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Duo is not sure what to make of Quatre Winner. The Sandrock pilot exudes kindness with his sunny smile, cheery disposition and the entirety of a desert village complete with hidden underground hanger and private army. Entirely at his disposal and with the welcome mat out so to speak, for one Duo Maxwell. Pretty impressive, but Duo is still cautious, despite his own easy smile. Maybe, because of, his own easy smile.
He quickly disabuses the Magunac Corps of calling him Master Duo, taking the impressively large Rashid aside, lifting up the ankle portion of his pant leg to show the brand that had been burned into his skin. He doesn’t need to say anything, a quick look into the Magunac leader’s eyes tells him that the Arabian understands and will respect that. Quatre doesn’t need to know.
It is his first memory. How old is he? Four? Three? The smell of melting flesh, the searing pain and the foam-lined shackles with the long chain attached to the bed. That bed was his primary residence, provided in order to “service” high ranking Romerfeller officials and aristocrats from Earth, where their proclivities could be indulged in a colony stripped of its government and any form of police forces. Here they would be safe from the prying eyes of their families, reputations at home untarnished while their souls dripped with the stains of their unnamed sins.
He becomes prized among those blank-eyed, puppet-children. Always screaming, fighting, biting, scratching, yelling until his vocal cords became lined with tiny noduled ruptures, giving his young voice a coarseness to it. Each time is like the very first time. The building’s clients could fantasize that he is untouched. He is unlike the other children, with their expressionless faces, empty eyes and automaton obedience to every sadistic whim. Like hollow dolls they all were, listlessly going through the motions of living in this particular hell. Not Duo. Something burns inside him, giving him a strange strength.
He doesn’t know how long he is there, in that building. He has little concept of time. But when the man who is washing him in the special tub reserved for that extra-special clean-up for the really rich clients, loses his balance reaching across the taps to turn them off, slips and begins to flounder…he seizes his chance and jams his small body between the man and the faucet. He keeps that body beneath him pinned underwater, desperately thrashing, delivering deep bruises as he is ruthlessly thrust up against the ungiving metal. Until the man stops moving. Then he scampers up the shower pipes almost faster than he can breathe and is out the open transom window, dropping like a naked cherub into the industrial garbage bin below.
That bin is surrounded by filthy street urchins, a gang that knew the pickings behind this particular building would be pretty good considering the who’s who that kept coming and going. Those ones were “quality” people, with quality tastes and their left-overs would be a real treat to the small gaggle of orphaned children. One taller figure detaches himself from the group, whips off his shirt in a quick motion and plops it over Duo’s head, telling him that his name is Solo and that they needed to get out of there, pronto. It seems he had a pretty good idea of what it was that Duo was escaping.
For a while, Duo feels bad about abandoning those other children, sad playthings for corrupted officials. Dress-up dolls for their perversions. However, the harsh realities of street survival cut into his guilt, pushing those memories to the back of his mind, while he manages the steep learning curve in the most punishing of schools where every mistake means death. Not only for himself, but for the others he now considers his family. Darwinism is not something that Duo has heard of, but it is ruthless in weeding out the weak of colony V-08744.
He does come back, though. Once. After the plague wipes out his street family, including the one who gives him his name. After the massacre that takes away the only two adults who have ever shown him care, and love, and above all, mercy. He does indeed come back. For training. Not the pilot part, the other part – the skills he would need to kill his enemies without hesitation. G saw that in his eyes, when he was threatened with being thrown out of the airlock for stowing away on their ship with its secret Gundam cargo. That killer instinct, nurtured by loss and honed by trauma. Back to prove himself worthy of that gorgeous black Gundam. He remembers that building. He remembers those faces. The ones that abused his young body. The ones that created all those poor sad dolls he left behind. He remembers.
This time, he has a knife...
a big-ass knife…
and voices…scary voices…
and Shinigami…scary Shinigami…
In our continuing news coverage of the horrific mutilations hitting our colony, the Alliance military police are still unable to provide information on the killings of some of their top-ranked officials. Sources on the street, however, seemed much better versed in this matter and have told this reporter that at least a dozen men had been “shaved L-2 style”. We cannot show you any pictures as they are too traumatic, but we’ve been told that the genitalia have been removed and…I hesitate to say this, but placed into their mouths with their jaws broken shut. What kind of military can’t even protect their own leaders? We wonder, is this the work of an underground resistance? Do we HAVE a resistance?? The Alliance and their Federation masters have not been able to answer this question. Perhaps there is hope for us yet, no longer will we yield to the oppressive….wait, get your filthy ground-pounder hands off me….you can’t.. ..we’re live….people will see…YOU PIGS… what you’re doing to us colonists….*static* SIGNAL IS LOST.