|
"Singularity"Written By: Switchblade003 Disclaimer: New Mobile War Chronicle Gundam Wing and all affiliated characters are property of Shin Kidousenki and Bandai, Setsu Agency.. Don’t sue me, because I’m the proud owner of over two-thousand dollar’s worth of Gundam merchandise. Pairing(s): Implied past 3x4x3, 4+3 Warning(s): If you don’t like YAOI or shonen-ai… grow up! Rating: R for sexual overtones, violence, angst, slight Trowa bastardization (in a Switchblade fic???), etc. Archive: www.wuffie.net Notes: Okay, I prolly butchered the timeline of the show, but this is supposed to start before Trowa gets his memory restored in the Zero System. It’s also a bit of a precursor to my fic "Blind Target." +++ Singularity It is with a dazed gaze that I amble along the never-ending maze that is Peacemillion’s corridors. I really have no idea where my ultimate destination is, or why I’m even aimlessly wandering these steel-plated halls at three in the morning, but I suppose that it’s some unconscious parody of the way my life has been playing out, these last few weeks. My eyes sweep over the dimly-lit walls of the flying fortress, the thick panels of tempered glass which reflect my own image and the mirroring void of space. I feel lost, and not for conventional reasons. In reality, I have no idea where I am inside the massive ship, but metaphysically I am completely out of touch with my own identity. He called me Trowa. That’s the only identifying information that I have, anymore. He is my only link to who I was, my anchor in an emotional storm which has left me confused and shaken. His expressive blue eyes, always gentle and patient for me, hide so many pains, so much anger, though he’s never been anything but understanding with me. It’s almost as if he holds himself responsible for some great failure, some travesty which he feels that he must atone for… What calamity could someone so kind have committed, that he would constantly berate and condemn himself so harshly? Why does he look at me with eyes which plead to be damned? I can’t hate him. I can’t even dislike him. He would never ask it of me; it’s simply not in his nature, but his luminous eyes beg me to despise him, to cast him aside as unworthy and leave him to his self-deprecation, but I can’t do it. Part of me refuses to admit this, but I need him. I need miserable sapphire eyes, shaggy bright hair, half-hearted laughter and that ever-watchful guardian looking out for me. I need self-loathing smiles and kind, encouraging words forced from soft, full lips. I don’t know where this idea came from, but something deep inside my anarchist mind won’t let me forget him, won’t let me release the idea that he was once someone very important in my life. He still is. "Quatre…" His name falls from my lips as easily as a curse, and I marvel at the way even speaking his given name makes me feel. It’s something so familiar to me that not being able to remember its significance is more frustrating than anything I’ve had to deal with, so far. Not being able to efficiently pilot a mobile suit, forgetting things as elementary as my name… These things pale in comparison to the overwhelming sense of loss created by the knowledge that I can’t place a past to that handsome face. I let out a heavy sigh, completely unselfconscious in my solitude, and I trail slender fingertips over the floor-to-ceiling glass panels to my right, wandering down the corridor and absently pondering on where the walkway might take me. The glass is cold under my hand, and I suddenly ache for the foreign contact of another person, wishing it were pale skin under my skilled hands, instead of the icy, hard, transparent panes beside me. "Trowa?" My head jerks up instinctively at the sound of my name, and I turn, my green eyes darting to the source of the familiar alto, and I stand silently, gazing at the weary frame of my friend. Quatre is standing in the doorway to one of the quarters which sits off the corridor, gun in hand, and his blue eyes are tired, relieved. "What are you doing out here?" he sighs softly, clicking the safety on and slipping the weapon into the small of his back as he moves toward me. "It’s the middle of the night…" I’ve realized that he overlooks my admittedly odd behavior as a side-effect of my amnesia, and it works to my advantage sometimes. I let him approach, taking in his disheveled, half-clothed, and slightly paranoid appearance, and I reply quietly. "Actually it’s AM," I mumble, and this earns a gently exasperated smile from my shorter counterpart. He rakes a hand through his shaggy blonde hair, reaching out to take me by the arm and leading me back to his quarters. "You should be sleeping," he chides gingerly, and there is no anger in his tone, only concern, accompanied by that ever-present apprehension. Carefully, he pushes me down onto his bunk and walks back to the door, fingers dancing over the keypad to lock and secure the door. The room is dark, only the eerie blue glow of the com-link mounted over the desk illuminating the small chamber. I suddenly feel strangely childish as my newly-discovered fear of the dark consumes me, and I lock my eyes onto his comforting form. "We’re supposed to meet up with the others, tomorrow." Ah, the others. I know nothing of them, but it warms my heart to know that I will soon see them. Quatre has given me names, colony origins, Gundam titles, and brief anecdotes, but I still feel as if I’m craving the company of complete strangers. Pilot zero-one: Yui Hiirou. He pilots the Wing Gundam. We’re not too certain where he came from, or if that’s even his real name, but Quatre says he came from LaGrange Point One. Apparently, I saved this kid’s life not once, but twice, and when I think about his name, a strange thought comes to mind, though something tells me it isn’t my own; "Live by your emotions…" Pilot zero-two: Duo Maxwell. He pilots Deathscythe Custom, because according to Quatre, I destroyed the original. He’s from L2, and he doesn’t care for me, too much. Pilot zero-five: Chang Wufei. He pilots Shenlong. He’s from L5. Quatre says he was the prodigal son of a legendary Chinese clan of warriors. I vaguely recall questioning his loyalties, however, and his name always pops into my mind whenever someone mentions Treize Kushrenada, the leader of OZ. "Don’t give yourself a migraine trying to rack your brain for details." Quatre’s slender, well-defined frame closes the distance between us, and he sits on the edge of the bed. Gentle hands smooth my defiant bangs away from my eyes; it’s almost as if he senses my discomfort. I lay still under his ministrations, gazing up at him as if he could protect me from my own irrational fears, and somehow his fair features comfort me. Quatre is so undeniably real, so vitally alive… I think that if I didn’t have him I wouldn’t exist. I’m only as real as the last person who remembers me, and no one else even knew me. He’s my sole link to a life that I’m not even sure I want to remember. "Close your eyes," he whispers, leaning over me, his warmth so unbelievably close… I oblige, relaxing onto the firm mattress under me, contrasting so noticeably with the plush comforter he cocoons me in, and suddenly another of my childish impulses gets the better of me and I reach for him. He gasps softly, caught off-guard by my actions, and I open my eyes to look up at him. He catches my gaze with his own, searching the emerald depths for some motive, some rationale for my behavior, and I make sure that my countenance betrays no emotion. "I need to feel something real," I finally offer in a small voice, hand still clasping his wrist, and Quatre opens his mouth to respond instinctually, then shakes his head, at a loss for words. He remains propped over me on one hand, the other cupping my clean-shaven cheek. With a disbelieving sigh, my blonde counterpart stares at me, then finally speaks, his alto quiet, low, colored with amazement. "If you only knew how entirely different you are from the Trowa I met a year ago…" His enigmatic statement hangs in the air between us, and then I freeze as he closes the distance between us once more, this time pressing his full lips to mine, and I gasp at the startlingly familiar sensation. He kisses me firmly, almost forcefully, except that he could never overpower me and we both know this. The powerful feeling of his mouth against mine, his breath mixing with mine between our parted lips, his smooth skin against my own… It’s electrifying in its intensity, and I cling to him convulsively, desperate to hold onto this feeling of déja-vû. I’ve experienced this rush of lust, this possessiveness, this exquisite longing before. I’ve held this handsome face in my hands before, tasted his lips and been lavished by his caresses. I’ve kissed this boy before, and the sensation stands out as something solid and tangible in my world of vague uncertainties and fragmented memories; I want more. My hands move as if of their own volition to his hips, and while I don’t know where the knowledge of where to put my hands or how to return his kiss comes from, I give in to it, let it wash over my entire being and lead me through this fog of passion. While my mind may not know what to do, what to make of all this, my body remembers. My hands recall the slim, gracefully curving bones of his hips. My mouth recollects the soft, hungry flesh of his lips, and my slim, wiry frame has memorized every inch of his slender, finely-boned physique. I know you… I hear myself think, and my thoughts are pushed aside as Quatre moves to straddle my hips, hands taking my wrists and pinning them effectively over my head as he continues his much-welcomed assault. It’s a hold that we both know I could break if I wanted to, but then we’re both aware that I wish to remain exactly where and as I am, submissively under him, responding to his incredible stimulus. "I love you." The words are simple, let out in a harsh breath as his sharp little teeth nip at my ear, but the effect they have on me is undeniable. His admission renders me speechless, completely incapacitated, and I stare up at the ceiling of his quarters as he continues his seduction, murmuring to me quietly. "I’ve wanted to tell you that for so long, Trowa. I just never thought that you would accept me as your equal if you knew." He attacks the exposed skin of my throat, my head thrown back as I listen to his voice, lost in the sensations he is giving me so freely… "But I guess it doesn’t matter, now," he breathes against my Adam’s apple, and I frown. Why doesn’t it matter? "When your memory does come back, you won’t remember any of this." Brilliant blue eyes hold my own in a strong gaze. "You won’t remember that I love you." I feel a panic rising in my chest, the very idea of losing something so precious frightening me more than any other adversity that I’ve encountered during these last few, half-remembered weeks. "No," I whisper quietly, and Quatre’s expression softens. "Trowa—" I shake my head, daring to assert my full strength on the youth above me, and I roll us over with an agile twist of my hips, taking his wrists in my hands and holding them to the mattress on either side of his bright head. "No." I gaze down into his eyes, and I feel the truly foreign sting of tears forming in mine. "I don’t want to forget!" I lose my composure and hang my head, eyes squeezed closed tightly as I fight back the burning sensation behind my eyelids. My entire frame is shaking with emotion, and I loosen my grip on my blonde companion, sitting back on his hips and burying my face in my hands. "Please, Quatre," I speak slowly, evenly, trying to regain my calm exterior. "Please don’t let me forget?" Suddenly I feel the need to return control of this encounter to my partner, and I know that he understands my desire. With gentle, contained strength, he reverses our positions once more, and I lay passively under his slight weight, content as he takes my wrists in one hand again. "If you truly wish to remember," he says softly, lips inches from my own, "Then I will not let you forget." He’s kissing me once more, but this time with a kind of rash ferocity that parallels the physical turmoil rising within me. As his strikingly experienced mouth nears my collarbones, I feel more than hear him murmur to me. "I could never deny you anything." Slender hands are at my waist, tugging my undershirt from the waistband of my cargo pants, and I arch into the touch, my body recalling gentle caresses and confident strokes different from the dominant contact Quatre gives me, now. He said that I’ve changed, but as I watch him, his intent passion and assertive demeanor, my body tells me that he has changed, as well, and somehow conveys to me that in our previous encounters, roles were reversed, and it was Quatre who lay submissively under my weight, responding to my initiation. I realize though that I want to submit to his talented hands, his insatiable caresses; I need to put my fate into his hands entirely, in the most intimate way imaginable. He needs to master my mind, heart, and body, and realize that I won’t break or disappear, again. I reach up and bury my hands in those bright, shaggy locks. For some reason my fingers hesitate as they run through the silky tresses, and somehow I assume that his hair was once shorter, more clean-kept. I think that that might have once epitomized his personality: calm, clean-cut, a far cry from the almost feral boy now ravaging the exposed skin of my throat. And as a small sound of supplication falls from my lips, I wonder if this transformation is somehow a punishment that Quatre is inflicting on himself. There’s so much uncertainty here… I stare up at my partner silently, watching him kiss my collarbones and shoulder, and after a few moments, he realizes that I’m no longer responding to his touch, and he looks up and catches my gaze. His cerulean orbs are questioning, almost scrutinizing. "What’s wrong?" "Being with me hurts, doesn’t it?" It’s not an accusation but an honest inquiry. I can see the pain in his desire-darkened eyes, so clear, so obvious, a brilliant blaze of torture burning through the love and lust. He’s hurting, and the frustration comes not from knowing this fact, but from the knowledge that I cannot ease his suffering and distress. "Everything hurts, now, Trowa." I nod silently, and carefully, ignoring my body’s carnal protests to stay with the Arabian, I gently extricate myself from his grasp, kneeling down beside the bed and placing a hand on his bright hair. "Then there’s nothing that I can do here but cause you further pain." Without another word, I stand to my full height, and suddenly Quatre seems so small, so fragile, though I’m well aware of the power, strength, and agility housed within that weak imposter of a Gundam pilot. "I’ll meet you at the bridge when it’s time to see the others," I whisper, and with a placid expression I leave his quarters, looking forward to more hours of aimless wandering. +++ The loud wail of sirens beckon me to the bridge sooner than I anticipate, and I run as swiftly as my legs can carry me, not knowing how I can assist, what I can accomplish. I just somehow know that Noin and Quatre need me. Before I make it to the command center of the ship, however, Quatre suddenly turns the corner, headed in the opposite direction, and he grabs my wrist, dragging me towards the hangar. "They’ve scrambled mobile dolls after us! I’m going out in Miss Noin’s Taurus suit!" I skid to a halt behind him as we enter the large hangar, and it suddenly occurs to me that a simple modified Taurus suit can’t take on multiple dolls on its own. I stare up at Wing Zero hesitantly, but I know what has to be done. "Taurus can’t handle more than one doll by itself. I’ll have to take the Zero." +++ Again, it seems that my body remembers skills and maneuvers that my mind does not. My fingers fly over the control panels around me, punching in sequences that I barely comprehend, and it seems that adrenaline has commandeered my sweat-soaked form. My hands rest easily on the controls to a suit I’ve never before stepped foot inside. And even as I fire mercilessly on the enemy mobile dolls advancing on me and Zero, the suit’s computer systems are entrenching themselves in my mind, digging through my thoughts and the memories which refuse to present themselves to me in perfect chronological order. I ignore the invasive feeling of the Zero system, focusing instead on dodging the beam saber blasts aimed at my suit and plunging into a barrel roll, twisting to fire three shots at the doll closest to me… Ralph! Watch out! The childlike mockery of my own voice whispers at the back of my conscious, and I blink, clearing my head of the odd thought and narrowing my gaze to the targets lined up in Zero’s sniper sights. I extend the beam cannon and take another shot. We’re far enough out in deep space that firing the massive, colony-destroying weapon isn’t dangerous… Trowa! I’m so glad you’re safe! Now it’s Catherine’s bright alto which clouds my judgement momentarily, and I shake my head to erase the image of my sister that suddenly springs to my eyes, obscuring the vid-screen before me. What is wrong with me? The only honest way to live is to act on your emotions. Hiirou told me that. Hiirou, so calm and stoic had looked at me with his fierce cobalt eyes and said those words to me. Now, I can’t see the dolls on either side of me, the third one long-since obliterated. My body pilots the Gundam, protecting Quatre, Noin, and Peacemillion, but I no longer see the action taking place around me. All I’m aware of are the thousands of sounds and images flashing through my abused mind. Mobile suits, air raid sirens, the roar of applause, gentle lavender eyes, soft woodwind solos, starched dark OZ uniforms… Psychotically enraged turquoise eyes… Don’t get any closer to me! Quatre’s alto cries out in my head, desperation and intense terror coloring the normally soft voice, and it morphs into a sound of heightened alarm. We shouldn’t be fighting each other! I freeze as a dagger, glistening with lethal intent, arcs past my head and fades into nothing, the dull, hollow sound of steel hitting wood reverberating through my mind. Then I’m falling, out of the uncomfortably tight safety harness of Zero’s cockpit and into the emotionally charged depths of his eyes. Surprisingly strong arms catch me, hold me up, and his slender frame is firm beneath mine. Bright blonde hair stings my face—covered in perspiration that wasn’t there mere seconds ago—as he throws his head back, and now his voice is husky, intoxicated in some violent emotion or another. I’m not made of glass, Trowa. He practically hisses the second syllable of my name, and a heady passion surges through me at the sound of it. Those aqua eye are gazing up at me, clouded with a hint of pain that I feel the instinctive urge to kiss away, and he winces, smiling around his discomfort. I promise I won’t break. Suddenly all I can feel is an all-too familiar, fierce ache, a carnal need that my body knows how to sate. My world narrows to the boy under my weight, the slim hips in my bruising grip, and in a searing flash of relativity, the world around me refocuses, like someone has adjusted the lens of a microscope. The monitor in front of me condenses, expands, then settles on a size, and the mobile dolls—momentarily forgotten—are upon me once more, the controls flashing an urgent crimson to alert me to their proximity. My agile hands pilot Zero out of their firing range, and in a quick, precise display of contained aggression, the Gundam’s beam saber easily dismantles them both in a single fiery arc. I sit behind the controls, panting, cold sweat causing my flight suit to cling to my clammy skin the way my rabid thoughts chase after the fleeting images of sanity that dash from my consciousness as I slump back in the cockpit’s seat, numbly prying my left hand from the joystick. The awkward weight distribution of Heavyarms’ gattling gun has taken a toll on my left arm.. Heavyarms? Heavyarms is my Gundam, 03. I came across it while doing mechanic work on L3. The Barton Foundation had wanted to use it to launch Operation Meteor. Doctor S’ assistant shot Trowa Barton in the back, and I took his place. I was Nanashi until I took his name, and his identity… I hold my head in my hands, feel a tremor run up my spine and directly into my cerebral cortex. Where are all of these thoughts coming from? And why am I so hesitant to answer the comlink beeping irritably at me? Pushing back my absurd trepidation of the electronic interface glowing an urgent green to my left, I answer the call verbally. "Display screen," I sigh wearily. Noin’s concerned features dominate the monitor suddenly, her violet eyes larger than usual. <Trowa! Are you okay?! Your biological readings have been off the charts these past few minutes!> I nod slowly, and the odd thought crosses my mind that she has always worried about us pilots. "I’m fine, Lieutenant." The title comes to me as easily as her name, and she looks a bit taken aback by my addressing of her. I muddle over that momentarily, until I hear Quatre’s voice from outside the range of the comlink’s screen, more somber than usual. <He remembers.> For some reason, I thought that he would be glad that my memory has returned, and that my seemingly functional retrograde amnesia has lapsed for now, but he sounds like a man heading towards the executioner’s block. There’s a pervading sense of guilt coming off of his words in veritable waves… He’s standing in front of the monitor now, his handsome face marred only by the occasional crackle of static out here in deep space. His teal eyes hold mine not by power or authority, but only by the sheer morbid fascination I have with his self-loathing countenance. What calamity could someone so kind have committed, that he would constantly berate and condemn himself so harshly? Why does he look at me with eyes which plead to be damned? It’s almost as if he’s waiting for some kind of revelation on my end of this silent conversation, some internal discovery that would set all of these odds at ends and stop the roiling uncertainty in my stomach. His eyes are emotionless, now, cold vacant stone buildings awaiting demolition. His eyes are dead. …Like I was almost died… …Because the Veyate exploded… …After Quatre shot me… My verdant eyes widen a fraction of an inch, but it’s the signal that he’s been waiting for. His moment of judgement is upon him, in his twisted, guilt-plagued mind. So what do I do? Do I erase that pain and replace it with the soft smile to which I’ve grown so accustomed, or do I banish his gentle, tortured heart to eternal damnation? Will I send my partner to a purgatory which does not exist in his religious beliefs or to Dante’s paradiso? "I’ll be in the hangar in five minutes," I state quietly, careful to keep my voice perfectly neutral. If he takes my words the wrong way, there’s no telling what reckless stunt he might pull. I trust Quatre with my life; he’s my first and only partner, but the fact remains that he is still a boy of sixteen, and helplessly brash and headstrong when he gets emotional. The last thing I need is him taking off in that damned modified Taurus and running out of Vernier fuel in the middle of deep space. Out here, communication outside one thousand astral leagues is nearly impossible to rely on. Satellite windows are only small pockets in the expansive net of space. I could very easily lose him to his childish impulses, and I won’t have it. Slowly, I lean forward, holding his gaze in a commanding one of my own. "I’d like to see you in the hangar, Quatre." His name is a gentle purr from my lips, my French kicking in naturally as I stress the iambic syllables. He only nods his golden head. "03 out." The comlink goes black, plunging the cockpit into darkness, and I gaze down at my hands resting idly on my thighs, their slim, limber frames outlined in faint blue, the main monitor’s tracking systems glowing softly on the screen. With a quiet curse, I take the controls, Hiirou’s advice drifting to the forefront of my mind. +++ As I step out of Zero’s cockpit and onto the platform outside the Gundam, I’m attacked from behind, strong arms wrapping around my chest and a lithe form pressing to my back. My breath catches in my throat as soft hair falls across the exposed nape of my neck, a subtle shaking wracking the thin frame behind me, and every muscle in my body tenses like a single violin string vibrating at a feverish pitch. I have to fight the instinctive reaction to move away from the physical contact, so intimate, so desperate. Suddenly it dawns on me that I’m no longer in charge of this encounter. My level of personal comfort drops exponentially. I’m so busy focusing on trying to relax, to not hyperventilate at the emotions and sensations assaulting my abused senses that I suddenly realize that he’s been speaking the whole time… ""W-What?" All attempts at keeping my voice even and low are futile, at this point. "Trowa, just listen to me?" His grip around my chest tightens slightly and my skin burns where he’s pressed against me. I want to run, want to get the hell away, but I’m stuck, caught in the surprisingly capable circle of his arms. Now when did I ever start thinking of him as ‘little,’ ‘incapable’… ‘Weak.’? "I realize that after this conversation you may very well never speak to me, again." Why in the world would he think that? "But I need you to know that I’m sorry. I’m not going to waste your time apologizing for trying to kill you and Hiirou; I’m sure that you don’t want to here it. You think I’m weak, enough." Apparently this is some kind of unanimous decision. I no longer govern my own thoughts. Other people determine them for me. "I’m sorry that I won’t be able to keep a promise that I made you. I don’t expect you to understand." What promise? Why do I suddenly feel like my memory’s been knocked out of my skull, once more? "It probably seems like a pretty selfish thing to do after all the damage I’ve already done to the resistance, to the Colonies…" he trails off here, laying one cheek to my shoulder blade and sighing. "To you." I can’t handle that alto anymore, the pure agony and self-hatred in his words. Even I have a breaking point. With an agile twist of my wiry frame, I pull away from his arms, his voice, his compassion, his misery. I move without thinking, tears burning through the clarity of my vision, my hands reaching one for the slender column of his throat, one for his wrists. I catch him easily off-guard. He’s normally not an elementary capture; any OZ officer can tell you that. To me, however… He’d never see it coming. With a menacing growl, I slam his slight body into the hangar wall beside Zero’s cockpit. It seems that in the confusion of new emotions and foreign passions my mind has reverted back to a primary state of being… Animalistic rage. Now this is something I know all-too-well. I can handle demolition, assassination, maiming, torture easily. I can ravage something beautiful without hesitation. These emotions are ones that I have lived and nearly died by for so long. Why is he trying to force upon me these feelings which contradict my soldier’s manifesto? Quatre’s chokes under my hands, twists feebly in my grasp, suspended a good foot above the catwalk. His eyes are huge, so sad, and even as I try to will my right hand to close around the frail column of his throat, crush his larynx, make him feel the anger and betrayal in my heart… My eyes go wide and I cry out in truly unanticipated pain as one of his knees levers itself swiftly upward and directly into my sensitive groin. Damn, he fights dirty… I fall to the thick steel of the catwalk, my Arabian counterpart atop me, and I feel his hand reach for the utility knife in my belt. I decide not to fight him for it. Something tells me that he has no intention of causing me serious harm. My assumptions prove correct; he merely tosses the potential weapon aside to ensure his own safety, most likely. For some reason, the fact that he’s afraid of me, even if a little, is reassuring. I let his hands take my wrists and forcefully hold them down on either side of my head. This is another position with which I’m agonizingly familiar. False submission. "I can understand your anger," he says quietly, breath fanning over my face, mingling with the tears in my eyes. "And I know that you’ll never trust me, again, Trowa. But we have a war to fight." The sapphire eyes over mine harden noticeably, clouding with a wisdom and experience that he normally hides from others. Those gorgeous, crystalline orbs have witnessed years of suffering and bloodshed, countless of shifts in political leadership. Those eyes, God help us all, will guide the very last shots of the war. "However…" His next words he delivers with the detached air of a judge handing down a murderer’s sentence, but they promise a swift follow-through, should the terms of the conditions set forth in his ultimatum ever be satisfied. "If you ever come near me again out of anything other than compassion or camaraderie, you’re a dead man." With that he closes the distance between us, pressing his lips to mine in a hard, none-too-gentle kiss, a silent mockery of the passion he usually harbors for me, and then he gets gracefully to his feet, disappearing into the darkness of the hangar and Peacemillion. I remain prone on the catwalk of the hangar, alone with his harsh threat and the throb of his kiss. That boy should be nothing to me… nothing more than an unbelievably effective method of relieving stress and a way to cure my ever-present carnal loneliness. It shouldn’t bother me that I’ve hurt him, that he fears my strength, now, that he carries with him an inordinate amount of guilt over what was, in fact, an accidental shot at Hiirou’s, mobile suit! I jumped in front of Zero’s beam cannon! Why does any of this matter…? Because he’s your reason for fighting this God-forsaken war, in the first place, Nanashi. He’s the reason that you’ve fought so hard, the reason you’ve refused to die, even when you’re number’s been called countless of times. I choose to ignore the fact that I’m currently hosting a debate within myself. I used to have arguments with myself often; isolation and prolonged periods of heightened stress will do that to a person. That can’t be true. I fight for Catherine, for the Colonies. I battle against the oppression of OZ and the death of innocents caused by useless weapons armaments in space. You fight to preserve the basic human ideals of freedom, democracy, and truth. I don’t believe in freedom. I’m a soldier, a mere pawn of war. I pilot this damnable Gundam, all mobile suits because I was given a mission. Whatever foolish sentimental motivation I might have picked up along the way doesn’t truly hold any clout in the grand scheme of things. Your love for that boy means nothing? I don’t love him. Fine. You don’t love him. But he means more to you than any human being ever has, probably ever will. Will you dispute that, Nanashi? That’s not relevant. That fact is a weakness. He’s my Achilles’ heel, and anyone who possesses that knowledge can ruthlessly exploit it. I’m a useless terrorist if I have something worth living for. The most dangerous man in the fight is the one with nothing to lose. Wrong. What? The most deadly mercenary is not the reckless maverick with no family to protect, no loved ones to ground him in reality. The most dangerous man in the fight is the one with a lover in mortal peril. Your lover is the mastermind behind an elaborate guerilla resistance against OZ, against Zechs and White Fang.. This is ridiculous… Why do you think Hiirou self-destructed back at the start of all this? Because it was the only option he had left to him. For someone so well-read and intelligent, you certainly aren’t very observant. Hiirou has no home to go back to, no family, no life outside of battle, bloodshed, and chaos. How many times have you reached for that self-destruct device? Once. I remember that little incident, back at the circus, before I thought that perhaps Catherine might really want me as her adopted brother. I also remember the slap she gave me… Unconsciously, I reach up to touch gloved fingers to my cheek. Why did you do it? My answer comes automatically, mechanically, without hesitation. Because it was required of me, to further the cause. Lies, Nanashi. You were lonely. You’d had enough of the ‘soldier’s life.’ You wanted out, and you wanted to end with a flare. It was stupid teenaged hormones and nothing more. Admit it. I frown, glaring up into the darkness around me. Even my catlike vision affords me a span of no more than a foot in the bone-chilling frost and blackness of the hangar. Hiirou destroyed Wing to keep the suit from falling into enemy hands. It also threw Romafeller off their political feet when it came to you pilots. You were immune for a short while, thanks to him. Your attempted suicide, however, was a brash and immature move. Would you suicide now, Nanashi? "Of course not," I mutter aloud, though to whom I am speaking, God only knows. I’m starting to become agitated with the direction in which my thoughts are going. Why? "We’re at a critical stage in this whole conflict, now! My death could cost us the war!" I slam my fist down into the metal walkway underneath me, sighing heavily. "There are only five of us!" It isn’t the loss of a number that would cripple your resistance. "What are you talking about?" I am highly irritated, now, and I realize that I’m speaking to myself in the third person, but it helps me think, sort through my problems, to be able to direct anger and frustration at ‘someone else.’ It’s a tactic that some soldiers use. Duo was the one to teach me this, actually… Your death would cause a severe and possibly irreversible deterioration in Quatre. You know that. So whether you like it or not, you’re in this war for him. You fight every battle with the intention of coming back to him in one piece. You may be a pawn, Nanashi, but you’re a damned vital one. I laugh silently, wryly to myself. "You’re right." My head falls to one side, my cheek pressed to the cool metal beneath me, and I gaze into Zero’s mechanical cockpit. The orb embedded in it’s ‘stomach’ glows as green as emeralds back at me, reflecting my image, inverted, impersonal. That system’s a deathtrap, and there’s only on pilot who can fly it efficiently. I won’t let Quatre back in it, not without a fight, That piece of work spooks even me. I get to my feet slowly, my bones and joints protesting the delayed movement as I stretch. I move closer to the giant mech, standing before the Zero. This suit truly is a marvel of modern technology, and while I respect with a kind of mechanic’s awe the genius that my partner possesses to cook up a piece of machinery this powerful, it is a weapon, one of the many unnecessary armaments that we’re fighting to purge Earth and the Colonies of. This system must never fall into anyone else’s hands. I am all-too-aware, however, that the voice in my head, my debate partner, and the doubt lingering on the edges of my consciousness, is his voice, and it’s supplied by the Zero System. Without it, though… I don’t even want to think of what might have become of me had my memory not been restored. Cautiously, though I’ve never been timid of big guns and metal before, I raise a hand and place it on the suit’s cockpit door. "Thanks." +++ Finis. |
