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"SNAFU"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: NC 17 Warnings: Humor, Xmas fic, POV Pairings: 3x4 Summary: Grigori Novak, a lowly foot soldier,
thought he knew what he was getting into when he signed up to fight
for Dekim Barton's cause, but if there's a life lesson in all of this...well,
Grigori still hasn't figured out what it is yet. " SNAFU" Grigori Novak shoved the joystick to the mobile suit’s skyward camera all the way up and cursed when he could not find the source of the sudden shadow that had momentarily blocked out the full moon. He used his thumb to push the joystick to the left and then to the right, squinting at the monitor in search of the culprit. “Sin od...” he whispered in terror as he panned out and spotted the large bipedal shape hovering a good seventy to eighty meters directly above him. Though the object was silhouetted by the moon behind it and thus impossible to see its markings, it didn’t take a genius to know what he was looking at. Unlike the stout, rounder shape of their mass-produced Leos, this mobile suit was taller, streamlined, and far more superior than anything Dekim Barton had at his disposal. Mounted on the mecha’s back were a pair of bat-shaped wings, but Grigori was far more concerned about the giant scythe that was held above its regal head. In the blink of an eye, he found himself desperately wishing he could redact every vow he’d ever made since he joined Dekim’s forces. The desire to gracefully bow out of this fight was overwhelming, but despite the rush of fight, or flight, he was frozen in place. Paralyzed with fear. “Kažu da samo jednom vidite Gundam, ali nikad necete živjeti da pricate pricu.” There was a brief hiss of static and Grigori glanced down in surprise at the dual speakers below the Leo’s front-facing monitor. The static was followed by an ear-bleeding shriek that sounded like iron claws scraping across a window pane. A crackle of interference and then an unfamiliar voice bounced off the metal walls of the Leo’s cockpit. “U redu je, prijatelju,” the pilot responded, his voice sounding quite young, but slightly rough and grating with a strong American accent. Figures, Grigori thought derisively. Only an American could butcher his native tongue with such nauseating ease. “Jeste li spremni upoznati vašu izradivac?” “Ucinite svoj najgori, Americki svinja,” he spat, wincing at his own melodramatic tone. Perhaps his father’s ‘die like a man’ rhetoric had rubbed off on him more than he realized. Switching to English, he added, “And your Croatian is for shit.” The Gundam landed gracefully in front of him, reverberating the ground with a soft ‘whump’ instead of the earth-shaking impact he was expecting. Thanks to the bright shine of his Leo’s floodlights, he could now clearly see the mobile suit in all its grandeur. Granduer...except for one, small detail. Actually, make that two. Two...rather large...details. You have got to be shitting me. Grigori was torn between the fear of imminent death and the uncontrollable urge to laugh at the monstrosity that stood before him. The Santa hat that was fitted over the Gundam’s chonmage and the white-painted beard carved in meticulous waves - honestly, the craftsmanship really was impressive - over the lower half of the deadly mech’s Samurai-like face was so perplexing, he wasn’t sure how to react. “You’re wearing a Santa hat,” he pointed out and granted, it was not his proudest moment, but there it was. “Right-O, Captain Obvious,” the Gundam’s pilot affirmed in a cheerful tone that seemed woefully out of place under the circumstances. “Here to deliver some Christmas joy to the people of this wonderful planet.” There was a tiny muscle spasm in Grigori’s left eye that caused the lid to twitch. He pressed a finger against it and rubbed gently, perturbed by his nervous system’s betrayal. “And how do you plan to do that?” He could practically hear the grin in the cocky pilot’s voice and knew the answer before it was even spoken. “Oh,” the pilot said flippantly. “I’m just going to ensure their protection by knocking you and your crypt-keeper boss a few notches down the food chain, my man.” Two additional soft thumps, similar to the one he’d felt when this Gundam had landed, vibrated up the galvanized steel and titanium of his Leo’s legs. The impacts had come from the vicinity behind him and his hand shakily reached for the joystick that controlled the movement of his rear-facing camera, already knowing what he would see. Father always used to say that the last thing you see before you die is a flash of what’s to come. A preview of the eternal torment personalized by the sins you’ve committed, but I’ll be damned if I can think of anything I ever did in this life to warrant this bizarre turn of events. The first pilot spoke one last time and his tone, while still jovial, seemed darker. Insidious. “Santa’s made a list and checked it twice. He’s gonna find out who’s naughty, or nice...” Christ, just kill me already!
***
Chang Wufei was the first to arrive at the rendezvous point. He waited impatiently for the others to arrive with Altron’s arms folded over its massive chest. Half an hour later, his irritation began to fade in lieu of the post-adrenaline crash, leaving him feeling heavy and drowsy. He fought valiantly, but the exhaustion eventually declared victory after his fifth attempt to stay awake. His chin dropped down to rest against his clavicle, unable to keep his head up any longer. It was close to noon by the time he was unnervingly jarred by three consecutive thumps, muted somewhat by the grassy landscape of the valley. He jerked awake and rubbed his hands over his face, still fatigued and not the least bit refreshed by his cat nap. He stifled a yawn as Deathscythe came into view and glowered at the Gundam. “You’re late,” he griped. “You know, I could already be at the hotel by now, taking a hot shower before I sleep for the next month. I don’t think that’s too much to ask, but once again, I am left disappointed because you - what the hell are you wearing?” “You like it?” Duo asked, lifting Deathscythe’s arm to tap a finger against the Santa beard. “Made it myself. And the hat. Actually, Howard and Hilde helped, but we never got to try them out until now.” “You look like an idiot,” Wufei told him. “Did you actually fight with that stuff on?” “Of course! It’s Christmas, ya knucklehead.” Heavyarms and Sandrock finally appeared in his line of sight. He glanced over at them, looked away, and then jerked his head back with a pained groan. “Oh, Jesus. Not you guys, too.” Quatre’s voice came through the speaker, sounding like his default light and cheery - and occasionaly airheaded - self. “What’s the matter, Wufei? Duo said Santa can’t work without his elves.” Wufei’s gaze shifted over to Heavyarms and he snorted at the absurdity of the red and green stocking cap on the mech’s head. It draped down, slightly obscuring the clown mask on the right side of its face. It was eerily reminiscent of its pilot’s unique hairstyle. “I can forgive Winner for being gullible since his people don’t celebrate Christmas, but what’s your excuse, Barton?” “Quat said he wouldn’t put out if Tro didn’t wear it,” Duo chortled. “Talk about a cockblock.” Though he didn’t have a mirror, Wufei was certain his face had turned a sickly shade of green. He watched Heavyarms’ massive hand take a wide swing and collide with the back of Deathyscythe’s head, emitting a loud ‘clang’ that scared off a nearby flock of birds and made Wufei’s ears ache. “And did you manage to talk Yuy into this ridiculous charade, too?” “No,” Duo grumbled. “When I asked him, he threatened to feed me my own liver through a straw.” He snorted and flipped the hatch of his cockpit open. “And here I thought Yuy was the crazy one this whole time.” He released the catch for the retractable cord and wrapped his hands around it. “Well, let’s get this over with. There’s a coma out there with my name on it.” “Wufei?” “What is it, Winner?” “Merry Christmas!” He paused, glancing back at the speaker, and then pushed himself off the platform. “Humbug.”
***
Grigori Novak finally managed to climb out of the smoking husk that was once his Leo, disoriented and with soiled trousers. Crawling over to the mech’s thigh, one of the few undamaged parts remaining of his mobile suit, he dropped down in an exhausted heap to warm his chilled body beneath the early afternoon sun. He had two options: Gather what little dignity he had left and report back to base, or just walk away. Walk away, change his name, and start a new life as a goat farmer, or some shit. As he got an unpleasant whiff of his own bodily waste, he decided the latter was far more tempting than the former. What the hell. Pride only gets you so far in life and look where it’s gotten me. He waved off a curious buzzard with a flailing hand and barked, “I'm not dead yet, you insufferable little rodent. Fuck off! Bloody vulture.” With a solid plan intact, he struggled to his feet, intent on finding the nearest motel to shower and change before eating his weight in bacon and eggs. From there, he would catch a bus and travel a good sixty miles to his brother’s “colleague’s” place which was actually just code for “acquaintance who does illegal shit in a pinch”. With any luck, Ricardo would whip up a fake ID and passport for a reasonable price and then he could catch a flight back to Croatia to stay with his parents until he figured out what do with his life. That also gave him enough time to concoct a story that didn’t involve being cut down in the midst of battle by three Gundams dressed as Santa and his elves. He limped his way back towards town, occasionally shooting glares over his shoulder at the buzzard that trailed him at a safe, but noticeable distance. Not today, you little bastard. Not today.
Fini. Notes: "Kažu da samo jednom vidite Gundam, ali nikad necete živjeti da pricate pricu." - They say you only see a Gundam once, but you will never live to tell the story. "U redu je, prijatelju." - You got that right, buddy. "Jeste li spremni upoznati vašu izradivac?" - Are you ready to meet your maker? "Ucinite svoj najgori, Americki svinja!" - Do your worst, American pig!
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