SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING

SAINAN NO KEKKA
ACT IV, PART II

 
 
Scene V: One Step off the Edge of Madness

 
There was no signature on the piece of paper that the black-coated man handed to him, but there didn't need to be. He knew it was important.

"Can you take care of it?" the man asked. There was a deadly undercurrent running through his voice, but he himself had been a killer probably for longer than that man had been a henchman to whatever seedy corporation he served, and he had the upper hand. And the man knew that.

"What do you take me for," Darkflight snorted, "an idiot?"

"I'll be waiting," the man said, and before Darkflight could answer, he was gone.

He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, wondering how the hell he was supposed to decipher those two lines.

Beijing, China.
Chang Wufei.

It was some sort of job, he knew that. Probably had something to do with the brewing Gundam crisis on Earth, seeing as how his contacts had been dropping hints to him all this week about the big one he'd be getting when "all the facts were in."

Sakayari Togo was the leader of one of the largest semi-legitimate businesses here in the Breaks, if any such business could be called so. He was so good, in fact, that he also operated one of the largest businesses in the now-downtown of the L1 business district. Not bad for a man who had started out a living selling crack, if the stories were true. Darkflight doubted the legitimacy of most of the stories circling the bars these days, but this one had the ring of truth to it. Sakayari was wealthy, powerful in both L1 proper and in the Breaks circles, and he wanted someone dead.

Darkflight wasn't about to refuse a man like that his request, legitimate or not.

The problem remained: who the hell was Chang Wufei?

He pocketed the paper, stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and began picking his slow way home. The place where the contact had chosen to meet him was out of the way, and it was getting dark. He pulled his gun from his belt holster, holding it loosely in his hand, just in case anyone was foolish enough to try to jump him. Not that he thought anyone would. People were smart enough these days to recognize a trained assassin when they saw one, and most of them didn't want to die just quite yet.

He made it back to more familiar territory without mishap. Darkness was creeping over the slums, the holographic semblance of sky fading as night set in over L1. He ignored the prostitutes swaying their hips at him from the other side of the street and the drunken laughter from the lighted bars. It was rather early to get drunk, but who knew what people thought? He crossed the road to the tumble-down building squatting on the street corner, looked both ways to make sure there was no one hiding in the shadows ready to mug him at the door, then strode into the bar.

He spotted Wing right away, the greasy black hair looking almost greenish-brown in the smoky light. His partner was slumped against the bar, one hand holding a mug of something dark and unhealthy-looking, the other pressed against his eyes. Darkflight groaned inwardly. This did not look good.

"Hey, Wing? I'm back."

Wing's head turned to the side ever so slightly, and a flicker of recognition entered the dark eyes.

"Oh...you."

There was blood on Wing's face. Streaks of it.

"You get in a fight?" Darkflight swung onto the stool next to him, divesting Wing's hand of the mug of beer and propping him upright.

"Fight?" When Wing was drunk, he didn't slur. He just didn't speak. At all.

"What happened?" Darkflight said patiently. He was used to this. "Did you get your money?"

"Money..."For a moment, Wing's fingers twitched, then he seemed to remember something and with slow and painful motions reached down and fumbled with his pocket. There was a bulge in there...bills?

"Let me get that for you," Darkflight offered, and reached out his own hand. He barely dodged Wing's fist as it whistled past his ear, then winced in pain as his outstretched hand was caught in an iron grip.

"Thanks," Wing said, eyes unfocusing, finally managing to get his hand inside his pocket and pull something out, handing it to Darkflight, who grasped it with the hand that Wing was not currently trying to murder.

"You can let go of my hand now."

Wing seemed to consider this for a bit, then shrugged and released his hand. "I got it."

"I see," Darkflight said, hurriedly pocketing the money before some other unsavory character in the nearby vicinity could decide to make a grab for it. Not that he thought they would, with the blood down Wing's face and neck and spattered on his clothes.

"Hey...you want a drink?" The fat bartender.

"No." Darkflight stood, pulling Wing to his feet and putting an arm around him to support him. "We're leaving."

They made it down the steps of the bar without mishap, but he could tell it would be a while getting home. Wing could hardly stand on his feet, much less walk, and he wondered what had happened. His partner had a high tolerance for alcohol...he must have been drinking for hours.

Darkflight had wanted to bring him along to go meet his contact for the new job, but Wing had declined. He had "business," he said. Darkflight thought he knew what the business was; something to do with a deal fallen through with a client and a customer that someone else wanted dead, but he had the common sense not to ask. It was Wing's job, not his.

And they had money now, bloodstained though it was.

It took less time than he expected to arrive home, when he closed the rickety door of the apartment behind him and Wing promptly collapsed into a heap on the ground.

"Wing?" Touching him. Shaking him. "Wing?"

No response.

He had never seen Wing this drunk before.

Dragging Wing over to the wall and turning him over so that the other boy wouldn't accidentally suffocate in his sleep, he fingered the piece of paper in his pocket. It was good that Wing had passed out, really...he was in no condition to talk about any kind of work, and a drunk Wing was unpredictable, at best. Darkflight had never seen his partner become violent to the point of actually hurting someone, but the scene in the bar tonight was enough to warn him that something was not right.

He wondered what had happened. Wing wasn't the type of person to drink for the hell of it, and he certainly wasn't an alcoholic. Drug addict, yes. Alcoholic, no.

The moon had risen and he touched one finger to the cracked window glass, tracing the sliver, like frozen lightning dividing the dead metal and rotting concrete landscape in two. They had enough money in their funds to buy an old television, if either of them had wished to. But neither of them did. Darkflight enjoyed the silence of the room at night. If he listened closely he could hear the shadows whispering.

He couldn't remember who had told him that. Someone long ago, someone he couldn't remember.

He went absentmindedly over to one of the cardboard boxes by the wall, pulled out a syringe, considered it, then shoved it back in the box. He didn't need it tonight. There were things to do, when Wing woke up. Providing that the other boy ever did. There was a can of warm tuna in at the bottom of the box, and he pulled out his knife, opened that instead, shoving the slightly acidic-tasting fish into his mouth. His stomach growled. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. Between the pangs of ritual hunger and real pain of enroaching starvation, there was no hunger.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before Wing began to stir. The faint moan alerted him, and he pushed himself off the floor, dropping to his knees as Wing sat up, hand to his head.

"Darkflight?"

He tried not to breathe a sigh of relief. "Bastard. I thought you were going to sleep all night."

"What happened?" The voice was perfectly lucid, as emotionless as ever.

"You passed out. Don't remember much?"

One hand went briefly to the dried blood crusted on his forehead. It glittered black in the moonlight. "I don't remember anything at all, after you left to meet with your guy. How did that go?"

"Eh." He needed to clean those cuts. "Sit still." There was antiseptic in the box too, somewhere. An old bottle, but it was there. "How the hell did you get these, anyway?"

"I told you I don't remember."

He was hopeless.

"So," Darkflight said, rummaging under the dirty sink for a cotton ball or a piece of cloth or something that could clean the wound, "have you ever heard of a Chang Wufei?"

If it was possible, Wing went even more still.

"Wing?"

In the moonlight his eyes were large pinpoints of dilated fear, and the vein in his neck was throbbing. As Darkflight watched, the scar began to throb too. Slowly, then faster, pulsing.

"Who?" Wing whispered hoarsely.

"Uh..never mind?" He found a cotton ball and moved closer to dab it onto Wing's forehead, and he caught Darkflight's arm. The grip was like a vise.

"Who?" The gaze was penetrating.

Darkflight fought to keep his emotions in check. "Look," he said. "I don't know what you have against this guy, but I've never heard of him. That was on the paper I got. Chang Wufei. Beijing China. That's all it says."

"China," Wing said, and dropped Darkflight's arm as suddenly as he had grabbed it. "China." He repeated the word like it was a mantra of protection. "China. Chang Wufei." His face twisted, and he began to laugh.

"Wing? Wing!"

He kept laughing, an insane, mad, frenzied laugh, and Darkflight stumbled backwards, clutching the bottle in one hand.

"Stop laughing, dammit. Wing! Stop laughing! STOP! FUCK YOU! STOP!"

He had raised one hand, clumsily, not even realizing he had it in the air, had formed a fist, knuckles white, when the mad laughter ceased as suddenly as it had began. Wing looked at him with calm eyes. But there was something around the edges that hadn't been there before. They frightened him.

Hell, everything Wing did was frightening him tonight.

"What's going on with you?" Darkflight whispered.

"I'm sorry," Wing said in an even tone. Looking pointedly at the bottle and the cotton ball. "Weren't you going to clean the blood off me?"

"Uh. Yeah."

There was something going on. Something going on that he didn't know about, and he didn't like it.

"Wing, if you're up to something, you better tell me now." Rubbing the cotton with perhaps more force than was necessary over the cuts. It must have stung like hell. Wing didn't even flinch.

"Nothing's going on," he said, and his voice sounded puzzled. "Why?"

Darkflight sighed again.

"Once," said Wing, staring serenely out the window, "I heard a fairy tale about a mermaid. She was in love with a human prince, so she went to a sorceress, asking to be changed into human form. The price was that every time she walked, she would feel as if she were walking on knives. But it was worth it, because she danced with the prince."

Darkflight nearly dropped the bottle, but he was done, anyway. There were shiny streaks of wetness across Wing's forehead and neck. "So...so what happened?" he managed. Bottle back in the box. Cotton in the trash. The piece of paper was still in his pocket.

"The prince forgot her," Wing said. "He married another woman. The mermaid threw herself off a cliff into the ocean, but since she was no longer a mermaid, she drowned." His voice was mournful, yet hard, the voice of a daydreamer in a nightmare.

"I never knew you liked fairy tales, Wing."

"I don't." Curious look. "So is that all the instructions said?"

"Uh...yeah." He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Chang Wufei." For a moment he was afraid the insane laughter would start again, but Wing simply fell back on the bed and crossed his arms behind his head. "I got my money. Had to beat up a few guys to do it, but I got it."

"I know," he said uncomfortably. "You...gave it to me."

"Did I? I don't remember." Wing shrugged. "Doesn't matter anyway. Blood money. Do what you like with it."

He always said that.

"I will, thanks. You need to get some rest."

"When are we leaving?" Wing said. He was sitting up again.

"Leaving?"

"For China." He gave Darkflight a patient look. His eyes were still wrong, somehow. "We did get the job, right? You're not just fucking with my mind?"

"Yeah, we got it. I don't know. Whenever you're ready."

"I'm ready now." The light tone was gone and the mask had slammed down again, the eyes cold and hard and familiar. Whatever had possessed him at the mention of Chang Wufei's name was now gone. "Tomorrow?"

"I need to get shuttle tickets!"

"I thought you said they were ordered."

Darkflight shrugged uncomfortably. "I got second-hand information."

"You might want to check on that." Wing shrugged again. "I thought that was how all high-profile clients treated their 'customers' these days."

"What are you going to tell Atsuki?" He could imagine her face when Wing broke the news. That they were going away. That they might be gone for weeks. That there was a chance they would not come back. There was always that chance, but on an off-colony job, that chance was all too real. That was why he used to like the assassin job...there were no ties, no loved ones to cry over his death if he met his end messily in some alley or on the cobwebby floor of an abandoned building.

That had been before Wing showed up.

"Atsuki?" The name sounded foreign in Wing's mouth, like an awkward nickname he hadn't quite gotten used to. "Atsuki."

"Yeah. Tell her we're going to Earth to scout? Tell her maybe we'll be back soon?" He groped for ideas. It wasn't every day that one's best friend and assassin partner had to tell his girfriend goodbye for an indefinite period of time. What did one say, then? Yes. I'm leaving. I might not ever be coming back. Goodbye.

Girlfriend. Whore. It was the same thing, here in the Breaks. To think about it, having Wing leave was probably the best thing for Atsuki. It wasn't good for someone like her to get attached to any particular customers. After a while...things...began to happen to the girls. Disappearance. Whipping. Other things. He'd heard stories. There were harsh employers in the Breaks, and they knew how to use fear. Darkflight would give them that, even if they were dirty liars.

"I'm going to tell her the truth," Wing said. "She'd probably hear it through the grapevine anyway. And she deserves better."

Silence for a moment. "Yeah," he said at last. "Yeah, I agree. Though I'm going to try to keep this secret from the grapevine as long as possible."

"It's not going to work, you know."

"I know. But I can try."

"You can," Wing echoed, and for a moment the strange quality in his voice was back. But when Darkflight turned to look at him, there was only the inscrutable mask.

That mask had been crumbling an awful lot lately.

"We should get some sleep," Darkflight said at last. "We can sleep in. Nothing tomorrow."

Wing didn't answer, simply lay down and flung the blanket partially over himself, breathing smoothing out almost immediately. There had been no sign of a hangover, no post drunken nausea. The boy was a machine.

Chang Wufei. Had Wing known Chang Wufei? He resolved to get a copy of the newspaper as soon as possible, seeing as this very likely had to do with the Gundams, and he needed to practice his reading anyway.

The prince forgot her. The mermaid threw herself off a cliff into the ocean, but since she was no longer a mermaid, she drowned.

Whatever.

It was a long time before Darkflight finally slept.

 
Scene VI: A Revelation Come Too Late

 
It was a dark and stormy night.

Dark and stormy nights weren't really all that uncommon in the Breaks, but they were not so common as to become cliché. The rain had been coming down hard all day, but the storm had let up several hours ago after midnight, and now it was just cold with lightning flickering in and out of the clouds, threatening but without real force.

It was summer, and it was ridiculously cold.

Atsuki stared out the window, her breath fogging the cracked windowpane, wishing that the environmental systems controls in this part of L1 would fix themselves. The thermometer read six degrees Celcius, and it was the middle of June, for heaven's sake. It was like living in Alaska.

If she wanted to live in Alaska, she'd move there. Dark and stormy night, indeed.

Grumbling under her breath, she flopped down on the dirty bed. She had the night off, a rare occasion, and she had nothing better to do than spend a long, lonely night in her room. She supposed that was sad, but she had stopped caring a long time ago. Her fingers went automatically to the pillow, to stroke back thick bangs from cobalt blue eyes that weren't there. She closed her eyes, hand falling away.

Wing wouldn't be coming here anymore.

She'd been happy for him when he'd told her that Darkflight had gotten them a job. A "big job," was the term he had used. Wing and Darkflight were good; they deserved more breaks than they had been getting, and this was a chance for them to get moving.

And then he had told her he was leaving. She had looked at him, dressed in torn leather pants and a dirty white top, dark hair greasy and blue eyes steady in the flickering light, and then she had bent forward and kissed him.

She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

The night seemed even more dark and stormy at his memory. His eyes...they were the color of a storm. They were the storm - the storm in her heart, and the winds were just getting rougher the more she tried to push it away.

What would you do, Quatre?

She pictured the face of her brother in the glass of the far window against the dark thunderclouds: the blond hair and the bright eyes, the innocent smile. She'd seen him on the news after the war, though he wasn't on as much as of late since things on L4 had quieted down. It had been a shock to see him, the same cherubic face grown several years older, quiet voice speaking with the authority of her father.

She hadn't cried for her father when the papers had carried the stories of his death. There was no need to. She hadn't loved him. Reeshya had loved him, and so had Quatre. But she'd never known him as anything more than a tyrant, running her life with his iron fist thrust into her face when she dared speak up. He favored Reeshya and Quatre. They were the youngest, and Quatre was the heir. But for her, there had been no exceptions.

There were never any exceptions for her. She had vowed never to fall in love again, and when she finally did so, was ready to confess her feelings for the man who had taught her to live again, he had to leave.

Scrubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, she sat up, flicked on the old television on the corner of the desk. It was an old color set, made at the end of the television era when holovid screens were beginning to become popular to use in their place. The set still worked, though sometimes the sound would die, and there were fuzzy lines across the screen. She wasn't picky. The fact that it worked was what counted.

What better way to pass the time than to watch the news, where people were dying in ever increasing numbers and the world was a bleaker place by the day?

The screen blinked, shrank to a pinpoint, then widened again. It was a commercial. She changed the channel, sitting back against the bed.

"-and as you know, Quatre Raberba Winner's confession had the world in astonishment before this larger turn of events was announced."

Confession? Her brother had a confession?

She sat up, scooted closer to the television, hoping Quatre wasn't involved in some kind of scandal. He was a good businessman, but he was young still. Though she couldn't imagine him getting involved in anything but philanthropic ventures. Quatre was like that. At least he had been....it had been seven years.

Static fuzzed the voice for an instant, but the sound came back as what was obviously a replay of some press conference appeared on the screen. The voiceover was crisp, serious.

"Two days ago, Quatre Raberba Winner, the young heir to the Winner fortune, shocked the world by announcing his part as a Gundam pilot during the war."

What?

A what?

Gundam pilot?

She stared at the screen, frozen, as a large picture of a Gundam slid across the screen and the caption at the bottom rolled out letter by letter.

Quatre Raberba Winner, Colony L4 Gundam 04 pilot

Surely this was a joke. It was a joke...it had to be a joke. A cruel joke. Quatre wasn't a pilot. Quatre was a ten-year old boy who liked science and literature and was always there to talk to her when she was feeling down. He was an innocent child who abhorred war, just like her father, and wanted nothing to do with it. He believed in knowledge and wisdom and peace.

He couldn't be a Gundam pilot.

If you ever did go away, you'd come back, right?

Her throat was dry and she wanted water, but the refrigerator was empty and only a fool would dare drink out of the water fountain in the hallway. The voiceover continued as the tape rolled. Quatre stood calmly in the middle of the rolling storm of photographers and cameramen and reporters shoving microphones in his direction, smiling slightly, blue eyes clouded. He was still so strong, her brother. Perhaps that was his downfall.

Oh, Quatre...

She closed her eyes, saw a dark-haired boy slumped against the wall of her room, felt his pulse under her fingers, felt him trembling. Heard herself speaking.

They were my heroes. So daring and brave, knights in shining armor.

Quatre.

They would come rescue us, sweep us off our feet and take us away to their kingdom...

"Mr. Winner's whereabouts are as of now unknown," the voice continued. "After the press conference, efforts were made to contact him at his home on L4, but calls were unanswered. There were several attempted break-ins that night to the Winner mansion which were turned back by the guards and L4 police, in which twenty-seven people were arrested. This morning, it was confirmed that Mr. Winner is no longer residing at his estate and may no longer be on L4."

Good for you, Quatre, she thought, swallowing. Her palms were clammy, and she couldn't think. She'd seen a picture of a Gundam once, when they had first made the news, with its huge armor-plated body and the giant guns pointing right into the photograph. It had given her nightmares for days afterwards.

That Gundam might have been her brother's...

She wondered what her father had said. He had probably raged, stormed, refused to let Quatre go. She felt the corners of her mouth turn up slightly, glancing back at the television, which was now showing some shaky footage of rampaging Gundams in China. So Quatre had rebelled, after all.

Perhaps they were more alike than she had thought.

But he had rebelled to save the world. She, on the other hand...

Even if she wanted to return now, he wouldn't want anything to do with her. He was the knight in shining armor and she was the filth-covered girl, groveling at his feet and begging to be let into the doorway of his beautiful castle. A fairy tale gone wrong.

She would never grovel.

She took a deep breath and let it out, willing her eyes to focus on the television once more. The picture of the Gundam and Quatre's press conference had disappeared, cutting back to the news station anchor at his desk, looking very seriously into the camera.

"Yesterday, the World Nation released the names of the other four Gundam pilots on worldwide broadcast. Information should be in all local newspapers by tomorrow morning, but just in case you missed the broadcast, here are the names and faces of the pilots once again. Please be on the lookout for these boys."

She felt sick, crawling under the covers of her bed, keeping eyes fixed on the screen. They were going to betray all five of them...betray them as criminals when all they had done was fight for peace. The Gundam pilots had been her heroes during the war, her heroes and the heroes of all the girls. She had still been living at the shelter then, and she remembered long sleepless nights of wondering, speculating. The pilots were definitely handsome, they had agreed. Tall and strong, princes in disguise. They were out to give the oppressed back their freedom. Sometimes with a hope that was almost tangible, they'd wonder if the pilots would come to L1 and the Breaks. Maybe one of them knew what was happening here. Maybe if they waited long enough, they would be free, too.

But they never came.

She had been slightly disappointed, but she knew it had been a foolish daydream. The Gundams were fighting a war, and they had more important things to worry about than a bedraggled group of whores trying to survive from day to day on the streets of the Breaks. It was all right. She would get by. The pilots were still larger than life in her mind, heroes of the galaxy.

She clutched the edge of her blanket with cold hands. And now even that dream was gone, shattered, by the distant, professional voice of the news anchor.

Quatre Raberba Winner.

"Pilot of Gundam 05 was Chang Wufei, from Colony L5."

The face of a Chinese boy appeared on the screen. His gaze was fierce, a warrior's gaze. His black hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, and his eyes were intense. He looked very young.

"Pilot of Gundam 03 was Trowa Barton, from Colony L3. He is reported to be part of a French circus troupe."

Trowa Barton looked like someone she could learn to like, if she ever met him. He had brilliant green eyes under neatly combed brown hair. Like Chang Wufei, he looked young, but for some reason he also looked very old. She understood the feeling.

"Pilot of Gundam 02 was Duo Maxwell of Colony L2. He is reported to have enrolled in Cliffside Heights Academy, USA, on Earth."

Duo was mischievous looking with sparkling violet eyes, and she supposed that the rest of the girls would find him handsome. He was nice looking enough, but oddly that didn't appeal to her. She supposed he was someone who would stand out in a crowd, maybe someone she'd pick out of a bar and try her moves on. She didn't know if that was a good thing. Duo didn't look like a Gundam pilot, but at the same time his eyes spoke volumes.

She was good at reading eyes.

She wondered if Wing had known Duo. Or Trowa, or Wufei, or Quatre. Maybe that was why he had been so distraught at the news. Or maybe one of the Gundams had done something terrible to him. She struck that thought from her mind. The Gundam pilots would never do anything terrible to good people. They were the avenging angels. And Wing was a good person, at heart. She knew he was.

"Pilot of Gundam 01 was Heero Yuy of Colony L1."

A photograph. Brown hair. Sardonic smile. Cobalt blue eyes.

She blinked, blinked again. Heero Yuy...for some reason, he looked...

He looked very familiar. Like Chang Wufei, Heero Yuy looked like a warrior. Like Trowa Barton, he looked both old and young at the same time, and like Duo Maxwell, he was someone that she would have been willing to take her chances with, if she saw him.

There was something that bothered her about the photograph, but before she could look at it again, it had vanished into the stern face of the news anchor.

"Again, if you have any information about these pilots, please contact the nearest government authority."

Damn.

She fumbled out of bed, dragging her feet across the cold floor. The man had said that the news would be in local newspapers by now...there was a newspaper vending stand outside the complex. She never bothered to read the newspaper, but maybe it would have pictures of the pilots. A picture of the pilot of Gundam 01.

The stairs were damp with mildew and things unnamed, but she didn't even grimace as her bare feet hit the steps. Living in a place such as this had hardened her, and there was no use complaining about things she could not change. The newspaper stand was half-empty, and she inserted her small change into the slot with trembling fingers and pulled out a copy.

Sure enough. It was the top headline.

IDENTITES OF PILOTS RELEASED AT LAST

Hurrying back to her room, she wiped her feet and crawled back into bed. The paper was damp, too, leaving smears of ink on the already grimy bedspread, and she held the limp pages up to the light.

The picture was in black and white, but the intense eyes were there. So intense, like ice and fire. Again, the tingle down her spine, of danger, and...excitement? She traced the face with her fingers, snatching them away when their movements registered in her suddenly sluggish mind. It was ridiculous...obsessing over a boy she had never met. She had Wing...there was no need.

Wing.

She looked closer at the photograph, blinking, then frowning and looking closer. They could be related, if she squinted her eyes. They had the same bone structure of the face, the same eye shape. Yes, related. Maybe Heero had been Wing's brother, even. That would have given him cause to suddenly panic, when he had seen the news release.

Was that farfetched? Her heart was suddenly beating faster, and she licked her lips. There was something there...something more than what she was seeing.

If she covered the neck with her hand, if she colored the hair black and then pulled it back from the face...the cheekbone structure was the same. And the same eyes, hard, cobalt blue if the picture had been in color.

No. It couldn't be. She took a deep breath. Wing's mouth and nose shape was different, his forehead a little narrower...

She bit her lip and looked back at the picture again. Wing had a scar.

Her heart pounded and she could barely see, but she reached out a finger, consciously this time, tracing the shape of a scar across the boy's face as she had so often traced the real hard-ridged flesh while Wing had been sleeping. It ran across the bottom of his neck...across his nose....across the right eye....his forehead. The scar would have puckered the flesh so...there...and there. The nose would become crooked. The forehead maybe narrower...

When I saw that headline it was like...it was like suicide.

Oh dear God.

It couldn't be.

She threw the paper from the bed and stood up, trying to calm her shaking. It was warm in the room, but she was still shaking. Why was that?

They weren't murderers. I know that much. Atsuki...tell me they weren't murderers.

If Wing...was...Heero Yuy. Her mind stumbled over the name. That would explain so much . That would explain everything. How he had suddenly appeared in the Breaks after the war, with no record of past history there. How he killed with efficiency, quickly and professionally, without batting an eye. How he had memories of the war, though he had not been a soldier.

How he had reacted to the Gundam news release.

Her arms snaked around her body, and she stared out the window, ignoring the buzz of the television in the background. It was the only logical explanation. The only explanation that her mind would give her, now matter how hard she tried to push it away.

If they were murderers, would I have loved them?

The last of her childhood fantasies of the pilots, of princes and kingdoms and castles in the air, of knights in shining armor, disappeared.

Wing was only a boy, lost and alone and desperate for something he wasn't sure existed. He must have been even more of a junkie before she had met him, to have completely erased his memories of the war.

No, it wasn't complete. He still remembered, somewhere.

I'm a murderer.

She loved him. She still loved him, no matter what he called himself, no matter what he had been or was or would ever be. And he was in danger. Sooner or later...sooner or later they would find him and call him a criminal and a murderer and seek out the world's justice without second thought. She had to find him and tell him that, even if he wouldn't believe her.

If he still remembered, even if it was only the tiniest of memories, he would believe her. She was sure of it.

He had been staying away from any news releases ever since...that night, and Darkflight wasn't the most informed person around, either. She wondered if he had happened to catch it anywhere, but she doubted it. And even if he had, the most she could hope for was a reaction like that of the one he had experienced when the first news had broke.

Without a second thought, she scrambled over the bed, flicking off the television, throwing things into a worn satchel. She had to go...she had to go find him. No one would miss her here. Perhaps they would shrug their shoulders and not give her disappearance a second thought. Perhaps they would chalk it up to an unlucky overnight encounter. It didn't matter. It wasn't right that she should stay here and do nothing when Wing...Heero...could be in danger from enemies he couldn't even fathom. She was one of the daughters of the Winner clan, cut off or not, and there had to be some way she could...

Quatre.

If she went back....maybe.

No.

She clenched her hands, pausing. Quatre would have the appropriate tools...he would have known Wing. Heero. He would probably be trying to find him too. It was the logical conclusion. It was probably her only solution.

She hadn't seen him for seven years, and now she was crawling back to him to seek his help. The thought made her feel nauseous.

No, she wasn't crawling. She was going back because she was willing to help someone she loved. Quatre should understand that.

If you ever did go away, you'd come back, right?

I love you, neechan.

It was too late for regret, too late for lies.

I'm a murderer.

Whoever said I loved you?

"Wing," she said to the empty room. "I lied. I love you. I'm coming for you. Wait for me..."

 
Scene VII: The Expiation of Sandrock

 
It was hell out there.

During the war, Quatre had been a prisoner, but there was something worse about this situation. This time he was a prisoner in his own home.

His sisters had once again taken control of his life, and he hadn't been happy about it. Jaffa and Rashid had conspired to bring him down to earth, to the Magunac's old base where he had spent so much time with Duo, hoping to shield him from the press. Oz had found it once, but they were no more. Une would have found him eventually- sometimes the way she worked seemed like magic to him.

It was too late to hide, he could have told his protectors. The one press conference had been enough to disturb his dreams. In the three nights since, he had been plagued by a steady stream of nightmares about the inquisition he had faced from the reporters. He recognized that his own actions were coming back to rest on his head, but he didn't understand why no one was willing to listen.

He knew he had shocked the world. He had shocked himself, and his entire family originally. But still...

Every time he shut his eyes, he relived those trying moments. Voices came at him, and the crowd was a seething mass of furious faces- faces that wanted something he couldn't give them.

"Mr. Winner, why did you build the Gundam?"

"Mr. Winner, what did your father think of your being a pilot?"

"Quatre, isn't being a pilot against everything your family stands for?"

"Are you prepared to face a tribunal?"

"Are you going to issue a public apology?"

"Are you prepared to reimburse victims of your attacks?"

"Who are the other pilots, Mr. Winner?"

"WHY DID YOU DO IT?"

He had tried to answer some of their questions, but they weren't listening. They had scented blood, and he was the victim of their fury. Finally people had a place to channel their rage about the war, about the why's that had been left unanswered. He had no more answers then anyone else- what could they possibly expect of him? He had followed his own conscience- why couldn't anyone understand that?

Standing in one of the smallest rooms of the compound, he looked out over the small town. The people bustled around, going about their daily business, unaware of the turmoil that one young man among them was experiencing. Such a simple life, he thought, looking longingly at a group of girls who were playing hopscotch. Was I ever like that? Was I ever an innocent?

He shut his eyes, trying to recall that life, but was unable to. No, he had always been the thirtieth child of Raberba Abdul Winner, and the designated heir. From his birth, he had been carefully groomed to become a business tycoon, the ruler in all but name of the L4 colonies. He remembered playing with his sisters, but even those times had been carefully monitered and structured. Sometimes he wondered if he was only an actor in a play. Such thoughts always led to a somewhat ironic desire for an understudy to step in.

He'd been watching the news ever since he'd been at this compound, and he understood why his sisters (the four who had accompanied him, at least) had wanted him to keep away from any form of media. Within the space of days, the formerly popular head of the Winner Group had been demonized. He was amazed at what people were willing to say, and he could feel the hatred the world had built up against him.

When the identities of the others were announced, he was relieved to learn that none of them had been found. He would have set his resources on finding them, but recognized that it would be a pointless effort. The rest of the world was hunting for them... the chances of Quatre, even back by the immense resources of Winner Empire, finding them first, was slim to none. He hoped that Lady Une would find them, but chances weren't that good.

Where is Trowa? he wondered as he stared at the flickering screen that was running an extremely slanted expose on the pilots. The records for the others were practically non-existent, as Trowa, Duo, and Heero had fallen through the cracks of a Federation system that didn't care about the Colonies, and all the records' of Wufei's early life had been blown up when his colony self-destructed. That didn't stop the reporters from making "educated guesses" which were as far from the truth as possible.

He picked up the remote and prepared to flick it off, when a new segment started. TV Tokyo had apparently hired a team of psychologists and profilers to investigate the pilots, and they were presenting the findings. Quatre knew he should cite the show off now, before he could get upset with more outright lies. Still, a part of him was morbidly curious (the part that caused people to slow down to view traffic accidents), and he left the show on in spite of his better judgment.

The man who was speaking had his name, Dr. Keith Richards, emblazoned across the bottom of the screen by the TV Tokyo logo. He was a small man wearing a neatly trimmed beard, black blazer, and a pair of half-glasses balanced on the tip of his nose. Great. Quatre just would love being psychoanalyzed by this man.

Five pictures of the pilots flashed across the screen. Quatre sighed. He was getting far too used to seeing those same pictures over and over again- well, with the exception of his. The newpapers luckily had enough photos of him from other public engagements, but he hated how they always chose the one that made him look the most angelically innocent. As if they were highlighting how different his new image was from the previously perceived reality.

"The first pilot is, without a doubt, a psychopath. His single-minded pursuit..."

Reeshya came into the room and leaned over the back of the plush sofa he was sitting on. Resting her hand on his shoulder, she stared at screen. "Quatre, why are you watching this garbage?"

"Penance," he said softly, watching as the images continued to flash across the screen, describing Heero. Numerous professionals offered opinions, and none were very flattering.

"Quatre, this isn't the truth. You know that, I know that- Lady Une knows that. The people who matter know who you guys were. Hold onto that knowledge, Quatre."

He stared at the screen, which had now brought up a picture of Duo, who was winking cheerfully into the camera. "...possible that Duo Maxwell is bipolar..." Dr Richards said, a sentence that jumped out at him.

Quatre blinked, wondering why they had never considered something like that. The condition -also known as manic depression- would have explained so much. Duo's ups and downs, his unpredictable brilliance followed by bouts of disphoria and depression. "They're right," he said, then started to wonder. Maybe they were right about so many other things.

Reeshya frowned, and then reached out and jerked his face over with her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. The tactile contact between the two empaths heightened their awareness of each other's feelings, and Quatre's will, the stubborness that had kept him going for so long, began to show cracks at the seams. For the first time in his life, he jerked away from Reeshya, the sister he had always considered his confidant.

Reeshya wasn't having any of that. "I refuse to see you torture yourself like this," she said. "And they are NOT right, Quatre. They just don't want to admit that the pilots did what they could not- tumble a corrupt organization for the good of humanity. You and your comrades put the welfare of society ahead of your owns dreams and desires."

"03 possibly is afflicted with a mild form of autism...."

Quatre's attention refocused on the screen. He would be next, and he wanted to know what was wrong with himself.

Reeshya apparently understood his intention, and she wasn't about to allow him to. She jumped up, and manually turned the television off.

"Hey! I was watching that!" her brother protested. He sounded very young.

Despite the heavy atmosphere, Reeshya chuckled. They, being children of a disgustingly rich man, had never had this quarrel, as their father had been able to supply them all with luxuries to prevent fighting. It was amusing to have this classic battle so late in life. "I'm not going to let you! Didn't anyone ever tell you that people who overhear things about themselves aren't likely to hear anything complimentary?"

"But Reeshya-"

"Don't 'but Reeshya' me, Quatre. I'm your older sister, trust me. Let's do something else."

He nodded slowly. "Yes, let's. We haven't really talked."

"No. We haven't." She paused, her eyes flashing. "I don't want to ask you this, but I need to. For my own peace of mind. Quatre, whatever happened to Sandrock?"

He smiled softly. "Reeshya, that isn't like you, to be so nosy. What happened to my sweet sister?"

"She grew up. Quatre, the world is a dark and dangerous place. No one can afford to be innocent anymore. No one can be a princess, locked away safely in an ivory tower."

"Boku no Sandrock..." he said, and his face was lit with a sad smile. "Sandrock, too, is paying a penance," he said softly.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Come with me," he offered, linking arms with her.

Together the siblings walked through the house, to the second story window in the house. "Look there," Quatre said, pointing out over the compound.

Reeshya obeyed, her eyes widening. She couldn't count the times she had walked passed the new irrigation system, the system that gave the Maguaracs a self-sufficient agricultural base. The brightly colored metals showed how new it was, and she blinked, trying to factor this all into her head. "In plain sight... how come I never noticed?" she wondered aloud.

"Few see what is right before their eyes," he returned.

"Now Sandrock gives life... I thought it fitting."

"Is there... is there any way to rebuild it?" she asked hesitantly.

"No. I destroyed all the information of the Gundams I could find. Purged the files. Perhaps someday a scientist will come along with enough knowledge to build one himself, but for now, only the pilots and Howard have enough knowledge to build one, and we won't. We've seen too much death."

"What of the others?" Reeshya wanted to know.

Quatre shrugged. "I'm not sure. But I trust them."

 
Scene VIII: No Time to Look Back

 
Around midnight, the weather changed.

It had been hot all day, but as Noin sat on her bed and contemplated sleep, with the lights off and the moon shining through the windows, it began to rain. She could hear it tapping on the glass panes and faintly on the roof. It had been a long time since it rained. She missed the rain.

Sighing, she turned off the light and lay down on the bed, pulling the covers up to her waist, hoping the rain would cool the steaming heat somewhat. Burning sun by day, burning heat by night, even inside. It never changed.

It was too hot to sleep, so she sat up again, pushing her hair out of her eyes and glancing at the tiny digital clock on the wall. They had taken away her watch, perhaps thinking she might find some way to use it as an escape device. It had probably been a wise move on their part. When she had been an instructor at Lake Victoria, her watch had contained a hidden guided laser beam; the very latest in technology. But the watch she had worn on this mission was just a simple watch. Better to be safe than sorry, she supposed. The principles of war and all that. Sun Tzu. The art of war, security and simplicity.

Noin rubbed her eyes wearily, wondering if she had insomnia. She hadn't been able to sleep for the past few nights, lying awake and staring at the ceiling for hours.

There had been a commotion outside her doorway a few days past, and she had tried to look out the tiny barred window at the top of her door, but it was too high up and she could see very little; only several guards marching past at the very end of what seemed to be a long guard detail. She wondered what was going on. New maneuver drills, perhaps? Or maybe the planetside resistance was acting up again?

She hoped it was the latter, but she doubted it. The planetside resistance had been growing weaker and weaker, and the last she had heard of it before her capture was that several resistance cells had been discovered in the capital and all the members of those cells had been taken prisoner. The resistance commander was thankfully out of the city at that time. What was his name? Gustav-something? She couldn't remember. There had been reward posters taped to lampposts and building sides, and broadcasts daily from the radio for his capture.

She hoped he was still free, though that wasn't likely, if the trend had continued after her capture. The new government was certainly showing everyone who was in charge, and they had no qualms about engaging in a little violence if necessary.

What was it that they were after, anyway? If one looked at this so-called "rebellion" from Earth's point of view...or even from the colonists', it was a senseless cause. The World Nation hadn't had much control over the colony, with it being so far away from Earth, and the colonists were basically an autonomous governing body. It was as if the whole rebellion had been staged to gain someone's attention...but whose?

Thinking made her head hurt, and she scooted against the wall, watching the subtle play of moonlight outside the windows. The bars cast shadows on the curtains.

She wondered where Zechs was. If he was coming for her.

Probably not. The Preventers had far more important things to worry about, and likely they had forgotten all about her. Besides, Zechs was...

He had never said that he loved her. He had never said anything one way or the other. When she was there, he spoke to her. When they were apart, not a word. No phone call, no contact whatsoever. It was if out of his line of sight, she did not exist.

She had put up with that for years, and she didn't have to put up with it anymore.

Noin fought the urge to laugh, staring up silently at the ceiling once more. I can take care of myself, she'd told him once before, a long time ago. I don't need anyone telling me what to do.

Pining after someone who she'd told she didn't need...that was something that only she would do.

There was a slight tapping noise at the window. Her head swung towards it for a moment, but it was nothing. The rain? A rodent, perhaps. There was an overabundance of those within the old palatial headquarters. She would never have guessed how incredibly dirty the building really was. The military had more important matters to take care of than taking care of its people, evidently.

The tapping noise again. She froze, eyes searching out the wall from which the sound had come. It wasn't her imagination...too distinct for raindrops, and no rodent would make a sound that loud.

Tapping. Her brain processed the sound. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Four taps, a pause, then five.

Tap code?

She had never in her wildest dreams thought that she would be in a position to use OZ Specials tap code, but there was only one obvious answer. There was someone tapping on the other side of the wall, and he had been an OZ Special, and he knew who she was. And he was sending her a message.

The letter u.

She flung aside the covers, sliding against the wall and then crawling low to avoid the security camera she knew was monitoring her movements inside the room. If she hugged the walls and then moved towards the far side of the room, she would enter the camera's blind spot.

Squatting down as close as she could to where she guessed the tap had come, she put her ear to the wall and listened again.

Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

U.

She took a deep breath. It could be a trick. Some officer might be trying to trick her.

But that didn't make much sense. She had been the only prisoner within these walls, and why would they try to trick her, if they knew the tap code already? Tap code had been taught only to the most elite of the elite of the OZ Specials, and none of those, as far as she knew, had been part of the coup on A007.

She uncurled her fingers, swallowed. Tapped. Five taps, then four.

Y. Y for yes.

LTNOIN, the taps came back, and for a second she had to steady herself against the wall.

HOW, she wrote back.

ETILLE, came the reply. CLSOFSXTYSVN

Class of '67? ACDMY, she tapped. Y, came the response. An Academy graduate? AD 167 had been well before the war...if his story was true, then he was a veteran.

She took another deep breath before she tapped again. HOW. The same question.

PRVNTR.

Preventers? They were looking for her? Her heart beat faster and she tapped the next words perhaps a little too quickly. Could he be in the Preventers?

U, she wrote. You?

N. She felt a little disappointed, but tapped back. WHO.

PEACECRAFT.

Peacecraft? Peacecraft?

No. It couldn't possibly be. Zechs was dead. Her fingers were trembling violently now, and her heart was pounding.

ZECHS, she tapped back, hardly daring to hope.

Y

HOW, she said, for the third time. This man...she assumed he was a man...had to be lying. What was his name, Etille? He was tricking her...he was trying to break her. Before he could respond, she was tapping again. LIARLEAVEMEALONE

N, came the taps. PRVNTR

RNFRCEMNTS, she said, cautiously. She still wasn't sure if she should trust him or not. If his story was true...oh God, if it was true...tears stung the corners of her eyes and she blinked them away. She was a soldier, not a schoolgirl. She would not cry. WHEN.

THREEDYSAGORD

A raid...Zechs had led a raid? PRVNTRSRD, she tapped.

Y. A pause. MBLESTFACTHIT. Another pause. ICAPTRD

Noin followed the tapping carefully, processing the information in her head. She hadn't heard tap code since survival training before the war, and her memory was rusty. Mobile Suit factory hit. Etille had been captured.

ZECHS, she wrote back.

FINE. Pause. WTHRBLS. Pause. CATALONIA

Zechs was with Dorothy?

This could all be a trap. They could be feeding her false information. They could be trying to play with her mind...another form of the never ending attempts to pull something out of her that they could use. They could be trying to trick her.

Zechs...could be alive. Zechs could be coming for her.

She hugged her knees to her chest in the cold room, curled up against the wall in the darkness and tapping an outdated code on the wall to someone whom she had never even met. It was ridiculous, the premise. And yet...Zechs could be alive. Peacecraft, the man had called him. Peacecraft. Zechs had called himself by his old name, Milliard Peacecraft, when he had been White Fang commander. If this man was...

WHTEFANG, she tapped.

A long pause. Y

That made sense. If he had served as a member of White Fang, he would have known both Zechs and Dorothy.

WHAT

Another long pause. INTLGNCE, came the response, finally. CHF

Intelligence chief?

Etille. The name rang a faint bell in the back of her mind, now. His picture had been on the wall of the front foyer of the Academy Main Building, one of the few who had distinguished themselves in the OZ forces enough for them to be honored in such fashion. His photograph had been at the far right of the wall, next to the large double doors leading into the commanding general's office. Etille had been a serious looking young man in the photo, hair neatly combed and a placid smile on his face. She had always thought he would be a rather dull person to know...though this conversation was proving anything but that.

Unless this was a trick. It could still be one...an elaborate one, but a trick nonetheless. They could throw open the door of her room any minute and have a perfect excuse to kill her.

If they had wanted to kill her, they could have done it long ago.

ESCPE, the taps said.

Escape?

If I am captured, I will make every effort to escape and to aid others to escape.

She felt faintly embarrassed. The rules of the code of conduct made it perfectly clear...but the thought of escape had never even crossed her mind.

What had she been doing all this time, anyway?

She thought back, to the endless days of sitting, the endless waiting, for something to happen, anything. The interrogation sessions. More waiting. The embarrassment grew stronger, bordering on the edge of shame. What had happened to the proud soldier she had been? She'd been sitting, feeling empty and worthless, waiting for Zechs.

She had been waiting for Zechs, knowing full well that he would never come.

But according to Etille, Zechs was alive, and he was here.

A breath hissed between her teeth, and she hugged herself tighter. It wasn't fair...not fair.

HVNTTHT, she tapped back slowly. Haven't thought. Haven't thought of escape. Haven't thought of anyone but myself. Haven't thought of anything except feeling sorry for myself.

Since when was she dependent on anyone?

OH, he tapped back, apparently at a loss for words.

She closed her eyes. What if Zechs was coming for her? What if he actually did burst in through the door, and found her sitting in a dejected heap on her bed, staring at the wall? What would he think?

Probably the first thing he would do would be to turn his back and leave.

WHEN she said, gritting her teeth. She was not a weakling, yet that was all she had been.

Zechs was not dead. Zechs was alive, and it was time to show him what she was made of. She didn't need to be rescued. She could do it on her own.

PLAN, he said.

Noin licked her lips, mind working fast. She had to trust this man who called himself Etille...she had to. There was no other way. And if he turned out to be an impostor...well, she would deal with that when it came. If worst came to worst, she would be killed trying to escape. Better than rotting away day by day in this furnished prison cell.

LETMETHINK, she said. TMRW.

A pause. Y. A pause. GRDS.

Grds? She puzzled that out in her mind for a second, then it clicked. Guards. RT, she tapped. LTR. Right. Later.

There was no answer. She hoped he had not gotten caught. What were those codes that prisoners had used historically? GN, for good night. GBU, for God Bless You. There were several others, but she could not remember. She dared not tap again, for fear the guards would hear. And if they were at his cell, they would be at hers in a moment for sure.

She crept back to her bed in the same way she had gone to the wall, crawling under the covers and lying very still. Heard the tapping of the boots of the guards as they made their rounds. The scratching at the door as they peered over, then the tapping as they left, satisfied that nothing was out of the ordinary.

Zechs was alive.

She felt like shouting and crying at the same time. It was too good to be true. She shouldn't dare to hope...just in case. Just in case this Etille was telling her this to gain her loyalty.

To hell with it. If Zechs was alive, she would do anything, anything to be back at his side, where she belonged. Dorothy was a good soldier, but she was militarily nowhere near Noin's caliber. Noin was OZ trained, Dorothy home-schooled by her uncle and Treize. Besides, Zechs and Noin had always been a team. Always.

"Zechs..." A soundless whisper in the dark. She balled her fists in the blankets, mind working through possible escape scenarios. She hoped Etille was doing the same.

She had been a coward and a fool, but it was time to act. Somewhere inside her, the old Noin still existed, the Noin who had faced down an angry Chang Wufei that night at Lake Victoria, the Noin who had personally recruited three Gundam pilots to join a futile resistance that had somehow saved the world. Zechs had believed in that old Noin. At least she had thought that he had. And even if he had not, others had. That had to be enough.

Her sleep that night was restless with dreams of fire and smoke and the incessant calling of her name from the lips of someone she could not see.

Noin...Noin...Noin...

 
For more information on the American POW tap code used during the Vietnam War: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/honor/sfeature/sf_tap.html

 
Go to Noin's Commander's Log #4

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