At the end of the Christmas Eve War, I decided I wanted to go home to the Bermuda Triangle. I think it was mostly just because it was snowing and cold. The skies, even for a happy day, were grey, and my shoes were full of slush. Bermuda sounded nice. Sunny. Babes on the beach and a pina colada in my hand - it'd be easy enough to make a fake ID.
That's what I told Quatre. He looked at me like I was insane. "What are you talking about, Duo? You're not from the Bermuda Triangle."
I shrugged. "Yeah, well I don't feel like I'm from some scrap heap floating out at L2 either." I had a little piece of Deathscythe's armor in my pocket. Even after the last stupid fight, I couldn't let him go entirely. "I figure, I'm a free man now. I can go home wherever I damn well want to."
"Fine. I'm not going to argue. It wouldn't be fair." Quatre shook his head. "But you're talking about the Bermuda Triangle, Duo. There aren't babes on the beach there or bartenders that are going to give you drinks with paper umbrellas in them. There isn't... anything."
I patted Quatre on the shoulder, and grinned. It didn't seem to do much for his worry. "That sounds pretty good right now, too."
I didn't get to go right away. We had a lot of unfinished business to deal with, and I was never the sort to leave behind lots of loose ends before dropping off the map. I crashed on Quatre's couch, and he always asked if I was still crazy. And I said yeah, I was counting the days until I got to steal a plane from some poor rich schmuck - for old time's sake, mind you - and go home to the Bermuda Triangle. He started leaving books about it on the coffee table by the couch. They made decent enough reading on those nights when the PTSD reared its ugly mug. Books about unsolved metaphysical BS as opposed to screaming nightmares - tough choice there.
So I knew about Flight 19. I knew about the Sargasso Sea. And that the place might have eaten Amela Earhart. Or was the Lost Continent of Atlantis. And I read that it had another name - the Devil's Triangle.
That just made it better. Homier.
The day I packed up my shit, Quatre tried to stop me going out the door by stepping on the back of my pants. He was a good sport about me kicking his knee out. "You read all those books and you're still going?" he demanded while he picked himself up off the carpet.
"Are you kidding? Makes it better. I get to play in some nice calm water, hang out with a bunch of enlightened guru types with their own cool underwater city, and quite possibly make it with the hotty descendant of a female daredevil pilot. I think the place was tailor made for me."
"Come on, Duo. I'm worried."
I flashed him a grin. "Don't worry. When you need a vacation, you can come join me. I'll save a pina colada for you." I shut the door behind me before he could argue any more and went off to steal my plane.
No one knew what was in the Devil's Triangle, really. And everyone was afraid to go there. That's where legends went to get lost when the world was caught up in obsessing about progress. And if I was lucky, they'd have some damn good pina coladas.