Pax: Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

The twitch of fingers.

And all he can taste is the gray ash at the back of his throat. The ash of the skyline. Bleeding and bending upwards. Bleeding and bending inwards. Smothering. Smothering. And the cold, cold street under his back. Concrete kicked up. Rubble and the whisper of gray, gray moans. Dead now. They stopped an hour ago. Sucking wounds and burnt flesh. Skin peeled back. Layers. Like onions or--And nails and bones and jaws--cracked and split and--They stopped an hour ago. They stopped-- And it hurts to breathe. It hurts to turn his head. It hurts and it hurts and -- He doesn't want to see his shoulder. He doesn't want to know, yet.

The glimmer of bone beneath sinew and muscle and flesh and--Anatomy told him what little he knew. The trajectory. If he was right--And his lung--

His voice is trapped fast behind his teeth. Words clamped down upon. Mutilated. And all he had done was scream. Until, that too, seemed useless.

Everyone is dead. Everyone, everyone. There is nothing left. There's nothing. And he can feel their eyes, wide and glassy upon him. Accusing him. Run away, run away--Left us all to die, didn't you? Well, now-- Watching him. Disjointed thoughts. Distanced minds. And is that what the human brain looks like--? And he can distantly feel himself dry heave. And he can distantly taste the blood in his mouth. His spit stained pink and thick and -- With the ash and with the words, he mutely wonders if it is death he tastes between his teeth. He wonders. He wonders. He--And it is pain, hot and sharp and paralyzing. Curling head to toe. And he bites his tongue, and immediately--More blood. More blood. More-- And he doesn't know what blood is his and which blood isn't. He can feel it on his cheeks. Matted in his hair. A man stood in front of him. He was nice. Was nice. Told him to get down, but--God, blood on his chest and his neck and--

He wants to sob. He wants to do something. Anything.

"I (don't) want to die."

But no one is there to hear him. He is just like the others that plead for their skins. (Whichtheylostohgod,ohgod.)

He is just like the rest. He will--

Gun fire, everywhere. There was gun fire everywhere. There was the screaming of men and birds and machines. And they fell fast. Fell like the tin soldiers he had in his youth. Lined up on the table in the living room. And like his index finger pushing, then -- Tumbling down, all of them. All of them. Tumbling down, down, down.

He (doesn't) want(s) to die, but the streets of Berlin are empty. Empty. Empty. And he (doesn't) want(s) to die, but there is no one left to remember. No one left to live for. No one left to --

And it seems like seconds. Hours. Slipping in and out of consciousness. The ringing of gunshots still in his ears. And it seems like seconds. Hours--Before he hears the soft croon of morning doves and the crunch of gravel beside him.

Before he hears a human voice. A human voice. Humming out words. Sweet and low and slow.
"I woke to the sound of drums. The music played. The morning sun streamed in. I turned and I looked at you..."

And he feels his heart beating. Wild. Like the wings of those birds he can no longer see. Against his ribs. (Caged in there, with hope and hope and --) He feels his voice. Burbling up. Splintering. Crackling. And he can feel the pause. That eerie stillness. The leisurely approach. And the soft glow of orange--like sunlight--flickering close. Like warmth on his skin. Ghosting over him. Pulsing. Shivering and melting into him. His eyes focusing and unfocusing. And they're in his line of sight, but he feels cold. Cold and colder and --

The boy--is it? He doesn't know--parts his lips, speaks as though his words are water:
"Kiel vi nomigâs?"

Soft eyes. Soft smile. Soft voice. And he cannot distinguish more outside the pallor of his skin against the gray. Against the fuzziness of his mind. The ultimate strain for coherency. (And he can feel him crouching down beside him, now. Sharp jaw. Sharp angles and too much white, too much left untouched, too much purity, too much--)

And finally, there are words. Sputtering like embers. Tripping over his bitten tongue as what looks to be silvery hair catches his attention. For a moment. An instant. (And he wants to see his eyes. He wants--)

And finally:
"...I-Ikari Shinji."

Whimpered.

And he can no longer focus. No longer think. No longer speak. And his eyes are closing. Exhausted. Relieved. And--

And the last touch he feels are fingers near his wounded shoulder. Probing. Inspecting. The last sound he hears is his name. Tested. Repeated. Muted and--
"Stay with me," Paused. Blood seeping into their white pant leg. Gentle. And it is in his native tongue. "Ikari Shinji-kun."

--the world goes quiet.

(And all that he dreams of is the muting of orange and the softness of red.)