SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING

SAINAN NO KEKKA
ACT I, PART I

 
 
Scene I : The Dance of Daggers

 
Catherine Bloom watched as Trowa spun into a series of elaborate leaps and somersaults, agilely dodging the knives she threw at him with deadly accuracy. If he had been anyone else, he would be dead by now. This performance required split-second timing, and though it thrilled the crowds, it had them on the edges of their seats as well. All it would take was one mistake, and Trowa would die. There was no second chance.

The siblings were wearing matching outfits. Trowa was clad in skin-tight spandex, provoking many hoots and whistles from an appreciating female (and some male) audience. The multi-toned green fabric flexed and folded around him like a delicate sheath. Here and there pieces of the spandex had been removed and replaced with emerald gossamer, providing a tantalizing glimpse of flesh.

Catherine's outfit was more extreme. She wore the same mix of green gossamer and spandex. Even though she, like Trowa, was covered head to foot, the placement of the bit and pieces seemed more daring, especially where the gossamer strained over the top of her breasts. The unitard displayed her lovely legs to their best advantage, and she was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in the circus.

The Dance of the Daggers, as their act was being called, was one of the most eagerly anticipated events of the show. Neither of them were sure exactly how it had come about, but Trowa wasn't sure he liked it. He missed wearing the mask, missed being able to hide. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered, but the pleasure Catherine received from the act kept him from voicing his complaints- not that he would have. He usually kept things bottled up inside.

Catherine aimed a dagger at his heart, and he paused dramatically for the crowd, waiting until the last second before he caught it his left hand and threw it up in the air. The dagger struck the middle of the ring, and the siblings bowed in unison, signaling the end of the show.

The ringmaster came on to announce the next act, and the two left quickly. Trowa immediately reached for a towel to dry the sweat from his face.

Catherine bopped him playfully on the head. "Good show," she said with a warm smile.

He nodded, handing her a bottle of water that he had left near the lion's cage.

Rolling her eyes, she accepted, murmuring her thanks. After taking a few healthy swallows, she handed it back. "I swear, Trowa, will you ever learn to speak?"

He shrugged, and took his own drink. Then, with a spark of mischief, he upended the contents of the bottle over her head, listening to her squeal in surprised protest. "Trowa Barton!" she yelled, tackling him. "You are SO in for it!"

He was a trained terrorist and had the benefit of years of experience in the war, yet like a good younger brother, he let her drive him to the ground. She grinned evilly at him. "I think you deserve a good tickling!"

Trowa's eyes widened as her deft fingers worked their torture on his neck and under his arms. Laughing, he tried to get away from her, but she persisted.

The passed year had been the most joyous in his life. Together, with Catherine and the rest of the circus, he had learned what family and what joy was. He did not miss the war, had tried to put it as far from his thoughts as possible. Sometimes he would think of the others, and had even toyed with the idea of contacting them, but decided that they had their own lives. He was the one who had had nothing before the war- if he was doing this well, he was positive the others were doing even better.

Catherine had spent much of the last year breaking down the barriers that Trowa had put up throughout his life. They had helped him survive in the past, but now they could only inhibit the bright future that lay ahead of him. Already the two were talking about starting their own circus, or possibly buying out the one in which they already performed.

Trowa's slow smile became more frequent, and Catherine taught him how to laugh. It was something he hadn't known before, and the simple life they led together made him happier then he ever dreamt he could be. He had always assumed that he would die young; now, he had hope for a future. His war with OZ had reaped personal benefits he hadn't even begun to manage.

Catherine hated it when he got contemplative. It tended to send him into depressions, and she shook him out of them with determination. This time she merely pinched him sharply directly below the ribs. "Eh, Trowa, you know the rules. No brooding." She waved a reprimanding finger in his face, smiling teasingly. "What do you have to brood about, anyway? Did you notice all the girls checking you out tonight?"

He blushed. Catherine was an unrepentant matchmaker, and seemed to think that finding the perfect girlfriend for her beloved brother was a wonderful past time. So far Trowa had fought her in his own quiet way, but both of them knew it was only a matter of time before he gave in. He could deny her nothing. She was the first person who had ever loved him, and he returned her love with a fierce love that was close to obsession. Trowa's world revolved around making her happy.

"I didn't notice," he said after a moment. "They don't really know me- do you notice the men who stare at you?"

She blushed. "Of course. It's a compliment to be appreciated. As long as they realize they can look and not touch, that is," she said, frowning slightly. There had been an incident a few months where one of the spectators had cornered her after the show, believing, in his own psychotic way, that her costume had been an invitation meant for him. Luckily Trowa had been close by and heard her cry for help. She winced as she remembered how thoroughly Trowa had taken the man apart. Never ever upset a trained terrorist. That was what she had learned from that little incident.

He shrugged. "I guess," he agreed reluctantly. His voice was the soft monotone she had grown used to, and suddenly she found the courage to ask something that she had been wondering for a very long time.

"Trowa," she said, her usually mischievous soprano serious.

He noted her unusual behavior, and looked up through his bang, his expression slightly concerned. "Is something wrong?"

"Are you happy, Trowa?" she asked.

He smiled at her. "Every day I spend here is a day that I never thought I'd live to see. I know happiness... I never can remembering knowing it before. Catherine, you know I love you. You're my soeur, and that means so much," he said shyly. He wasn't used to speaking about his feelings.

Tears welled in Catherine's eyes, and she threw herself forward into his arms. "You're my petit frere, and the best family anyone could ever ask for."

He smiled and hugged her tightly, never wanting to let go. Now that the war was over, he knew he didn't have to. The world held so many possibilities.

soeur : French, "sister"
petit frere : French, "little brother"

 
Scene II: The Moon Rises Softly in the Night

 
He couldn't see really much of anything in the darkness, but he was used to it. Darkness and emptiness. The house was quiet and the crescent moon was bright in the sky outside the window, but the thin rays of light didn't quite reach inside. That was always how it was.

The night insects were chirping outside and the flow of the stream in its bed should have been soothing to his ears, but it was foreign to him. The water grated, grated like the whir of gears should have grated on the ears of someone, anyone, who was anyone but him. Because he missed the whir of gears and the whine of engines and the crackle of static. Missed the feeling of power and control sitting in the seat of the greatest war machine ever created and knowing that all of mankind was in his hands.

Funny he couldn't remember the fear that came with it.

He remembered when all he had cared about were the insects and the stream and the sunshine and rain, sitting at his simple table with his scrolls and books around him and writing. He missed the ink flowing out from under his brush like a true river, a fountain of knowledge. Because he had believed knowledge was power. There had been such a time.

It was hard to believe, now.

The ancient volume trembled in his hand and he steadied himself on the ladder, wondering if he really should have lit a candle. Or at least fought down his pride and aversion to mechanical things and turned on the old electric lamp that hung inconspicuously from one corner of the worn ceiling. The bookshelf loomed large and black in the formless darkness.

Reaching forward, he braced himself with one hand, holding the ladder in place, then carefully slid the book onto the shelf. Slowly...ever so slowly...

The ladder tipped.

He gave a squawk as the book flew from his grasp, hanging onto the shelf for dear life as the ladder swayed and fell to the floor with a crash. His sweaty fingers slipped on the wood and he gave another wordless shout as he crashed to the floor on top of the ladder.

"MAXWELL!"

The dust was visible in the moonlight as he sat, blinking, too tired even to wonder why he had suddenly shouted that name while he was falling. He got to his feet, dusted himself off, straightened the ladder. Thought about retrieving the book, but it was too dark. He would have to wait until daylight.

It would have been just like Maxwell to pull a trick like that on him. It had happened before on many occasions to all of the pilots...except it hadn't been a wooden ladder leaning against a bookshelf, but a metal one propped against the leg of Gundanium armor on the hangar floor. As luck would have it, he would always be holding some kind of oil or box of bolts or something that would scatter all over the floor and him and have Maxwell howling with laughter right before he got the living daylights beat out of him by whichever pilot happened to be the butt of the joke.

Maxwell. Duo Maxwell.

Gods, how long had it been since he had thought of him? Of them? Days? Months?

He wanted to believe it was. He wanted to forget. He had come here to forget, after all. Just as he had run away from the memory of her all those years before, he had come here to run away from the memory of them, from the horrible war that had cut short childhood and innocence. He was sick of the smell of blood and sweat and machine fluid and rotted justice.

Sick and intoxicated at the same time, and he had to run away.

That was beautiful...

Days, months...hours, minutes. He couldn't stop thinking about them. Couldn't forget. He had put his sword away when he had come here. The stream outside flowed into a river which flowed into the ocean several thousand miles away and when had stepped off the shuttle he had seen the gleaming white ocean shimmering and knew what he had to do.

The beautiful sword was at the bottom of the ocean now, just like Wing Gundam had been all those years ago. But this time, there was no one there to pull it out. It would remain, until he lost his memories. And even then it would still remain. Winner would have said it was a waste of beauty. Winner had liked beauty, just as that man had...so long ago.

That was so beautiful...

Winner. Quatre Raberba Winner.

The night was just beginning. The moon climbed higher into the sky and he found himself looking at it in resignation, knowing that people on the colony there were going about their business, maybe sleeping, maybe waking, maybe hurrying to destinations important to no one but themselves. Maybe arguing about the great war that had been so unnecessary and just a waste of time and money. Arguing about the stupid pilots of the machines they called Gundams.

They had been stupid.

They had all parted ways, long ago. He didn't expect to hear from them again. It was strange...that the bunch of them would all separate like that and never even care where the others were going. Or at least pretend not to care, because he had cared. He had cared too much to ask. The only one he was certain of was Barton, who had gone back to that circus of his. To his circus and his family. He hadn't asked, but he had known with all certainty that Barton, at least, had found a home to go back to.

Barton. Trowa Barton.

He himself hadn't ever told the others where he had gone. He had packed his belongings, headed out to the hangar where the Gundams stood, so proud and beautiful. Most of the other mobile suits were gone now. The hangar looked bare and huge and empty. So empty.

He hadn't seen the other pilot emerge from the shadows.

"Where are you going?"

Cobalt blue eyes gleamed at him.

"None of your business."

"I knew you would say that."

The black-clad form moved like a cat across the floor of the hangar bay. There was a spare bolt lying on the concrete floor and one sneakered foot kicked it carelessly away, clattering into the darkness. It echoed.

"Why do you want to know?"

Blue eyes shrugged. "No reason. Why shouldn't I know?"

"Damn it. You're not our leader anymore."

A thoughtful pause. "Was I ever?" Emotionless, questioning.

"I'm leaving. Get out of my way."

"Tell me."

"Ask Maxwell."

"Does Maxwell know?"

He didn't want to lie. Not to him. "No. No one knows. It's better that way. I want to be left alone."

He knew the cobalt eyes were watching him, drawing an invisible target on his chest, speaking the silent words inside his own mind, silently, questioning. The war is over. Has the justice you so longed for come to pass?

But instead the other pilot shrugged and stepped aside, motioning him towards the shuttle that stood at the opening of the hangar. "I understand."

He blinked. Looked at the shuttle, looked back at the blue eyes. For a moment, he thought he saw compassion there.

Compassion?

Yuy. Heero Yuy.

The Perfect Soldier.

There was no compassion. He would not have cared if he had died. If they had all died. In fact, he might have even preferred it.

After he left in the shuttle, he had piloted it to a private spaceport, bought a ticket on a passenger liner back to Earth. It felt strange riding in a liner, like being chauffeured to some private party given by some great personage. There were crying babies on board, old men, loud-mouthed women. No other boys his age. He didn't expect any. They had all been killed in the war.

As space slipped by, he watched from the porthole. The small black circle with pinpoints of stars wasn't space. They had killed space, too. Killed the vast sphere of majesty and might that had been space, just him sitting at the controls of one man-made machine in the midst of a vast forever. Space was dead.

He'd gotten off at the spaceport in China and taken a bus. Went back to the old capital and the clearings in which the rebels had fought at the beginning of the war. There were still scorch stains on the ground where no grass would grow.

He built his house there.

It was a simple dwelling made of wood and bamboo and whatever other natural things he could find. The stream he thought would prove an ample source of fish and would soothe him at night and when he was working. He had been a scholar before. Surely he could be one again. He went off to Beijing with a list of book titles he could remember, classics of literature, and bought all of them that he could find. He built bookshelves to house them all.

And when he was finally finished, he couldn't forget.

Sometimes he would jerk awake at night, thinking he heard the alarm and the ship was under bombardment, or that he had been captured and that he was going to die alone in solitary confinement on the Libra. That he was having a nightmare and the war was still going on, up there in the sky with the full moon, and that his Gundam would be waiting for him when he stepped outside, tall and beautiful and silvery in the darkness.

He had fought all for her, at first, for her dead memory, and then for himself, and then for his friends. And then not even for his friends, but he fought because that was all he knew how to do anymore. And when the war was over he was a wreck of a man who had never really been a boy and had nothing left but to go back to the existence he no longer knew.

Alone, as he had always been. The lone dragon, even in the midst of war.

The crescent moon wavered in the sky like the sword that now lay at the bottom of the ocean, covered in silt and sand and no longer beautiful.

It was a pity.

He could still hear that voice in his ears, the point of the sword at his throat, the proud eyes. He had never known there could be someone as proud as...as she had been.

Meilan.

Chang. Chang Wufei.

Kill me! If you don't kill me now, I'll keep coming back until I kill you!

He had thought that was what she would have wanted him to do. He fought for her, after all. But maybe...she hadn't wanted anything.

He wondered if she saw him now, if she would weep for him.

That was beautiful...Wufei.

So beautiful.

 
Scene III : Fencing with Foils and Words

 
She lunged forward, her fencing foil racing towards her opponent's heart. He managed to parry her first blow, then the second, and the next, but in the fast flurry of exchanges, she finally managed to snap his foil hard, knocking it free.

Raising her mask, Dorothy looked at the man who had been her opponent with scorn. "Weak!" she declared. Tossing her long hair back, she glared once, then spun around, storming off.

Making her way to the showers, she started to shed her clothes, carelessly dropping them on the floor. Her maids would pick up after her- they always did. They were constantly picking up after the whirlwind of energy they called Mistress.

Stepping into the shower, she hissed slightly as the hot sting hit her well-toned body. Someone had been messing with the water heater (which she had set for a comfortable 30 degrees), and that meant she was hit by the slightly too-hot water.

She stood under the pounding water for a few seconds, letting her body adjust. Then she took out her favorite bath gel and a sponge and lathered it over her body, starting at her toes, working up her legs and over her hips, around her back and across her breasts. The soap was pleasantly fruity, and she luxuriated in the feel of being clean. It was one of her few sins, she realized. If she had been taken captive during the war, she might have gone nuts just from being unable to wash the daily grime that living produced off her body.

Then she decided it was time for the more difficult task- washing her knee-length hair. It took forever to work the shampoo and conditioner properly, and even longer to rinse it clean. Still, she refused to cut it. She had always had a long banner of hair flying after her, and if she had her way, she always would. She didn't like to think of herself as vain, but recognized that her hair was indeed her best feature.

Half an hour later, she was stepping out of the shower and wrapping herself in a pre-heated towel. Picking up a comb, she attacked her hair again, working out the snarls. Thankfully, her straight hair never seemed to acquire any untanglable knots, something she was eternally grateful for.

Just as she was finishing up, a knock sounded on her door.

"Yes?" she asked in a slightly annoyed voice. The staff knew very well that her bath time was sacred, and interrupting her without a damn good reason was enough to get a servant fired.

The voice that replied was trembling. "I'm very sorry, Lady Dorothy, but your mother is on the vid, waiting to speak with you. She's MOST insistent."

Dorothy growled and started to slide into her clothes. "Tell her I'll be five minutes," she said, hurriedly dressing and stalking to her living room, where the vid screen was.

Dorothy had always prided herself on being a strong woman, yet one person was capable of hitting all her buttons and reducing her to the status of whining child. Her mother.

Her mother's latest hobby horse was Dorothy's unmarried status. Dorothy was only seventeen and didn't see the point. She wanted to marry a strong man, and came to realize that there were none who were stronger then she was. Her family had produced Duke Dermail and Treize Khushrenada- no mere mortal could compare to them. Even some of the Gundam pilots were weak. She remembered battling the peace-loving Sandrock pilot, and thinking he was a poor choice to handle some of the most destructive machinery in the history of the human race. Heero Yuy had been respectable, though; he had understood the true glory and suffering of war. Still, he was Relena's, even if the Wing Pilot was unaware of it.

Relena Peacecraft... Heero Yuy... polar opposites, yet Dorothy understood them. They were drawn to each other, seeing what they needed most. Even though Heero had vanished to God knew where, Dorothy bet anything that he would return to Relena, as he had done before. It was inevitable.

With a groan, Dorothy straightened her jacket and tossed a lock of her damp hair over her shoulders. She wished she had time to blow-dry it, as it took forever to dry on its own, but her mother had been kept waiting long enough. Grunting slightly, she slammed her palm into the switch that would turn the vid screen on, and forced a friendly smile to her lips. "Hello, mother," she said.

Her mother sniffed and raised a hand to her own elegantly coifed hair, pretending to fix the already immaculate arrangement. "Hello, Dorothy. You haven't been returning my calls," she said accusingly.

Dorothy barely refrained from sighing. Looking at Emily Khushrenada Noventa, she wondered, not for the first time, how the woman could possibly be her mother. Emily was motivated by one thing: social status. She believed in marrying well and marrying often. Her latest husband was the brother of the late General Noventa, and Dorothy despised him. Dorothy's father, Leon Dermail Catalonia, had been husband number three and the only one that she hadn't divorced. He had died in a hijacked shuttle incident during the turbulent times leading up to the war, and that had left Dorothy in the hands of Duke Dermail, since Emily was moving onto husband number four, and Dorothy would have been unwanted baggage.

Snapping her attention back, Dorothy mentally chided herself for letting her mind wander. "I've been busy," she answered, trying to keep the resentment out of her voice. Emily only called when something could possibly benefit her... Dorothy hated how self-centered her mother was.

Emily sighed. "Not doing the right things, apparently. I'm sending over a few young men to meet you. Please at least give them a chance. They're all from excellent families."

Dorothy rolled her eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you, I'm only seventeen? I am most definitely not interested in marriage right now!"

Her mother glared at her. "Dorothy, we've been over this. You don't have that much of a choice. You're the last living member of the Dermail family, and you're female. You HAVE to marry so that the Duchy will pass on; since you can't inherit, it's your husband who will become the new Duke, and you'll finally be able to call yourself Duchess!"

"So?" Dorothy asked. "It can wait."

Dorothy watched as her mother, her elegant mother, gnashed her teeth in frustration. "How is it possible you're my child?" she asked rhetorically, voicing the same line of thoughts Dorothy had herself had entertained a few moments before.

"I honestly wish I knew," Dorothy answered. "Please save yourself the trouble and stop trying to matchmake for me."

Emily opened her mouth to protest, but Dorothy slammed the switch again, cutting the connection.

I'm sure I'm going to hear about THAT little rash move, and probably live to regret it, Dorothy thought. But she's so irritating that I can't stand dealing with her ninety percent of the time.

Dorothy leaned back, settling into the chair she had been too tense to sit in during the brief interview. Her mother always set her off.

Uncharacteristically, she wondered if her mother might have had a point. Even though marriage was pushing the envelope, Dorothy had, in the past six months or so, become more and more aware of how far apart she was from the rest of her age group. She had commanded mobile dolls in the final battle, been aboard the Libra, looking death in the eye without flinching, yet she had never been on a date. Seventeen years old and never been kissed, she thought. How pathetic.

She had never really been that interested in the boys her own age. They had seemed so juvenile, and many of them were afraid of her strength. She needed an equal, and she hadn't found that yet.

Only one man had ever set her heart racing. She would dream about him, embarassing dreams that made her flush when she woke up. Long blonde hair, beautiful blue eyes... Zechs Merquise...

She shook her head, trying to drive those unwanted thoughts from her mind.

 
Scene IV : An Accusation and a New Identity

 
"You're powerful and relatively mysterious, sir," said the face on the comm screen, "and you don't care for media attention. That's why you're getting all this coverage."

Milliard Peacecraft threw the thick newspaper down on the desk, running one hand through golden hair, now only a fraction of the length it had been during the war. The hair had been frustrating and heavy and a vainglorious ornament of his youth. So he'd cut it off.

"You'd think they'd understand why I don't care for media attention!" He paused, started to add something to the outburst, then shook his head. "Make it go away," he said between gritted teeth. "Tell them..."

"Tell them what, sir?"

"Never mind."

The girl on the screen frowned at him, curving perfectly shaped eyebrows. She was seductive even when she frowned, seductive even in uniform. Milliard sighed.

"That's all for now, Captain Harper. I'll call you when I need you."

"Of course, sir," the silken voice said, and the screen flickered and went black, in the shape of a flower petal. Damn. Girls these days...

One hand strayed to the bulky paper he'd thrown on the desk, and almost unwillingly he pulled it to him, allowed himself to lift one corner of it and view the front page in all its disgusting glory.

"COMMANDER MILLIARD PEACECRAFT: SORDID AFFAIRS DURING THE WAR," it read. On it was a photo of him and Treize, obviously doctored to make it look like he and the OZ commander had been doing something they had most certainly not been doing. The tabloid promised "sizzling stories and hotter pictures" of his so-called "trysts" with various ladies and gentlemen of the OZ and Federation circles.

He flipped through the pages again, knowing already what the photos would hold. He didn't know where the tabloid editors had gotten those pictures, but they were the most crudely doctored photos he had ever seen. Him posing with a female Federation general. Him and some male officer kissing. Him and Treize...

Milliard's fingers were shaking and he had to put down the paper, letting it fall this time, too tired and too drained to even throw it across the room like he would have a year ago. A year ago he would have been filled with righteous rage, ready to go out and avenge himself upon the perpetrators of this horrid act. A year ago he wore his hair long and golden and his helmet silver and bright, fighting for what he called justice and the kingdom he thought he believed in, fighting a war that had ended up killing the only person in the world he had ever truly cared about.

Treize had been like the father he had lost too early in his childhood. Treize had had a vision, a belief of how the world should work, and he had believed in Treize. Had...

He didn't know how that belief ended.

He didn't know how Treize had died.

The blip on the monitors had faded suddenly in the midst of battle, and Tallgeese just wasn't there anymore. The sense of hollow loss he had felt should have been for the machine that he had so fondly taken care of and that Lieutenant Otto had given his life for, but instead he had gone back to his ship and wept for the man who had believed in him even when that belief was not returned.

When he "regained his senses," as he liked to think of it, he'd gone back to Earth and raided Treize's private mansion, looking through all his papers and going through private belongings. No one minded. No one cared, except for maybe Lady Une, and she hadn't been the same since Treize's death. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he kept looking. He had never found it.

Treize's will had named him sole heir of the Khushrenada estates and all Treize's possessions. He had kept the house but sold all the miscellaneous items: the stocks and bonds, the antiques that Treize had apparently kept stocked up in hundreds of storehouses. He had been an elegant man, Colonel Khushrenada.

And now he was Colonel Peacecraft.

Not Merquise anymore, he reminded himself again as he reached for the drawer to pull out a stack of paperwork. Relena wouldn't allow him to keep his old name, even if he'd have wanted to hide under it again after the war ended.

"I'm Queen of the World," she said, "And I won't have a coward for a brother."

He didn't love her.

She was in love with that boy, Heero Yuy, the Gundam pilot. Sometimes when he looked at her, he saw bits of Heero in her. He wondered if she even realized it, or if she was still in mourning for the boy who she believed had forsaken her, forsaken the world after his part in this drama was played out. Relena always felt things too deeply, but he supposed that was to be the fate of those who had been tied to people like the pilots, to people like him.

If the tabloids ever got wind of who the Gundam pilots actually had been, there would be an uproar.

Milliard's hand paused slowly as he reached for his keyboard. Tabloids? It didn't have to be tabloids. Real news sources...holonet, television, interspace broadcasts...

No one knew who the pilots had been.

He wondered briefly how large the uproar would actually be, the truth that the killers behind the war had been fifteen year old boys piloting machines with capabilities for mass destruction, then dismissed it with a shake of his head. It wasn't worth the thought or effort. He had fought those boys fairly in combat, and they had been warriors, both in strength and honor. He wouldn't ever compromise them for that.

Respect for an opponent was one thing Treize had taught him.

There were three messages from General Une on the computer and one from Sally Po, wondering about the tabloid. So they had gotten wind of it too. Must have been that over-talkative executive officer of his. Milliard deleted the emails, deciding that telling the story in person would have a much better effect than trying to explain electronically.

Une had discarded her "Lady" title after the war, discarded the glasses and the hairdo, and formed the Preventers to keep galactic peace. Ironic. Sally Po, apparently one of the Chinese rebels who'd helped the colonies against OZ, had joined her. Most of the OZ pilots and cadets in training had followed, either seeing no better alternative or needing something to do after the war was over. Some were court-martialed. Some went insane. Milliard pitied them.

And Lieutenant Noin...

Lucrezia Noin had disappeared.

According to Une, she was doing "scouting" elsewhere. Milliard knew better.

It was better this way. He wouldn't have known what to say if he had seen her again, so soon. Even hearing her voice over the speakers on Epyon had been a struggle for him to remember that he was Milliard Peacecraft and no longer Zechs Merquise, Lightning Baron, the man with whom she had fallen in love.

He didn't know if he loved her, either. Didn't know if he had ever loved her. He knew that she had loved him. That much was certain.

It was so hard...being a Peacecraft.

The comm beeped.

"Yes."

"Commander, it's a call from General Une."

"Patch me in. Audio only"

There was a crackle of static, and then the familiar voice came over the comm.

"Good day, Colonel."

"General," he said, sitting with his hands on the keyboard but not typing, tapping short nails against the keys.

"I trust you are doing well?"

"What do you want?" Milliard said, not really caring what she wanted, but wanting to get the conversation over with.

She laughed, as he had known she would. "Cranky in the morning, aren't we? No wonder you didn't want me to see your face. I have an assignment for you, if you would like to take it."

"Any assignment is better than this paperwork."

"You might not think so after I brief you."

He blinked. "Is it that bad?"

A pause. "Come see me as soon as you can. I'll give you the details then."

"I will do that. Could I come see you now?"

"I have no problem with that, Colonel." She sounded surprised. Did she actually think he was doing paperwork?

"Yes, ma'am. See you in a few minutes."

The comm clicked off without further word, and he sat back in his chair, flicking off the computer monitor and watching the white screen with the endless rows of words dissolve into darkness. He fingered his short hair. Too short. He hadn't worn it this short since his cadet days.

He wondered what Noin would think if she saw him now. Wondered if she would recognize him.

He wondered what Treize would think.

He knew what Khushrenada would say.

Zechs. What happened to the elegance? What happened to the perfection? What happened to all that I taught you?

Treize had believed that Zechs Merquise could achieve the same fame that he and all the Kushrenada line had achieved in the past. Their pictures hung in the hallway of the mansion, like his own family pictures had hung in the hallway of the Cinq Kingdom palace. Elegance was in their bloodline, their features, their eyes.

Treize had been wrong about him. All he was now was a prince without a kingdom, a warrior without a war, serving second-rate leaders in a second-rate organization.

He got up from his creaking chair, flinging the paperwork carelessly across the desk, glancing at the dark comm screen, seeing his reflection wavering in the black polished surface. Milliard Peacecraft was who looked back out at him now.

He wondered where Zechs Merquise had gone.

Act 0 Part IV | Act I Part II | Back to Sainan no Kekka