duo...do you think...maybe...you could teach me how to cry?"

Heero took Duo's bloodied hand in his, and held it tenderly. Duo moved closer to him, and found himself in a warm embrace. He could almost feel, as they huddled there in the gloom of the broken-down church, soft feathers brushing against his skin, enveloping him in a protective shield of warmth. It was then that he got his answer, an answer that was long in coming, even though it had been under his nose the whole time.

God had sent him an angel.