SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING

SAINAN NO KEKKA
ACT XI, PART II

 
 
Scene V: Tales of the Jade Emperor

 
The Kashmir base command center was in ruins.

Sally Po would have preferred to take the base completely intact, but destruction was part of war, and she'd known the Preventers wouldn't give up this base without a fight. At first, she had been surprised that Une hadn't sent more troops down here. But then thinking about it, she had realized that since the World Nation was established, the scaling back of combat troops had left the Preventers stretched thin - too thin. It was something that she, as second-in-command, had had to deal with in the past, but she never had really thought that it would someday work to her advantage.

Most of the northern part of the base was still burning when the Liberation Forces moved in, and Sally's first orders were to put out the fire, salvage as much data they could from the collapsed command center, and to find Trowa Barton.

How the hell had Trowa Barton come to end up in a missile silo, controlling the most dangerous weapons in the world?

Gils-Reve had asked her that, incredulously, as she keyed off the system after she'd realized who he was. "That can't be Barton," he'd said. "They wouldn't send him out here, in harm's way! Not with everything else that's going on!"

"No," she had said softly in return, staring at the image of the burning command center in her crosshairs on the scope. "That's precisely what the world thought." She placed a hand on the warm metal of Heavyarms, her newest prize. "We took Barton's weapons, but we didn't take his purpose."

"What?" Gils-Reve said.

She smiled at the naiveté in his voice. "That's what the world doesn't understand about the Gundam pilots, Gils-Reve. They could have lost their Gundams, lost their hiding places, lost their colonies. But that's not what drove them. They're not like common soldiers, who fight until they no longer have the means to fight. The Gundam pilots had a purpose. Something deeper than them, something deeper than war, something that defined them."

"I don't quite follow you," her aide confessed.

Sally had shaken her head and smiled bitterly. "Neither does most of the world. That is why Quatre Raberba Winner is going to lose this trial. And that is why, in 72 hours, the World Nation will have one less colony."

I'm sorry, Trowa.

She wasn't really sorry. Not in the way that people usually meant sorry, not in the I'm-sorry-I-broke-your-window kind of sorry or the I'm-sorry-your-father-died kind of sorry. But there was a knot inside her heart as she said the words, a strange ache that she knew would be there and wasn't sure how to get rid of.

If Trowa hadn't been in that silo, maybe she wouldn't have been sorry. If it had been anyone but one of the Gundam pilots. But his presence had startled her.

Because if he was here, what if she was wrong?

And what if the World Nation and the Preventers were right?

It was that moment of indecision, where she could have turned back and said that what she had done was wrong, could have perhaps gotten away with it and the world could have moved on with its life. With the crucifixion of the Gundam pilots and the trial of Quatre Raberba Winner and never known what the pilots had fought for, because the giant gluttonous maw of the World Nation would have destroyed it.

The pilots had fought against the Federation for the liberation of people, and the World Nation was just another Federation.

She had thought Wufei would understand that, but perhaps two years had been a little too long. In the end, he wasn't strong enough. And Trowa too. She didn't blame Quatre, because he was being held up as the shining martyr for all the pilots, but she would have thought the rest of the former pilots would have flocked to her cause. They'd fought for independent colonies, independent nations, and now all they were doing was hiding.

That was all right - she would be strong for all of them. One day, after all this was over, they would understand.

I understand that war is not the means to all ends, Sally. Treize taught me that. I know that now. That was why Treize died. Are you going to throw his sacrifice away, Sally? Are you going to let his death mean nothing?

Treize was WRONG! Treize didn't care about the people! Treize cared only about himself!

Only two years after his death, Treize Khushrenada, the ruthless man who had murdered thousands and committed some of the most atrocious acts of war in the history of war, was being marked as a hero. And this was by the very people who had been his worst enemies.

The world was crazy, Sally Po decided, watching the mobile suits clear away the worst of the rubble outside as others salvaged as much as they could out of the center's networks and defense systems. The wing headquarters building, where she had set up base, was surprisingly almost untouched except for a few broken windows.

While her troops had moved in, she'd found the old base commander's office and proceeded to convert into her own personal war room. The room was wide, with large windows that reminded her somewhat of Une's office in Geneva. But while Une's office was small, efficient, and functional, this base commander had obviously been fond of luxury items. Sally had gotten rid of most of those quickly - where there had once been an expensive painting on the far wall, there was now a comm screen, and where expensive glass statuettes had stood in the bookcase were now mounds of battle reports.

The sun was rising in the east, obscured through a haze of ash and lingering battle haze. In the center of the base, where only half of the hospital was still standing, ambulances and armored vehicles commandeered for ambulance duty were making runs, shuttling wounded and dead back and forth from the battlefield to the operation table or to the makeshift morgue. They hadn't meant to hit the hospital, one of Sally's squadron commanders had guiltily reported to her, but one of the mobile suits had fired a heavy missile right as a Preventers suit had gotten it from behind, and both the suit and the missile had crashed headlong into the Kashmir medical center.

But it was war, and one couldn't afford to shed too many tears in war.

The door opened and she looked around, but it was just Gils-Reve, making a paper run. She'd designated him errand boy, since they were still trying to get the computer network up and running, and he had been tearing up and down the stairs all night with information, reports, statistics, and orders from her to various operational commanders around the base.

The scent of coffee caught her nose, and she turned around fully as he deposited a Styrofoam cup of the poison on her desk. He smiled at her a little self-consciously, obviously conscious of the exhaustion on his features, but she knew she looked equally as tired.

"Thank you," she said.

"They've secured the silo," he said in return. She appreciated that. Mincing no words, getting right to the task at hand. Gils-Reve wasn't the brightest bulb in the bunch, but he'd made it this far and would go a lot farther if he kept his wits about him. "The missiles weren't touched in the attack. They're all online."

"That's good." Taking a sip of the coffee. It scalded her tongue and she made a face at the bitterness of it, but she forced herself to keep drinking. "And the...prisoner?"

Gils-Reve's expression did not falter. "Barton's being held in a maximum security cell. We've got guards on him at all times." A slight hesitation, one that someone else besides Sally might not have noticed. "They were going to...drug him, but I stopped them."

She sighed. "Take him to the hospital."

He froze in mid-motion. "What?"

"Take him to the hospital," she said again. "Give him a medical checkup. He needs it."

"But-"

"He won't try to escape," she cut him off curtly. "Don't argue with me."

A plethora of emotions flitted across Gils-Reve's face, then vanished, leaving him simply looking tired. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

She smiled at him, and he mustered a faint smile back before making a gloomy exit, trying valiantly to look confident, smart, refreshed. The effect was spoiled by the slump in his back, but she didn't say anything. If she could, she'd tell him to get some rest, but there wasn't anyone else she trusted as much as him, and these 72 hours were critical.

She wished Li were here. Li was ten times as smart and reliable as Gils-Reve - but Li was needed elsewhere. After the colony was destroyed, when the real work would begin, she'd move Li to her headquarters here.

The clock read 0450, and the squadron commanders would be here any minute. She put the coffee cup down and proceeded to mechanically clear her desk of all the reports that Gils-Reve had left her, putting them a pile in the corner to be read later. There were a lot of things to be done later - the former base commander hadn't been too vigilant about security, and she had broken most of the high security locks on his desk with ease. The missile defense manual was one of the first documents she'd found, lying almost carelessly in one of the top drawers atop a mound of memorandums.

No matter how good Une was, there was always a weak link. That was one of the first rules of war, after all. To achieve an advance that cannot be hampered, rush to the enemy's weak points. She'd always had a fondness for Sun Tzu.

Ironic that she was quoting his words back at herself now, the words of a Chinese general long dead. She wondered if he would have been proud of her, fighting for China like this.

Because China is like that. Because she loves all the sons and daughters who come back to her. Even people like you and me, who have no home.

She tried to shake Wufei's voice out of her mind, trying instead to remember her mother's voice quoting proverbs to her. Squinting at the sunlight through the window, she wondered if her parents would be proud of her.

"The death of the heart," she whispered softly to the empty room, "is the saddest thing that can happen to you..."

A knock on the door. Hurriedly, she finished pushing the papers to the edges of the desk, making sure her laptop was booted up, then turned towards the door, calling for them to enter.

They didn't look like commanders, but rather like common soldiers. Most of them still had the dust and grime of the battlefield on their faces, having been out there digging and clearing away rubble alongside their men. They were dressed in civilian clothes - torn jeans, ragged jackets and scuffed boots, and a few had handguns in holsters at their belts, but most were unarmed. She had had nine squadron commanders in total when the attack had begun, but two had been injured, and one was now lying outside the Kashmir base hospital with a sheet over him. She would have written to his family, but he hadn't divulged that information to anyone when he had joined her ranks a year ago.

She flicked on the comm screen as they trudged on in and took their seats on the uncomfortable metal chairs she'd arranged around the desk. A fuzzy map of the globe appeared on the screen, blinking a few times before settling into position, and she grabbed her light pointer from the edge of the desk with one hand, the remote control with the other. With a push of a button, the map lit up with lights.

"Good morning," she said. "I apologize for the impromptu setting, but this will have to do. We haven't got much time."

Weary smiles on tired faces. "We'll make do," said the long-haired main on her far left, his dark skin and back still damp with sweat. "The air conditioning itself is a real treat, anyway."

Sally allowed herself a brief smile. "I'd like to congratulate all of you, first, on a job well done. We hit them hard, we hit them fast, and we did what we came to do. I'll stress again to you the element of surprise. Our numbers are growing, but we can't forget that the Preventers still have the upper hand in most everything. We've won a battle, but we have yet to win the war."

Agreement on every face. Kashmir was the first step in a long plan that had involved many long hours and sleepless nights over the past year. She hadn't been able to sit in on most of the planning, having still been at Geneva as second-in-command to Une, but Li had given her reports, and she'd promoted accordingly. The men and women sitting here were tough, hardworking, and loyal, and they'd fought and sacrificed much for this moment.

"Before we begin the briefing, I'll go around the circle and ask on status. I've got papers over here-" she waved at Gils-Reve's teetering pile on the desk corner, "but I'd prefer to hear it in person myself. Commander Trenchard?"

The dark-skinned man nodded. "I've got twenty injured, but the rest are out working the ruins of the AOC. We should have the center back up and running by midday."

Sally nodded. "Muñoz?"

Muñoz's troops had been one of the squadrons that had captured a few prisoners. They were in the detention cells on the other side of the base, and Sally had decided they were going to keep any prisoners under maximum security, with the exception of Trowa Barton, and deal with them later. There would be plenty of time for bargaining after the 72 hour World Nation standoff. The rest of the commanders had much of the same issues: rubble clearing or prisoner of war transport. The base seemed to be well on its way to being repaired, and Jacques Albairat, her last squadron commander out of the six, remarked that if they kept this pace up, they'd have a fully functioning base in three days.

"We'll see," Sally said. "There's a difference between being realistic and being overzealous."

He grinned. "Sun Tzu again?"

"No," she said, and the other commanders laughed. "Just my own personal mantra. Not everything I do is based on Sun Tzu, you know."

He arched an eyebrow. "That's what you say now."

"Sun Tzu believed in winning battles," she said, and the laughter subsided. She let her gaze linger on all of them, over their sweaty faces and dirty clothing. "He believed in quick, decisive, and dirty, and so do I. You all joined us for a reason. The Liberation Forces. That's what we call ourselves, because that's what we believe in. We don't want a World Nation or a Federation or any conglomerate of fattened politicians telling us how to govern our own countries. We are all brought together by one cause: the preservation of national identity and the freedom of our individual people, and that's what we're fighting for. In 72 hours, we're going to have hell on our hands, and I want us to be ready to deal with that." Searching their faces for confirmation. "Are we ready?"

Albairat met her gaze squarely. "We are ready. I'm not sitting by here and letting my colony die a slow death while the World Nation squabbles over oil. I'm willing to fight, and fight to the death. You know that."

Sally looked at him thoughtfully, at his tanned skin and the hard, distinctively French, line of his jaw, at the salt-and-pepper hair. Like most of the others, he'd seen his share of combat during the war with White Fang, and then had been shipped off to A007 by the World Nation. But he hadn't been bitter about it. Instead, he'd striven to make A007 a colony that people could be proud of, and Sally had seen that potential in him the first time she'd contacted him and his second-in-command about a deal.

Colonel Davi Morgan was dead now, killed by Lucrezia Noin on A007, but Albairat wasn't beaten yet.

"I'm not asking you to fight to the death for me," she said softly. "That would do you no good. I'm asking you to fight for your countries, because our people all deserve the chance to be free."

Trenchard shook his head. "I think any of us would be proud to die, not necessarily for you, but for our cause - whether it's in the name of the Liberation Forces or just the name of whatever country we fight to defend from the World Nation." He gestured around the six seats, and Sally felt the distinct echo of the three missing men, one who would never return. "There are already some of us who have paid that price."

The sun slanted over the bars of the window, and she shook herself, clicking on the light pen. "Let's not be too somber. I've got some good news from Gils-Reve. He's brought me the reports from the battles at Chavez Command Base and Los Angeles Air Station. Looks like the Americas are ours."

"Not much of a fight, was it?" Muñoz said.

She shrugged. "Doesn't look like it, just as we suspected. Une's been moving troops to Fortaleza to defend the Cancers, but by the time we took Chavez yesterday, they hadn't even gotten the warning yet. The report says a squadron of Preventers mobile suits got up to Chavez just in time to run into a few of ours."

Albairat blew out a breath. "That's good. Another notch on the wall."

"With the missile defenses under our control," Sally said, "we'll soon have a few more notches on our wall. It's just as we thought - the Preventers are pretty much useless right now, so we strike fast and hard and take out as many of them as we can before they can regroup." She pointed the light pen at the map, circling Kashmir, Chavez, and Los Angeles, the three Preventers bases now under Liberation control. "We're going to hit Chi Lai in China and McDonnell down in Australia as planned this afternoon. We could easily take Fortaleza in the next few hours if we needed to, but I just received a message from Commander Garrett, and he says that's not necessary."

Trenchard raised one eyebrow. "Why is that?"

"According to Garrett," Sally said, with some smugness in her voice, "Fortaleza's commander has been deciding it's not worth it to stand up against us and is drafting a surrender notice. We'll take the base intact, and the Cancers along with it. The World Nation is apparently digging its head out of its ass and finally realizing that we're an actual threat, but they won't be organized enough to get their act together in the next two days. By the time they realize that Winner's trial was just a smokescreen, L1 will be gone."

Commander Chao, the Chinese woman sitting next to Albairat, clasped her hands together in satisfaction. "That's excellent. That's less cost to us."

"Along with Lake Victoria," Sally said, "that makes five bases already taken, plus two bases in the next 24 hours and one colony in the next 72. The troops at Lake Victoria should be regrouping after that last Gundam attack. Chao, weren't they your forces?"

Chao grimaced. "I should have been more alert. I never realized Gundams could travel that fast - I never actually saw one during the war. It's more my fault than anything."

"Just make sure the construction and repairs there get underway, and I'll let you off the hook this time. I didn't realize that Une had sent Yuy and Maxwell out either, so don't be too hard on yourself. A Gundam can do a lot of damage, especially an undetected Gundam."

"You said we had several edges against them, ma'am," Trenchard said. "I'd like to know what your plans are, now that we know that Chang is no longer on our side, and Yuy and Maxwell are on the loose. That's three out of five, but three Gundam pilots are enough to make my skin crawl."

With a click of the remote, a new screen came up. "These are the pilot stats," Sally said. "I suppose most of you know that about a week before this, I had Duo Maxwell in my custody. I put him through some simulator exercises, saying that I wanted him to hone his reflexes. I'd installed recorder tapes in the sim so I could go back later and analyze his movements." Another click, and the sim footage was playing on the screen in a square above the stats. "Maybe we can't beat Duo Maxwell or Heero Yuy at their game. But that doesn't mean we can't play a different one."

"Hell," Chao breathed, watching the stats scroll down the page. "He's amazing. I've never seen a pilot that good. Wo bu xin dao."

"If you know your enemy and know yourself," Sally quoted, "you need not fear the results of a hundred battles."

"That's Sun Tzu," Albairat said.

A knock on the door.

"Come in," she said, knowing it had to be Gils-Reve, because she had given specific orders not to be disturbed during the staff meeting. Her aide poked his head in the door, a little shyly.

"Uh...ma'am?"

"What is it, Gils-Reve?"

His gaze darted around at the circle of squadron commanders seated there, then returned to Sally. "Ma'am, I think you should come down to the hospital. Apparently one of our prisoners is more important than we thought."

"Who?" Sally demanded, alarm and curiosity in her voice. "I thought the base commander was killed in the attack on the first day."

"He was," Gils-Reve said. "But you'll never guess who Une sent over to take charge." He shot a meaningful gaze at Albairat. "Commander Albairat might know."

The pieces clicked. "Dermand Etille is still alive?" She felt Albairat stiffen behind her.

Gils-Reve nodded. "He's alive, just out of surgery, and he wants to see you."

 
Wo bu xin dao: Chinese, "I can't believe it."

 
Scene VI: Stairway to Heaven

 
In 70 hours, the sky might fall.

Shinobu waited in his room, staring up at the ceiling, as his mind replaying the cool sound of Sally Po's voice as she issued her threat.

"I have aimed the missile embankment at the colony L1. Within seventy-two hours, if the World Nation has not complied, I will activate the system and destroy the colony."

He didn't doubt she would. Shinobu had met the lady briefly, and knew that she had a certain ruthlessness. He was a good character judge, and Sally's competence was what really stood out in his mind. Unless the Preventers managed to get their act together, the world he had been born on would be destroyed.

Three large cracks spider webbed across the ceiling, and his eyes tracked their paths, imagining strange shapes and paths - paths through the snow, created by the rabbits he had first seen while going to Cliffside. And he here he was now, safe on earth - or as safe as anyone could be in the midst of a world war. Ilene had died in a hallway of this very building. A Gundam pilot - a friend of Duo's - had killed her. Safety anywhere was a joke.

He had seen so many strange and wondrous creatures for the first time on earth, but he wondered if it would ever be where he belonged. Often times he would find himself reverting to mannerisms he had learned on the colonies, mannerisms which were so ingrained as to be part of the very fiber of his being and would always mark him as different.

If there was no Breaks to return to, what would he do? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had known that they were there, the dark world of death and destruction, where you could sell your soul for ten credits and they would ask you for change. There was something enticing about the place his grandfather had called home, and part of him had always known he would lose the battle against Seki and be pulled into their depths, never to surface again.

Except he hadn't. If Sally won, in less than three days, they would be wiped away as though they had never been...

A knock sounded on the door, a staccato rhythm he ignored as dwelled on the reality that was facing him.

"Shin?"

The sound of the door opening, and the click of a latch - the rustle of cloth as someone made their way across the floor assaulting his hearing from what seemed to be a mile away. Nothing was real, nothing except the cracks that seemed to be changing in shape and meaning...

"Shin?"

He still didn't answer her, even though he could feel her beside him. The bed protested her weight as she settled beside him, and he smelled the fragrance she was wearing, some sweet and floral that mixed with the herbal shampoo she had used on her long golden hair.

He loved her hair, the way she twined it into irregular patterns and styles, with clips and decorations that made him long to undo it so it would fall free around her face. He turned his head slightly to meet her concerned blue eyes, and let himself drown in the concern they held.

They were blue, like the sky outside. When he was younger, he would see pictures of Earth, and its sunsets, and wonder how those special effects were being produced. Even though he lived in one of the nicest houses in the Breaks, with tight security and tighter rules, the weather outside never worked the way it was supposed to.

He had asked his nanny about those skies, once.

"What color is the sky?" he had asked as a five year old, still young enough to ask questions. In another two years, he would know better than to do that.

"Take a look outside the window," the young woman had replied grumpily. She didn't like dealing with children, but Seki had bought her from a slave dealer, and her choice was to look after his grandchild, or go into the prostitution circle.

"I mean the real sky, not the one they make for us," he had clarified.

"Blue. The sky is blue," she had replied.

That hadn't seemed right to him, not with all the pictures that had been painted for him. "Then what are sunrises and sunsets about?"

"Those are exceptions. The sky is usually blue. Now shut up and leave me alone," she had ordered him.

She hadn't been a nurturing woman, but she was a good nanny. She managed to teach him what he needed to know, how to read and write, and how to think.

Trust no one, she had whispered the day when she was to leave him. Especially not your grandfather...

It was the most important lesson he had ever learn. It had kept him alive, and sometimes he wondered if she had felt some small amount of affection for him, to dare tell him such a thing. He never learned her name, and he wondered, now and then, what had happened to her. Was she still alive, up on the colony, waiting for an inevitable death?

"I'm okay," he finally whispered, realizing that Helena wanted some kind of response from him.

Soft hands brushed against his cheeks as she cradled his face between his hands, making it impossible for him to look away. "No, you're not," she told him. "You're in shock."

He wanted to deny it, but she always knew him better than he knew himself. That was her gift, the keen understanding of human nature, the ability to pierce through the shadows and darkness which so many people cloaked themselves in like the sunshine that her hair resembled. "Helena..." he whispered, and then his arms were around her, pulling her close.

It was like embracing a ray of sunshine, and he suddenly became aware of how very cold he had been. Her body was soft and feminine, and she tasted like summer and everything that was sweet and good in the world.

He expected her to gasp, but again she surprised him, moving so her body settled evenly on top of him, and her face completely replaced the cracks in the ceiling in his line of sight. Her mouth was welcoming, and kiss trailed into another kiss.

Shinobu fell out of his fantasy, suddenly aware that they were two teenagers, alone in a room, on a bed...

The inevitable happened.

He wasn't sure who started it, but it was he who definitely took control. His fingers raced over her body, fumbling through her clothes, and hearing her gasp as he explored. Her hands followed after his, mirroring his, trying to keep pace as he freed her of her clothes.

It wasn't glorious, like in love stories or movies. It was rough and clumsy, and halfway through he realized that she had never had sex before. The idea almost shocked him enough to stop, but by then he was too far gone to care.

After, he had to find the energy to roll them over so his weight wasn't on top of her. She was so much smaller than he was, he realized, a difference that he hadn't completely appreciated until now. It took a while until their breathing returned to a pace which resembled normal. At some point he had thrown an arm over his eyes, as though to keep himself from admitted the truth. But then she shifted, and he felt the brush of her skin against his.

"Why?" he asked. "How?"

An uncomfortable silence lasted far too long. The recriminations had begun. "Chris and I... we thought... we talked about it, and we decided to wait until we were married," she said finally. Her head was on his chest, and he felt, more than heard her voice, as it vibrated against him.

She was too sweet, he knew. His arm fell down, to cover her back, and he clung to her as though she was the life preserver in an stormy ocean. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "Are you okay?"

She glared at him. "Don't get all macho on me, Shinobu. I can make my own decisions, and I choose to make love to you," she said.

He hadn't considered that, but they had made love. It wasn't like the times he had spent with the whores on L1. He hadn't had to look at the fear or lifelessness, or worry about contracting something. She had been passionate, exploring and demanding satisfaction even as she gave him what he asked for. It was an exchange, a sharing.

She had lacked the professional's experience, but it had been 100 times better.

He didn't know what to say, but instead leaned over and kissed her again, to which she replied gladly.

He hated it, waiting.

Patience was an assassin's friend, but he had always known that eventually he would be given leave to act. Now, though, he was trapped on Earth, in their fancy base, in the guest quarters, only able to hear what was going on, and it was driving him crazy.

The room was too small to contain him and his rage.

He stalked back and forth like a caged panther, counting the three and a half steps it took to cross it sullenly, watching the vid screen like it was a bad dream. Every news network was flooded with images of the news, constantly replaying the clip of Po's voice, coolly informing all who would hear that she intended on destroying the colony.

He thought of them, of Steel and Twitch and Matsuko, of those he still knew in the Breaks. There was no way they'd be able to get off in time, if the missile was fired. If not for a twist of fate, he would still be up there, probably unaware of the cataclysmic threat pointed at him.

He had hated the Breaks, hated the hopelessness, but he had understood them. He had known that he was going to die there, and die young. He had had that certainty in his life, but he had accepted that. The rules of the game had been clear there, black and white, and he had always won. He and Wing had fought them, and they had been the best. They might be killed, but they'd take their enemy out with them.

Now he was mixed up in a world colored in shades of gray, where no one was what they seemed, where the white hats killed each other and no one kept their name, and partners left you alone when something better came along. Now the world told you you weren't who you thought you were, but some great scientific legacy of a forgotten cartel, and the grandson of the yakuza leader was trying to be his friend of all things, and the girl he finally admitted he loved turned out to be the sister of the richest man in the world. Now he was in a world where he didn't know who the enemy was, and he couldn't solve his problem by killing it.

I want to go home, he thought for the thousandth time, and then stopped abruptly, realizing the stupidity of the thought. His home was about to be destroyed by a freedom fighter fighting for some "greater ideal" he didn't even give a shit about, and he still thought about wanting to go home?

Did he? Did he really still want to go?

Yes, the Breaks were his home, with the scum and the murderers, with the assassins and whores. The weather system that never quite worked right, and the taste of bad food, and the high of illegal drugs. He needed to be back there, where he knew the rules, and while things weren't black and white, and least he knew how to tell the shades of grey apart.

But he was helpless. He was just the refuse of a boy who ended up being the ideal of perfection, someone who Wing had needed only when fallen in shadows, but when he had finally returned to the light, Darkflight had been left behind. There was no place for him, no place for them.

"It's the end of us, isn't it?" he whispered. "Is it time to find a new partner?" he wondered.

Wing had chopped his hair, removing part of the past.

Their codename had been Shaddowwing...

He was Wing's shadow. And no one could exist without their shadow.

His partner had accepted a mission and was out there already.

It was time the other half of Shadowwing to begin his part of the mission, even if Wing wasn't there to plan it with him.

On L1, he had done most of the business end of their work. Wing forgot to collect payment sometimes, or would accept too little if he was distracted. Darkflight was more practical, the strategist, looking at things step by step. Wing was able to grasp a larger picture than Darkflight ever had seen - and it was time to step back and think like Wing.

"Fucking world peace. Wing never did accept the easy missions," Darkflight muttered to himself. "But he always accepted things he could do."

Step back, evaluate, he told himself. What are your tools, what is your obstacles, and what is your goal? Be practical, he told himself.

Goal: To go home, and do something about the mess there. Skills: I have myself, my wits, and my skills as an assassin. Obstacles: The Preventers, Sally, and the whole damn Breaks which won't take anything I do kindly.

He growled, running a hand through his short hair. The obstacles seemed impossible. There was no way the Preventers would let him off the base, and even if he could get off the base, he would have to figure out how the hell to get to a world everyone was abandoning. The screen blazed another announcement, saying that the politician's families were being evacuated for their own safety, and he felt his jaw twitch in irritation.

No, he wasn't a Gundam pilot. No one was going to supply him with what he needed. No one even knew he existed -

Except the Seki brat.

Possibilities began to race through his head.

It was ridiculous, but sometimes instinct was the best thing he had. He had now way to tell where the hell the bastard was, but if he tried to find him...But it was better than staying put, and helpless.

Staring at the screen, he saw some bright wit had put a timer countdown in the lower corner of the screen. Less than 69 hours, and things would be decided, one way or another.

Muttering to himself, he opened the door, shutting it behind him softly. Once out in the hallway, he approached one of the Preventers who was patrolling, and asked for directions. It was a bit of a problem because he couldn't remember what name the Seki kid was using, but when she finally understood who he was inquiring after, she politely escorted him right to the doorway before returning to the station.

He lingered outside, unable to take the final step. The oak door seemed to be an unsurmountable barrier, brown and taunting.

He did not want to do this. Perhaps he should return to his room-

No! Aren't you running away? Have you ever backed out of a contract or challenge before?

He had had enough of being pushed and pulled.

They've been manipulating you since you've arrived. You've been discarded and useless, and now that you have the chance to make your own decisions, you've running from it. Why?

He was afraid.

Afraid?

Yes. He was afraid.

Of what?

Failure. If he failed, he would die.

But didn't you face that every day?

Yes, but before no one else was counting on him. If he failed this time, so much could go wrong, and thousands of people would suffer, thousands of people he didn't know.

Why do you care?

Why did he? He didn't know - but he did. And he couldn't back away. He had accepted the mission.

Knocking on the door, he waited fifteen seconds before barging in.

Seki was sitting on a bed with the blonde girl he had since him with before, and there was a flush to their faces that made Darkflight smirk.

They smelled like sex, he recognized. He knew the scent too well, having spent money on the whores himself, and seeing Atsuki and Heero moments after as the pleasure lingered in their eyes. The girl was blushing as he stared at her, but her blonde hair made him think of Atsuki. She had blue eyes, too, but they didn't really look that much alike. Her skin was a healthy tan and graced with full curves that was at odds with his memory Atsuki's too-thin, waifish figure.

He didn't feel awkward. This was close to his world, and he knew the rules. Be direct, be confrontational, battle the opponent.

The Seki heir stared at him suspiciously, his eyes narrowing as his slender body maneuvered between him and the girl. "What do you want?" he demanded in Japanese.

"You wanted to be my friend," he replied harshly. "But I don't need friends."

"So? Get the hell out of here!"

"I need a partner," he said, rocking back on his heels. He hadn't thought of taking another partner since Wing, and it hurt. This was admitting that he would never be with Wing again, but he knew the truth.

Wing was Heero Yuy. Darkflight was the shadow of someone who had never existed.

He couldn't have shocked the other more if he had slapped him. "What the fuck do you want from me? I'm the Seki heir - I thought you hated me!"

The girl said something he didn't understand, but he guessed well enough. He smiled, baring white teeth.

"I don't like you, but you're not worth hating. You and I have a common goal, I think. We both care too much about that cesspit we call home." Raising a hand, he pointed his index finger towards the ceiling. "You, Seki Takeru, are going to go back with me and help me finish what Heero Yuy started."

"Heero Yuy was trained to avenge the colonies against the Earth!" Shinobu said, horrified.

"Not that one. The first one - the one who tried to bring peace."

 
Scene VII: Falling Further In

 
The hospital was white, like all other hospitals he'd been in before, and even the waking up was familiar to him. It was always the same after every operation, and he had the scars on his body to prove that he had been in more engagements than he cared to count and had been injured in far more than he should have. That was before, when he was younger, more reckless.

There was no beeping of life support equipment, no morbid reminder that he might not make it this time. There was barely any pain.

The door opened.

"General Etille?"

He turned his head towards the door, to the doctor in the coat with the Preventers symbol on both shoulders. "I'm awake," he said. "I think."

"You sustained heavy damage to both shoulders and received some shrapnel wounds after the command center collapsed," the doctor said, reading from his clipboard, "and sprained your left leg. But other than that, everything checks out."

One corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "You make me sound like I'm a mobile suit," he said.

"You're well enough to leave the hospital, sir. They told me to notify them when you woke up again."

"'They' being Sally Po and her gang?"

The doctor looked wildly around, and Etille resisted the urge to laugh. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sympathetic at all. "I forget now and then that the Liberation Forces are the masters of the universe now."

"That's not funny, sir," the doctor said, and Etille saw the pain in his eyes, the weariness, and realized that he'd probably been up all night operating on patients, both Preventer and Liberation, and was probably exhausted.

"You're right," he said softly. "I'm sorry."

"We lost the battle," the doctor said curtly. "Half the base personnel are prisoners of war and the other half are dead. Being sorry won't help anymore."

Trowa Barton, Etille thought to himself, but didn't say anything, didn't want to make the other man angrier than he probably already was. Trowa hadn't fired those missiles. That had to be the only reason that the base had fallen, because if he had fired them, Sally's forces would be a smoking hole in the ground, as would she.

He would ask himself why Trowa hadn't fired them after all, but he thought he already knew.

For a brief moment, he felt a pang of sorrow for the young soldier who was only a boy after all, then pushed it away.

"I'd like to see Sally Po," he said, and the doctor jumped, as if the very name would summon her presence to the room. "Could you tell 'them' that I need to talk to her, please?"

"But sir-"

"I think," Etille interjected gently, "that she would be very interested in hearing what I have to say."

Trowa must have fallen asleep after they had closed the heavy cell door on him, because the next thing he knew was that they were rolling the door back and two guards with machine guns strapped to their backs were hauling him off his resting place on the floor.

"You're going to the hospital," one of them grunted, and he opened his mouth to ask why, but then decided it was not wise to anger two of Sally's troops, both who had guns, and from the looks of things, knew how to use them. They wouldn't send green troops to guard one of the most valuable prisoners in the world.

He felt no guilt for what he had done - or rather, for what he had not done, disobeying an order, betraying the trust that Une and Etille had had in him. He didn't feel much of anything. It didn't matter now, anyway. Perhaps the Preventers would lose the war, perhaps the World Nation would fall, perhaps Sally's forces would construct a new government. That had nothing to do with him. All he knew was that he would likely never see Catherine again.

For that, he was guilty.

What were orders in the end, anyway? Pieces of paper, words from someone's mouth. People were real. He still didn't know if he could have killed Sally. Heero might have been able to, but he was not Heero Yuy. Trowa Barton was just a common soldier, and the one time he had questioned an order, the world would suffer for it.

They wouldn't kill the pilots, not if Sally was in charge. Sally would try to save them all, but he knew that the rest of them would have rather died.

"Into the van," the guard grunted, jabbing him in the back with the butt of the gun, not hard enough to cause pain, but enough so that he ducked his head and climbed obediently into the back of the military van, the leg irons chafing his ankles. The engine started and he rubbed his hands together against the handcuffs, wondering if it was worth it to try to escape, then decided that it wasn't. Where would he go?

Catherine probably hated him now.

The hospital was only a short distance away and the guards watched him warily as he clambered down awkwardly from the back of the van. He felt eyes on him, knew that bystanders, no matter if they were patients or medical personnel or soldiers, recognized him. Part of the hospital was in ruins and he gazed around curiously at the large cranes and mobile suits clearing away debris, before one of the guards shoved him in the back with his rifle again.

"Eyes straight ahead. You don't need to be looking around."

The doctors on duty were mostly Preventers doctors, and he ignored their stares, knowing that they would be tired, haunted, looking to him as either some kind of hero or some kind of devil, and he didn't want to see that. It would be nice to be a physician, having just one duty no matter what side the patient was on, and Sally, having been a doctor once herself, had obviously respected that code and sent the Preventers doctors to work on her troops.

The hallway smelled like smoke and a bitter, sterile scent that stung his nose. The guards steered him into a large, white area that had obviously once been a waiting area but was now a makeshift field hospital. The sign above the door read "Intensive Care," and there were three more guards at the door, all with weapons.

"I'm not injured," he said, and the guard shrugged.

"Orders were to bring you here. You're getting a checkup."

"I don't need a checkup," he began, and the guard growled.

"Watch it, kid. You may have been the world's biggest hotshot, but you're a prisoner of war now, and I'm in charge of you."

Trowa did not answer. The nurse behind the desk cast him one frightened glance, her uniform marking her as one of the Preventers also, but if she was looking for comfort, she would get none from him. Trowa Barton was no more than a common criminal after all. Sometimes you couldn't deny your origins, no matter how hard you tried to rise above them. His oyabun had been wrong.

There were patients lining the walls of the room, all of them with the familiar Preventers patch. Most of them lay on cots that had been erected hastily around the room, and the less seriously wounded lay on blankets on the ground. The Kashmir hospital was not a small building, and he could only imagine the total number of wounded soldiers if they had resorted to using waiting rooms as infirmaries.

It was his fault that these people had been injured. That they were now prisoners of war on their own turf. Trowa Barton, coward.

"Trowa Barton," said someone, and he looked up to see a doctor gesturing as there was a rustle and a murmur from the wounded around the room. The guard motioned to him, and he slowly moved forward with an uncomfortable sensation building inside him. With a start, he realized that it was shame. That he was ashamed to be seen in front of all these soldiers as the coward he was, sitting safely inside a missile silo while all of them had been out risking their lives, and then at the end unable to do his duty.

"I'm not injured," he said curtly to the doctor, and the man gave him a helpless look.

"I do what I'm told to do, sir," he said. "And I was informed that you needed a checkup, just in case."

He found the blood stains in the front of the doctor's coat and fixed his eyes on them, as if he could account for his sins by drinking in the sight of the sacrifices of those other soldiers out in the room, of those who had died for him. "Don't call me sir," he said softly. "I'm not a soldier anymore."

"You're looking well, General," the female voice remarked, and Etille didn't turn to look at Sally as she entered the room. He had heard her footsteps coming down the hall, knew she had arrived, and didn't think he could look at her just yet.

He might be tempted to rip her eyes out, which would be a very bad thing because both of his hands were immobilized and he would just fall to the floor and have to be put back together again.

"I'm really sorry for this," Sally continued. He wondered if she enjoyed gloating over her victims. "But this is war, and war is an ugly business."

"I've been a soldier all my life," Etille said to the wall. "And I've learned that nothing is as ugly as treachery."

"You can't complain you haven't been treated well," Sally said. "What other enemy have you known who conquers enemy territory and then entitles prisoners of war to full medical care and lodging?"

Etille gave a short bark of a laugh. "Don't bandy words with me, woman. You're required to do that now under military law."

"Your military law is not my military law," Sally said, her voice cold. "The World Nation is nothing more than an incompetent group of fools who cannot comprehend the world as it truly is. And that is why they will ultimately fail."

He turned in the bed to look at her. It was surprising how knowing someone's true colors could change perception, and the woman standing before him seemed to him now to be frigid, unfeeling, cruel. There were few things as repugnant to him as treachery, and though he wasn't a soldier because he enjoyed it, there was still an element of chivalry to the business, a line that should not be crossed.

Sally Po had crossed it.

"You might see the World Nation as a bunch of fools," he said, with the same chill in his voice that she'd had in hers. "But like it or not, the World Nation is the vision of the future. I helped make that future. The Gundam pilots helped make it. General Une helped make it."

"I'm not going to argue with you," she said tightly. "You're a prisoner of war, and after this missile standoff is over and L1 has been destroyed, I'll make sure that you get the sentence you deserve."

"And what is that? Death? Disgrace?" He laughed again. "I've been a soldier all my life, Sally. Don't try and scare me with those."

"I don't think you see the point, General," she said softly. "No, I don't plan to put you on trial at all. I'm going to let you go, because you don't really believe in the World Nation, do you? You might have been on Une's side for a while, but in the end, you've always fought for whoever you happen to encounter at the moment. You've been a soldier all your life, as you said, but you don't know what soldiering is."

Despite himself, he felt a wave of rage wash over him "You-!" he bellowed, trying to lunge out of the bed, but luckily, the hanging cast on his left leg prevented him from toppling off the structure to the floor. Sally watched impassively.

"Commander Albairat is here with me," she said, obviously enjoying his reaction to that name. "He had some matters to take care of, but I'm sure he'll accompany me on another one of my visits."

"You're low, woman," he snarled, unable to think of any worse insult, and she merely shrugged.

"He is a good commander. As he managed to defeat you on A007, I'd have to say he's better than you."

His brain was still fuzzy from the vestiges of the drugs they'd given him before surgery and not quite functioning, but Albairat's face floated in front of his eyes, and behind that, the face of Davi Morgan, the arrogant bastard who had captured Etille, slaughtered his troops, and imprisoned him on A007.

Luckily, Noin had been there, and together, they'd found hope.

Noin was dead now. Sally had killed her.

"That's all you are, you know," he said. "A killer. A murderer. A liar. You're not a soldier - you're just a common criminal."

"If standing up for freedom and the belief that every person on this planet deserves a chance to have that freedom," Sally said, "I'll be proud to be called a criminal."

The horror of what she had said was finally sinking in. "Sally, listen to yourself. You don't stand for freedom! You talk about freedom for the people, but have you personally asked every person in this world what they want? Haven't you realized that there's a reason for the World Nation? It's because none of us ever wanted a war like the last war to happen again!" He pushed himself up against the bed's headboard, struggling against the bandages that bound him, willing her to understand. "Sally, what you're doing is just betraying the trust of all of those who have begun to rebuild their lives. They don't want another war. All they want is peace!"

"Not this peace," Sally said softly, sadly, but he realized the look in her eyes was akin to pity. Pity for him, pity for the world which, in her eyes, was so misguided.

"How can you be so blind?" he whispered. "This isn't what Treize wanted."

"I don't believe in Treize," she said coldly. "And the last time I checked, neither did you."

He could come up with no reply to that, because she was right. That was the thing about Sally Po, he finally realized. That was why she'd risen to become one of the instrumental pillars of the war against the Federation, and it was why Une had chosen her to become her second in command. Because Sally Po was always right.

"If you'll excuse me," she continued, "I have things to do. Good day, General. I will make sure you are treated well."

I don't want to be treated well, he wanted to say. I'm a soldier. But all he could do was slump back against the pillow as her footsteps echoed back down the hallway, and he was alone.

If the leader is not willing to sacrifice himself, the people die in vain.

Chang Wufei had said that to him.

Was that what it meant to be a soldier? There had been something in Sally's voice, in the way she carried herself, in the way she had stated her beliefs with conviction, that was the same quality he'd seen in Wufei. Even if Sally was a traitor, even though she had abandoned all who had trusted her, there was something in her young eyes that Dermand Etille, in all his years of military service, still lacked.

He didn't want it to end this way.

The checkup was short and quick, and the doctor's hands had been shaking as he hung his stethoscope back on the wall.

"Your body functions all check out normal," he said. "I don't see anything wrong with you, except maybe fatigue."

"I was in a missile silo for the entire battle." Trowa was unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "It's rather hard to be injured inside one of those."

"I was ordered to do the checkup, sir," the doctor said uneasily. "I'm sorry if I've wasted your time-"

This time, Trowa did laugh. "I'm a prisoner of war, just like you are. No time of mine was wasted, trust me."

The doctor glanced at him warily. "I need to make some last minute checks before I run some tests on your brain," he said. "Orders from the enemy commander. You can wait out in the hallway here in front of this room and I'll be back shortly."

He rose obediently from the chair and shuffled into the hallway, sitting down gingerly on one of the hard plastic chairs next to the closed door of the X-ray room. The rest of the hall was almost deserted except for another machine gun-carrying guard at the far end, who had turned his head to keep an eye on him but wasn't moving any closer.

Sighing, he leaned back slowly in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

"Barton."

That wasn't the guard's voice. He turned around as best as he could, and saw the familiar face, the familiar eyes regarding him blankly, the rest of the body swathed in a mass of casts and bandages. He was in a wheelchair.

"Hello, General," he said.

Etille snorted. "Don't call me that. You sound like Sally Po. You're looking well."

He had expected the other's voice to hold more resentment, maybe hatred, but there was none.

You're not, he could have responded, but there was no point in stating the obvious. "Do you hate me?" Trowa asked instead. Laying it flat on the table, just like that. There was no need for polite banter.

Etille blinked, but Trowa knew he'd been expecting the question, if not so soon.

"No," he said at last. "No, I don't hate you."

"But..." Trowa let the question hang.

Etille's frame slumped wearily. "There's no but. Not for this. I can't even say I wish you'd killed Sally, because I don't know if I could have lived with myself if you had. It's one of those problems that maybe could never have been solved."

"But I disobeyed your orders," Trowa said. "I disgraced myself as a soldier and as a man. You don't think that's shameful?"

Etille regarded him for a brief moment, and then a shadow of a smile appeared on his haggard, unshaven face. "Let me tell you a story, Trowa Barton. There was once a girl named Alicia Catalonia." Trowa started at the last name, and Etille nodded. "Let me finish. This girl was the daughter of a European aristocrat, and she could have had anything she wanted. She chose instead to enter the military. She went to the Lake Victoria Academy and served until she was killed during the unification wars in the Middle East."

Trowa waited, but Etille was obviously finished. "I don't understand what she has to do with me," he said finally.

"That girl was Dorothy Catalonia's aunt. If you'd have known her, you would see the similarities in both of them. I loved her. She once told me that causes don't stop mattering. That people did."

Trowa frowned. "That makes no sense. Why would people stop mattering?"

"I asked her the same thing. She told me it wasn't because she stopped loving people. It was because sometimes, the things we fight for - the ideals and the causes for which soldiers fight - become more than just a matter of life and death. Sometimes it's necessary to put the cause ahead of your love for that person."

"But that's exactly what I didn't do," Trowa said. "I didn't kill Sally. I couldn't kill her. In the end, I failed."

"That's hard to do, isn't it?"

"Sir?"

"When people stop mattering," Etille said, "Alicia said that was the time to move on with the cause. But I don't think Sally has stopped mattering. To any of us."

Trowa didn't answer.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Etille questioned. "You still care about Sally, as well we all should. Which was why you couldn't kill her. I never knew her, but I know that Une, even now, still believes she can be saved. So in the end, I don't think what you did was shameful at all."

She wasn't a fanatic...she was my friend.

"She betrayed us," Trowa whispered. "Me, Quatre, the others...she betrayed us all."

"Remember I told you that if the leader does not willing to sacrifice himself, the people die in vain?" Trowa nodded, and Etille smiled. "That was Chang Wufei who told me that. I don't think you are beaten. Not by a long shot."

"I just...just need to think," Trowa said. Etille nodded.

"I think we all do. Just one more question for you, however."

"Sir?"

"Did you believe in Treize Khushrenada?"

"Did I?" Trowa repeated, and Etille nodded. "Treize? Treize was..."

He trailed off. Treize had been many things...first the enemy, then an enigma, then a prophet, then someone who had sacrificed himself for peace, and then finally a hero. He thought of the many times Treize could have destroyed them but didn't, thought of the way he had orchestrated his own death to bring the war to an end.

"I didn't understand him at first," Trowa said thoughtfully. "But in the end - I think, now, that I do. I want to think that I do. Treize fought for the end of war, and I want to believe that he was right." Looking across at the general. "Why?"

Etille tilted his head a bit, wincing as he apparently pulled a muscle in an injured shoulder. "Sally Po raised some interesting questions for me when I saw her a few minutes ago...I suppose I needed someone to tell me that I'm doing the right thing." A sigh. "Sometimes we old folks need the strength and the beliefs of the younger generation to remind us why we're still here."

"General Etille?" A questioning voice down the hallway, and the general backed up his wheelchair. Trowa half-rose from his chair, would have reached out a hand if they hadn't been cuffed behind his back.

"Wait-"

He wanted to ask Etille if he had a plan. If there was something they could do, but Etille pulled back, shaking his head, his bright eyes searching Trowa's face.

"What do you want me to do?" Trowa said, desperately, and Etille smiled.

"Keep the faith, Trowa Barton. The world still has faith in you."

 
Scene VIII: Dawn of the Preventer's Paradigm

 
If Fatima bint Narish could have gotten Sally Po in front of her, she would have strangled the rebel with her own hands. It wasn't because of the threats, or the rebellion itself. Fatima had every confidence that eventually she would be caught or killed. No, Fatima was upset because of how it upset her plans.

Winner's trial was going beautifully. Soon he would be convicted, and most likely sentenced to death. Media coverage of it had been absolutely perfect, and she had been pleased. The conviction would have spring boarded her into the perfect position to make a run for the Presidency when Alderman's term expired next year.

Now, though, when she won, the trial results would be buried beneath the war headlines, and the victory would taste like ashes. The world wasn't really paying attention anymore.

Fatima flipped through her witness list as the Senate returned from a recess, preparing to call her next witness. The man was a survivor of a minor attack in the middle of the war, and had contacted her about testifying. He had been quite eager about it.

"Don't you think this is getting ridiculous?" a voice asked from her side.

Fatima knew that voice too well. "What is, Yaminah?" she asked. Yaminah Winner was one of the banes of her existence. When Fatima had heard that a Winner sister would defend her brother, Fatima had been overjoyed, thinking that nepotism would undo Quatre, but she had quickly been disabused of the notion. Yaminah was a brilliant trial lawyer, and was doing better than anyone had believed possible.

"Your witness list. Have you called the colonel who was killed on L4's grandson's best friend's neighbor yet?" Yaminah asked in a tired voice.

Fatima offered her a saccharine smile. "How nice of you to suggest them. I must have missed them," she said. She polished her long red nails against her suit jacket.

Yaminah's eyes flashed, and she leaned against the prosecution's table. "Can it. You're dragging this out to unreasonable lengths, and it's gone beyond the point of reasonable to absurd."

"I don't think the defense lawyer is in any position to question my methods," Fatima retorted.

"There's a war out there. The Senate needs to focus on that, not on this dog and pony show."

Fatima set aside her list, carefully shutting it so Yaminah wouldn't be able to steal a glance. "Are you in such a hurry to see your brother convicted? How about just having him plead guilty?" Fatima suggested. The last word tasted like honey on her tongue.

Yaminah's hands clenched. "Over my dead body."

"Come now. I think your brother killed enough people, don't you? We don't need any more casualties, even indirect ones, as a result of his actions," Fatima laughed.

"You are one of the most vile creatures I have ever met," Yaminah informed her, before stalking back to her place, her movements jerking with suppressed rage.

Fatima watched her, cupping her chin in her fingers thoughtfully. The exchange had been interesting, and entertaining. It was rare that Yaminah Winner lost her temper. Yaminah had obviously been wanting to use the global situation to get her brother off, but Fatima wasn't having any of that.

A few moments later, President Alderman called the Senate to order. Fatima could see a twitchiness in the senators, a lack of focus. They weren't going to be paying attention to any of the evidence, and she knew that she would have to do something to bring them in, or make a move to wrap up the trial.

Most of them were a bit more concerned about the Sword of Damocles that was hanging over their heads than bringing Winner to justice. The damage the debris a colony could do was all they had talked about during the recess in the coatroom from what her assistants had told her, and a few compared it to the Libra and worried about another impending ice age.

The Senate Room had become stifling with heat and rumors, and Fatima wished she had thought to wear a more light-weight outfit. About thirty of the 150 Senate seats were vacated as members went home to help govern their panicked populace, and there were remained barely enough members for a quorum, she was prepared to finish this trial.

Rising to her feet, she looked at Alderman, who motioned for her to begin. "I would like to call-"

"Excuse me!" a voice said from the side, interrupting her.

Fatima scowled. No one interrupted her and got away with it, but it was too late. She had lost her audience's attention. The eyes of the Senate turned to look at the Sergeant at Arms, whose face was pale. "I know this is highly irregular, but a ranking member of the Preventers has asked to address the Senate on an emergency matter related to global security."

"Let them in," Alderman ordered. "Everyone, please remain seated."

Fatima felt uneasiness well inside the pit of her stomach. The tower of cards she had so carefully constructed was collapsing. The Sergeant at Arms bowed to Alderman, and hastened to the door. Almost immediately, they slid open, and in walked General Une.

What the hell is she doing here? Fatima wondered, for she had been expecting a diplomatic liaison, not Une herself. Doesn't she have a war to be fighting?

Une smiled directly at her, as though reading her thoughts, and Fatima noticed what she was wearing. Une was dressed in an unusual fashion, wearing the standard Preventer's black and green uniform, but it was cut into the colonel's style she had worn during the Federation. The dark green top was worn over tight black pants, and her hair was once again tied into the braids she had made so famous. At her hip she wore a sword, and it made Fatima wonder how the hell she had gotten it by security before she realized that as a Preventer, Une had all sorts of special privileges.

"Forgive me for interrupting, President Alderman, but I need to address the Senate. I'm currently under a crisis situation, so I hope you'll forgive me the lack of correct protocol."

Une had been falling from grace for months, but it seemed like something had finally snapped inside of the general, and she was going to push back. In the end, it would probably destroy her, but it would be a while before that happened.

Lady Une was back in action, and from the look in her eyes, she was going to take no prisoners.

Fatima didn't care about "in the end." She was worried about what was going to happen with the trial. If she couldn't hang Winner, then her political career was shot. The room became even more stifling to Fatima, and the Arabic woman gnawed on her lip, running possibilities through her head as she tried to stop the imminent destruction of months of work.

Une strode forward without waiting for accepting, moving to stand before Winner. "I am here to demand the Senate recognize the crisis situation we're under..."

If I kick Une out, I'll be accused of being a Po collaborator...

"...and also relinquish custody of one of the world's top strategists. This trial is a farce, and needs to be stopped."

If I try to continue the trial, I'll be building on a foundation of sand, since I have no support anymore...

"It's time we stop putting our personal political goals ahead of the world's needs..."

If I support Une, I lose the trial...

"..and recognize what's really happening."

Damn the bitch, I'm trapped!

Her eyes met Fatima's squarely, and Fatima could only fume. She could get Une thrown out of the senate on a technicality, on contempt, but right now Une held all the cards. To remove the world's top general while the world was facing attacks from rebels would be political suicide.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the world is at war once again, and it's time for us to act, not react."

Une felt a bit ridiculous wearing the specially tailored outfit, but Treize had taught her the importance of image, and she knew better than most the subtle psychology of dealing with others. Her image, throughout the war, had been displayed as a Federation officer, and she had trained people to respect and fear her as such. People knew Lady Une, and feared her.

The reactions she was getting were interesting. People were staring at her a bit in concern, as though she had lost her mind, but they were also looking at her with more respect, sitting straighter in their chairs. The Preventers had always been seen as a second-rate organization, a glorified police force, but right now she was a military personality, one who people knew and respected.

Half the battle, my lady, is making the enemy too afraid to fight you, Treize had told her.

She rested her hand on her the hilt of her sword, feeling its reassuring presence. Treize had given it to her on her promotion to Colonel, telling her that sword was an elegant weapon, one which required skill and wits to use. She knew it wasn't a coincidence that the sword he had chosen for her had two edges and could cut both ways.

Today she intended on walking along its razor-fine edge. She would get them to dance to her tune. People would think back on this moment and recognize they had been manipulated, but she would sacrifice her career if that would stop Sally.

"The other pilots have already seen battle - I'm not saying where because of security reasons, but they came to help us, even though no one believed in them. Right now Barton is listed as MIA, presumed killed, but I won't believe he's dead until I see the body," Une said.

Quatre gasped softly at the pronouncement of Trowa's fate, a shaking hand coming to cover his mouth.

"I need Winner out on the battlefield, now. We can't afford to keep one of our best assets tied up here. We can't afford to divert our attention from the real enemy, and fight among ourselves."

"He doesn't even have a Gundam!" an anonymous voice called from the Senate. "Sandrock was destroyed, unless he was lying about that!"

Une's eyes scanned the lawmakers briefly before coming to rest on Quatre's face. "Winner is one of the best strategists there is, and an excellent tactician as well. He doesn't need a Gundam. He's one of the three people to ever master the Zero System. The other two are Heero Yuy and Lady Catalonia," Une said, nodding to Dorothy.

Dorothy nodded back, acknowledging the implied compliment.

"If you're so determined to kill Winner, let me know and I'll l execute his sentence on the spot. If you're going to order that he be killed, it's the least you can do to watch it," she said. Without warning, she drew her sword, bringing it to bear at Quatre's throat, pressing it just hard enough to draw blood.

Sylvia Noventa sat to Dorothy's left, watching the scene play out before her. She recognized the masterful staging, and knew that Une was fully prepared to kill Quatre if ordered to. Une wasn't the kind of woman who made idle threats.

The trial had become ridiculous. There were more important matters to be worrying about, and they needed to start getting their priorities in better order, but right now the Senate was determined to bury its head in the sand, and proceed with business as usual. It would take something like Lady Une holding a hostage at sword point to get their attention focused where it really needed to be.

The Senate was murmuring angrily at the rude treatment of Winner, but Quatre's eyes were on Une's face, and Sylvia was close enough to see that his breathing remained even by the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders. Sylvia wished he was facing her, so she could see his expression.

I'm sure he's got determined eyes, and he's confident that no matter what happens, things will work out for the best, she thought. She remembered the look in Heero's eyes as he offered her the gun, and knew that was their strength.

Une was quiet for a moment longer before raising her face to look at the crowd. Her blade remained steady on Quatre's throat and she smiled at them all.

"This is power. You have the power over Winner's life, and I want you to know what it means. Quatre Winner knew exactly what he was doing every time he got into the cockpit of Sandrock, but he did it to fight for peace. Sally Po has the power right now over the lives of millions of colonists, and she knows exactly what she is doing when she says she'll press the button."

Sylvia shivered inside. She didn't want the power she had, and Une had pressed it home exactly what the weight her birth had bequeathed upon her. Around her, she heard a few senators shift uncomfortably as they, too, had their own moments of clarity.

"Playtime's over, ladies and gentlemen. It's time to act," Une said simply.

The room was silent, and she knew that the next person to speak would chart their course. In front of them, Fatima's mouth was moving wordlessly as she tried to find something to say, but no one else seemed to be able to do anything. She looked at Alderman, waiting for the president to think of something, but he seemed as lost as all of them. Turning to ask Dorothy her opinion, she noticed the most disconcerting thing.

Dorothy Catalonia was smiling.

She had seen Dorothy happy before, the nights they had slipped downstairs and eaten sundaes, but this was a different kind of smile, a smile of a wildcat about to spring. Sylvia suddenly felt very bad for anyone who got in Dorothy's way.

"It's time, Relena," Dorothy whispered, just loud enough for Sylvia to overhear. "Sylvia, be ready."

"I know," Relena replied. The Queen of Cinq gave her two cohorts a nod. "Une's set the stage for me, and I'm through messing around."

"Lady Une's made some good points," Relena said as she rose to her feet, facing President Alderman as though they were the only two in the room. "Mr. President, I'd like to suggest that we declare a mistrial."

Everyone stared at her. She had once been the Queen of the World, and people remembered. She had been quiet the whole trial, and now that she had chosen to speak up, her words carried that much more weight. Once power had been given, it could never be taken away entirely.

Relena spoke without hurrying, her voice clear and carrying. "There have been many flaws in this trial, but most of all is the miscarriage of justice. The jury here is biased - and how can it not be? How many of us lost a friend, a family member, a neighbor during the war?

"Most importantly, this is a military matter. We are not a jury of Winner's peers. We do not understand the means of warfare. We are not able to judge this matter. Quatre Raberba Winner should have been brought before a military tribunal, if he was to be tried at all. I'm not saying a trial is unnecessary, just that there is an obvious flaw in the proceedings. We cannot allow this to continue, and set a precedent for the future.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I can speak on who Quatre is, and how he is a good and kind man, a true and worthy soldier. I can tell you that Une is correct in her desperate need for his skills, but the most important thing to remember is that we stand for law, and if we convict him, we're not standing for ours," Relena said.

The silence in the court was profound as Relena resumed her seat.

"Does anyone second this?" Alderman asked.

Sylvia started to rise to her feet, but Dorothy caught her shoulder, hissing, "Wait."

The room was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

"I will."

Ryan Keets had spoken.

The man rose shakily to his feet. He was in his middle fifties, with salt-and-pepper black hair, and a face lined with the concerns of too many years. He wore a suit that cost enough to feed a family of four for a month; everything about him bespoke money, privilege and influence. Still, there was a sorrow in his face that most blue bloods didn't know, and Sylvia felt her heart reach out to him.

"Quatre's off," Dorothy said in satisfaction. Still, her soft eyes as she regarded the middle-aged man didn't match her triumphant words.

Everyone knew his story. Keets had lost a son early in the war, and his daughter had died less than a month ago on the Preventers base. If Keets spoke for Quatre, then no one would be able to go against him without looking terribly petty.

"We've had enough of war. I've lost both of my children to it, and Une is right. We don't need to be fighting here, among ourselves. The fight's outside, and if we convict Winner, we'll be shooting ourselves in the foot."

He looked at Quatre, who was staring at him with wide blue eyes. "I don't like him. I never will, but I'm not a soldier. I'm not qualified to judge his actions... none of us are.

"My son told me once that we had to stand up for what we believed in. I believe in peace. I believe that soldiers fight for us, because many of us are too scared to...and I want to be someone my children would have been proud to able to believe in. So...I'm standing up now. I'm asking everyone to stand up who believes that we need people like Winner, even if we don't like or don't understand them."

Dorothy stood, and Relena. Then came Sylvia, and a man from South America. A European rep... Asia... Africa... within moments, the entire Senate was on its feet, standing silently, as Une finally let her sword fall from Quatre's neck. Fatima shook in silent rage, but was powerless to change the flow of the tide which had suddenly turned against her.

"It's your turn, Sylvia," Dorothy whispered into her ear. "Let's make it official."

Sylvia brought the game into checkmate. "Please, President Alderman, let's vote. We need to get down to our real business." She looked at her watch. "We have 67 hours and 38 minutes to stop a world from being destroyed."

The results were a foregone conclusion. Almost unanimously, the Senate declared a mistrial.

Une smirked as she stepped back from Quatre. Her hand was sore from holding the sword steady for so long, and she resolved, if she survived the next three days, to find more time in the gym. She turned to congratulate him, but stopped abruptly. A small pearl of blood swelled at his Adam's apple, but it was his face that frightened her. It was waxy and pale.

"Are you okay?" she asked after a moment. Maybe the shook had finally gotten to him, though it seemed unlikely. She couldn't afford to have him break down now, not when she needed him.

"A mistrial... means that... I'm not innocent," Quatre said slowly, his mind piecing together what had happened. He dug his fingers into his legs, the fine blue fabric on his pants wrinkling.

"You're not guilty, Quatre," she said. "Fatima had to prove you were guilty, and she didn't do that."

"Une... be realistic. In the eyes of the world, I'm guilty, and I got off on a lucky break. I didn't get a chance to prove my innocence."

"Quatre... are you innocent? Really?" Une asked pointedly. "According to the strict legal definition of war criminal, you are one... and so am I."

Around them the courtroom seemed to disappear, and Quatre stared at Une, who was standing in her strange amalgamation of Preventers and Federation uniform. "I..."

"I would say the rules didn't apply to us, but they did. We shouldn't have done what we did. You shouldn't have destroyed the colonies, and no matter how many excuses you make, the simple fact is that there were unnecessary civilian casualties that didn't advance the military objective. I...there's a lot of things I shouldn't have done. But...I try to repent as best I can. Throwing me in jail would accomplish nothing."

"So as long as we atone for our sins, everything is all right?" Quatre asked. He snorted, and started to laugh. "Une, if we don't respect the law, who will?"

"Quatre, I'm not going to argue this with you right now. They need us," she said. "I don't have time for you to wallow. I have 67 hours before a colony filled with millions of people gets destroyed by a woman who thinks she's doing the right thing."

The gloves, which she hadn't worn in almost two years, were making her hands hot and sweaty, but she endured the discomfort. They had spoken too quietly for anyone to hear, but she was aware of the eyes of the gathered Senate and media on them, aware of the image they were projecting.

She sheathed her sword before extending her hand to him. Raising her voice so that the microphones would be able to pick it up, Une said, "I need you to come with me. Sally's been a busy girl, and I need your skills."

Quatre gave her a smile, and she knew what his answer would be even before he said it. "No one ever needs to ask for a Gundam pilot's help. That's what we do."

 
Act XI Part I | Act XI Part III | Back to Sainan no Kekka