SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING

SAINAN NO KEKKA
ACT VI, PART III

 
 
Scene IX: Shattering the Cavern of Sleep

 
You left me alone.

The sun was setting as Darkflight stared out the entrance of the alleyway, hands in his pockets. The wind was cool, drying the sweat on the back of his neck, rustling his tattered jacket and long hair. His bangs tickled the corners of his eyes.

They were at the border of Russia, about to cross into the European state, and the flickering neon signs were conglomerations of English and Russian mixed with a little French. Across the street was yet another cheap hotel, yet another spur-of-the-moment location where that...that boy Wufei had decreed that they should spend the night. And of course, instead of arguing, instead of using his instinct and the skills that Darkflight knew he possessed, Wing had agreed. Wing always agreed now, with a kind of calm acceptance in his voice that Darkflight had never heard before.

It frightened him.

He had thought he knew Wing, but with the intrusion of Wufei into his world, that assumption was shattered. The Chinese boy knew things about his partner that Darkflight had never even imagined, was able to pull Wing's deepest feelings from their core the way Darkflight had never been able to do.

Or, the little voice whispered inside his mind, you're jealous. Because Wing is part of something larger than you'll ever be, and you want what he has. Because all said and done, you're just a murderer. And he is a warrior.

He scuffed his shoe into the dirt, a rough jerking motion. It didn't matter. Once Wufei found out what kind of person Wing had become, he wouldn't want to hang around. Wufei would leave, turn away in disgust, dismiss his former partner in rage and disgust, and go try to win his private little war by himself. And it would be all right again.

"I'm not giving up on you, Wing," he whispered fiercely. "You don't belong with them. You belong in the Breaks. We're alike, you and I."

The stairs up to the room were creaky and the rusted iron railing was missing screws in more places than he could count. He twisted the door handle, expecting Wufei to be sitting up on his bed or at the table writing something, glaring at him with those almond eyes that were so like and yet unlike Wing's and even his own. Saying, what are you doing here? Get out. You don't belong with us, you scum.

Wufei had never vocalized his feelings, but Darkflight could see it in the Chinese boy's eyes.

You're not like us.

But Wufei was not there, and at first he thought the room was empty. The window was partly open, the cheap curtains fluttering in the evening breeze, and then Darkflight saw the lump in the sheets, the erratic breathing coming from the second bed, and he moved closer. Wing was wrapped up in the sheets, hair tousled, sweat running down his neck and bare chest. One arm was flung out, wrapped around the dirty pillow, as if warding off some nightmare.

He was sleeping quietly now, but Darkflight guessed he had had some sort of nightmare. They had both woken up nights to the sounds of each others' nightmares. He wondered what this one had been.

Wufei would never understand.

"Wing?" he said softly.

The eyelids fluttered, slowly opened, then his partner - former partner - jolted upright in bed, his posture tense.

"Darkflight," Wing said.

For a long moment he struggled with words, trying to think of something, anything, to say. "How are you feeling?" he finally said, mentally cursing himself as the words came out of his mouth.

"Cut the shit," Wing said. There was a gust of wind from the open window and Wing pulled the covers back, padded over, slammed the window shut. Wufei's papers on the desk beside the door rustled slightly.

"What are you doing here?"

"I brought you some stuff," Darkflight said. "If you still want it."

He held out the needle and the pouch with one hand, watching the Japanese boy's profile, watching as one hand slowly closed into a fist, opened, closed again. Like a heart beating.

"I don't want your help," Wing said.

"I'm not asking for you to take it," Darkflight snarled, his temper breaking, dumping the needle and the pouch on the bed, where Wing's feet made a shadowy outline of bumps under the tattered bedspread. "It's not a choice. This is yours."

"Darkflight," Wing said again, and Darkflight paused, turned slightly towards the doorway.

"What?"

"Go home," Wing said. And as Darkflight turned back around to glance at his partner, he caught the faintest glimpse of sadness on the scarred face, a nameless emotion of longing and fear and hope, before it flickered away behind the blank eyes. "Go home, Darkflight."

"Damn you to hell," he shot back. His hands were shaking. "We've had this conversation before. We have it every fucking night. I'm not going home. I'm not leaving you here."

He expected a muttered "whatever," a familiar growl before Wing kicked him out of the room, as usual. But there was none of that, and he blinked in surprise before he saw the shadow of the corner of his eye and realized that Wing was getting out of bed. Walking towards him. Stopping.

"I'm a Gundam pilot," Wing said.

"No you're not!" Darkflight whirled, for some reason feeling cornered even though Wing was half a room away from him, standing relaxed with hands at his sides, staring toward the floor. "Wing, if I hear that out of you one more time, I swear I'll-"

"I'm a Gundam pilot," Wing said. When he raised his head, his eyes were clear. "I was raised to be a Gundam pilot."

Darkflight swallowed. "I was lying in bed today and I was thinking about something." Wing paused. "You know, it's not everyone who can be as lucky as I am. I've had a shitty life, Darkflight, but you know what? I've had great people around me."

Darkflight blinked, frowning, feeling frightened but not knowing why. "Wing, I think you need some rest," he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

"I've had great people around me," Wing repeated. Watching him, reflecting. "Duo. Trowa. Quatre and Wufei. Relena." His voice broke a little on the last word, as if the very mention of that name was hard for him. "You and Atsuki. I couldn't have made it this far without you, Darkflight, but right now I don't think you know me anymore."

"Cut the shit," Darkflight whispered. "I know you, Wing."

"No you don't know me...How could you know me, when I don't know myself?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Stop lying to yourself," Wing said, turning away to face the rising moon. "I remember...I remember Treize's death. Did you see it, Darkflight? Did you see the way the sword cut through the mobile suit like it was water? Did you hear Wufei screaming?"

Goosebumps prickled on his skin and he felt something terrible clawing at the back of his brain. "Wing, I-"

"The scar on my face. It was a gift, you know." Fingers tracing it, running up and down its gnarled length. "A gift...from the man who called himself Zechs Merquise. I remember that now."

"What?"

"He killed me," Wing said, as if it was the most common thing in the world. "He killed me, or at least I thought he did. But I was the one who killed myself."

Wing's voice was calm, serene. He suddenly remembered that night he had gone home to break the news of their next target, heard Wing laughing, that mad insane, frenzied laughter and the eerie calmness in its wake. This was not that kind of calmness. This was the voice of a man who had had a revelation.

And for the first time, he realized, truly realized, that the boy standing before him was someone he did not know.

For two years, Wing had been the stability in his life, the one he had shared life and death with, fears and triumphs. Because they were alike. Because neither he nor Wing had pasts, and so they had to create their own.

Wing had a past. There was no Wing anymore. He was someone else.

"I get the point," Darkflight said dully. "I'm not wanted. I'll leave."

"Don't feel bad," Wing said. Padding back to the bed but not moving to get back in it, staring at the shining needle on the blanket. "We're different, you and I. You've always known that, haven't you?"

No, he wanted to say. "What's so different about us?"

"They did things to me. Experiments. I was changed. Warped. I don't deserve..."

The shaking was stronger in his hands now, in his legs, and he had to get out of the room or he would go mad, stumbling down the stairs into the open air. Heard Wing shouting his name in question behind him, not caring. Running away, away from the lighted buildings to some semblance of darkness that he welcomed more than he did the light. Falling against the sagging metal railing a few blocks away from the motel, panting.

They did things to me. Experiments.

He had a pounding headache, but he had just had an injection and wouldn't need one for a few hours yet. When Wing had spoken those words he had suddenly seen a flash inside his mind, a memory.

Of something.

He'd had flashes before, starting back before the time he had met Wing, before he had established his group as the leader of assassin groups in the Breaks. He'd had glimpses of memory that he couldn't place, events that triggered something inside him, nights when he would wake up thrashing, gasping for air, calling the name of someone he didn't know.

Niisan, he would scream, niisan!

And then if someone was there, and that someone was usually Wing, would shake him and say wake up, Darkflight, are you all right? You're going to wake up the neighbors, and you don't want them to get mad and come barging in with a gun to shut you up.

And he would say, it's just a nightmare.

He had known for a long time that it was not just a nightmare.

He remembered hands grasping at him, voices out of the air. He had been young. It was like looking into the middle of a thick fog, a blood red fog, and then darkness.

The memories had grown more intense as time as passed, as he forced himself to think about them, to sharpen them in his mind, and he remembered that room, the room full of clean, polished medical equipment, the men in white coats staring down at him, his arms tied behind his back. They had said things to him - things about something called Meteor.

There had been times he had not known if it was a real memory.

He raised his head suddenly at the sound of footsteps, and before he could turn and run, he saw the familiar scarred face rounding the corner, the long tail of black hair. Wing was still dressed in only a pair of loose pants, but at the sight of him, Darkflight could have sworn that the other boy looked relieved. He didn't move as Wing pounded to a stop in front of him, shoulders heaving, barely sweating in the cool night air.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," he said curtly. "Leave me alone."

"Hey...I'm sorry. If I said anything..." Wing trailed off, looking down at his feet. "I didn't mean..."

Darkflight found himself thrown for a loop the second time tonight. Wing apologizing? Wing feeling sorry?

"Wing..." he said, and the other boy's head shot up. The cobalt eyes were strangely compassionate in the moonlight.

"What happened to you?"

The double meaning of the question didn't catch him until it was out of his mouth, and he watched his one-time partner, wondering what meaning he would take. If he would take the easy way out, or if he would delve deep into the past and release that knowledge which both of them were afraid to hear.

Actually, when one thought about it long enough, there was no easy answer.

"I can't ever go back to being Heero Yuy," Wing said, "so I thought I'd just try to become a better person."

"That's not what I meant," Darkflight said. Not giving him a choice. You tell me what you were talking about back there, that thing which hit me and made me remember.

"What?"

"You said...." He stumbled over his words. "That you're different. That...they did things."

"Doctor J," Wing said.

"Who?"

"Doctor J. He was the one who took me in..." he trailed off, fists clenched. "They did things to me. Genetic experiments. Tampering with the human mind. Call it what you want. I'm not normal. I'm a freak." Wing rounded on him. "Is that what you want to hear?"

He didn't even remember himself falling, hands letting go of the iron railing, only remember the moon rushing up at him and Wing's voice again in his ears, calling his name.

Except it wasn't Wing's voice, and the moon was gone and there were bright lights, blinding him as a hand was torn from his grasp and he reached out his arms, trying to touch...something. Someone. Someone who was calling...calling...calling...

Hideki!

And he heard himself responding niisan! Niisan!

Don't leave me, niisan!

And then a sharp pain at the back of his head and the world fled away in a shower of stars.

 
Go to Darkflight side Penumbra

 
Scene X: Fear of Dying

 
The electric light on the bedside table was on its lowest setting, but somehow, looking at it through the canvas of the tent, Noin still felt that it was too bright. She'd turned it on earlier when the rain had finally stopped and the sun had started going down behind the bleak cliffs, when she'd brought Milliard his dinner. He had been sitting up in bed, staring into space. He had a tendency to do that when he was injured.

"Noin," he greeted her, with a half smile.

"You'll hurt yourself," she had retorted, setting his dinner down and pushing him gently on the shoulder. "You need to lie down."

"You always say that."

"And you never listen to me, and you end up bedridden for an extra week or two." But she couldn't help smiling. "It's good to see you talking again."

"It's good to see you again," he murmured, and one of his hands reached up to touch the one placed on his shoulder. She shivered slightly. "I've missed you."

She hadn't been sure how to take that comment. It had been two years...two years in which she had thought he was dead, dead and gone forever from her life. Etille's message through the walls of her cell had been a shock, seeing in person the man she had once known was even more of a shock.

He had cut his hair. The Zechs Merquise she remembered would never have cut his hair.

I'm Milliard now, he had said to her. Milliard Peacecraft. I changed my name for good.

She had continued to call him Zechs, and he hadn't said anything to the contrary, but somehow it felt odd, talking and laughing and planning with the man who a few days ago had been frozen in memory in a far corner of her mind.

It was fully dark outside now and she'd come over to Milliard's tent to make sure he was all right before she went over to Gustavson's camp. Milliard had authorized her to go to the meetings in his place, had given her his planning and strategy briefings before she had even asked. She felt bad for Dorothy. The girl was his second-in-command, and technically it would be she who would have stepped into Milliard's place. But at the same time, Noin was a professional soldier, a full-fledged member of the Preventers. Dorothy was a stand-in.

Surely that was what Milliard intended.

Did you know that Dorothy Catalonia is in love with Milliard Peacecraft?

Those words should not have bothered her as much as they did. What did Etille know about Zechs? She'd known Zechs since childhood...since the Academy. They had practically grown up together...there had been a time when she'd known him better than any other living person. There had been a time when, in the back of her mind, she had wondered if he would be the man she would marry.

That was when she had been younger and more naive, but theirs was a bond that was deeper than blood. At least, had been, before the war. Now she wasn't so sure.

Dorothy's been here, and you haven't, the voice nagged. She's worked with Zechs these past months while you've been a prisoner...she knows him too. Dorothy's pretty. Dorothy's smart. Dorothy Dorothy Dorothy.

"Shut up!" she hissed, slapping a hand to her forehead.

"Talking to yourself again?"

Her hand was on the flap of the tent, preparing to go in, and the voice caught her by surprise.

"Oh..."she said as the figure emerged into the light. "Hello, Dorothy."

"Hello, Noin."

They regarded each other for a moment, Noin thinking that Dorothy didn't look at all like she remembered her. The long golden hair was pinned up inside a heavy combat helmet, and there were streaks of soot and dirt on her face. Her fatigues were worn and dirty, and her boots had obviously not seen a shine in days. She looked like...a soldier.

The old nagging knocked at the back of her head, and Noin ignored it.

"What are you doing here?"

"Checking up on Milliard." Dorothy's eyes were hard. "What, I don't have a right to see him? I am the deputy commander."

Noin frowned. "I never said that. I was just making conversation."

Dorothy's lip twisted in a half-smile, half-sneer. "Thank you, oh great one, for thinking me worthy of conversation."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Noin demanded, but Dorothy was already pushing her way past into the tent, leaving her standing outside in the darkness, hands on her hips. She was tempted to go in after her, wrench her away from Milliard and tell her to get the hell out.

"What's wrong with me?" she mumbled to herself, staring at her hands, shadowy shapes of pale and brown in the night. "I'm no lovesick girl. I'm a soldier."

She watched Dorothy's shadow shift slightly, seated. Another shadow which was probably Milliard, sitting up, answering her. She took a deep breath, letting it out. The night air was cooling fast and she had places to be. She opened the tent flap.

"Dorothy, I need to-"

"She's telling me something." A deep voice. Milliard. Milliard, Zechs, it was all the same. "She'll be out in a moment."

Noin let the flap drop, not knowing whether she wanted to hit something or just walk away, away from Dorothy and Milliard and their little private world, and wait outside the briefing tent until the meeting began. She didn't mind waiting out in the cold. As long as she didn't have to see...them. Together.

Why are you so jealous?

Because I haven't seen him in two years, she answered herself. And I need to make sure that he's still mine.

Dorothy emerged from the tent just as Noin was ready to open the flap and disturb them again. The girl had a smile on her face which was not quite pleasant, and Noin resisted the urge to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, tell her never to set foot by Milliard again.

"You can go in now," Dorothy said.

"Why do you hate me so much?" Noin said. The words sounded like someone else's voice had spoken them, and the minute they emerged from her mouth she wished she could take them back. But it was said, and Dorothy didn't look surprised.

"Because you're you," Dorothy said. "And I don't like people...like that."

Before Noin could speak, Dorothy had disappeared into the night, around the side of the tent. She could hear the combat boots crunching on the pebbles and rain-soaked sand.

She pushed aside the tent flap, went in. Milliard was sitting up again, reading the latest field reports by the light of the lamp, and she stopped, watching him. With his tired eyes, wrapped in bandages, he was still beautiful.

"Aren't you going to come over and take care of me?" he said, a grin twisting one corner of his mouth.

She didn't smile back, moving to his bedside and sitting down at the foot of the cot, careful not to jostle any of his wounded areas. He put down the reports.

"Are you all right?"

"Not really," Noin said. Hoping all at once that he would ask her why, and that he wouldn't. How would she explain it? I'm in love with you, and I was wondering if you were in love with me?

"Noin?" One hand reached out to take hers, and she pulled it away, the touch sending an electric shock through her skin. "Noin, what's wrong?"

"I just..." she began, and she began to cry. He watched her helplessly. She knew he didn't know what to say, what to do, when she cried, so she just wiped her tears and turned away from him, towards the entrance. "Don't mind me."

"I'm really glad you're here," he said. "I really am."

"I know that. I'm a good soldier. You said that yourself."

A rough hand grabbed her arm, and she found herself pulled back. Yelping, she fought to keep her balance, finding herself looking into the blue of his eyes.

"You know that isn't true," he murmured, his gaze boring into hers. "I've waited for two years...to get you back."

"Zechs..." she said breathlessly, pulling away. A tear leaked from the corner of her mouth and she let it roll down her cheek. "Don't. Just...don't."

He released her arm reluctantly, and she stood up, going over to the table and pouring some water into a wide bowl, wetting a cloth. Almost stone-age methods for treating the ill, but they still worked.

"You were the only one I thought of all that time," Zechs said from behind her. "After the war, I went back to Treize's estates." His voice caught slightly on the name. "I thought constantly about going to Geneva, contacting you, but I couldn't. I thought I'd disgraced myself too much. I wasn't worthy of you anymore. I went back to Cinq and I hid there, because I was afraid." He chuckled low in his throat, a self-deprecating laugh. "I had wanted to burn up in that last battle, just like Treize, and I was even too cowardly to do that."

"It wasn't cowardly," she said softly. "It was because Heero wanted you to live."

"Heero was wrong."

Noin's fingers tightened on the cloth. "Then why did you come back?"

He was quiet for a long moment. "I told Dorothy the other day...that for once in my life, I wanted to do something right."

"What do you think of...Dorothy?" There. It was out.

"Dorothy?"

"Yes." Noin brought the bowl over to him, wiping his face and neck, then his hands. He winced as she brushed the bandages once or twice. "The skin should be healing back nicely...you'll be fine in a few days."

"Dorothy is a nice girl...woman," he said. Reflecting. "She's loyal. She's a good friend." Looking at her. "Why do you want to know?"

"I-" She stopped. "I just...never mind." Standing up again, putting the bowl back on the stand, spreading the cloth out to dry. "Never mind."

"If you're wondering," he said in a low voice, "she doesn't compare to you. Not by a long shot."

"Do you remember the day we graduated?" She didn't look at him. "When you made me take my mobile suit out for a spin, just because?"

"That was fun. You didn't like it?"

"Not at first." She turned to him, and he looked back at her. "But the memory..."

"Yes." A whisper. "I know."

For a moment there was silence in the room, and then he stirred. "You need to go. You have a meeting."

"I don't want to," she murmured.

"What would you do," he said suddenly, "if I had died?"

Noin frowned at him. "Died? You mean, in that last raid?"

He gestured to the bandages covering him. "There was a great possibility. I was injured badly. What would you have done?"

"That's not fair, Zechs," she said in a small voice. "Don't ask me that."

"We have another engagement...in a few days. I fully expect to participate."

"Zechs!"

His eyes burned with a familiar fire. She'd missed that fire, but it was wrong...it was wrong for the moment. "I'm the commander, Noin. I fight with my soldiers, or they don't fight at all."

"But-"

"If...something happens to me," he said. "I don't want you to grieve. To regret...anything. That's happened between us."

She felt the tears coming again, and she pushed herself away from the table. "I have to go," she whispered, and fled the tent.

What would you do if I had died?

She found herself running, running away from the tent which held the man she loved and yet feared. Running as fast as her feet would take her. "Don't scare me like that, Zechs. Don't..."

If Milliard had died, after she had found he was alive after all...if he had died before she could touch him again, before she could see him with human eyes instead of through the eyes of a machine, to hear his voice with her own ears...

The stretch leveled out into a hill, and her steps came slower and slower, till she came to a stop, taking deep gulping breaths.

"I don't know what I'd do," she said to the empty sky.

Milliard. No, Zechs. He would always be Zechs to her. He had died once, and it was if she had died with him.

She did not think she could bear to die again.

 
Go to Noin's Commander's Log #6

 
Scene IX: A Matter of Martyrs

 
He stared down at his manacled hands, wondering why he had calmly accepted this fate. He could have fought it; technically he had been in the Maguanac's country, living under their laws, and they would have done their best to keep him from being extradited. They might have even succeeded since the World Nation hadn't truly clarified its procedure for extradition. Still, Quatre didn't want to turn his friends into the world's enemies. The Arabian countries had always had a reputation for being rogue nations, and he didn't want to be responsible for fracturing the unstable peace by reminding the world of the troubled past. They were moving beyond; he had to believe that, or his sacrifices throughout the war had been for nothing.

Quatre looked up as the guard opened the door to his cell. He had been meditating quietly, trying to put his mind back into order. The emotions of the guards outside his cell assaulted his senses, and he was almost physically sick from the hatred and loathing they projected.

Strong as those emotions were, the emotions of the woman who stalked in like a lioness were so overwhelming that he almost fainted. His uchuu no kokoro could be controlled, to some extent, but some individuals had powerful auras that could assault Quatre without his consent. The Gundam pilots had been such people. This woman was another.

Her emotions bombarded him, and he winced as he tried to sort through them. There was the expected dislike and disgust, but interwoven in it was a stronger sense of satisfaction and a certain inexplicable glee. He could almost feel her rubbing her hands with eager anticipation.

The woman's Mid-Eastern features proclaimed that she was of purer blood then he, and he frowned slightly, trying to place where he had seen her before. She wore a long dress that was elegant in its simplicity, and his experienced eye recognized that it was one of the designs his sister Leila had modeled for Angelico, which meant it had cost a small fortune. Her hair was long, the longest he'd ever seen on anyone since Dorothy. But the casual way she rested her hand on her cocked hip that triggered his memory. "Fatima," he whispered softly.

She nodded, her red-glossed lips curving into a smile that made him feel like she was about to devour him. "Hello, Quatre," she said in Arabic, graciously nodding her head. "I must say that I certainly never imagined I would be talking to you under circumstances like this. I mean, isn't your family pacifist?"

It was not an idle or cruel question. Fatima was playing with him, watching him for his reaction. So he kept his expression carefully blank. "My father wasn't right about everything. You of all people should know that," he said quite blandly in the same language. There was something about being able to express himself in his native language- for once he was assured on not missing any subtle nuances.

He felt a spike in her emotions. That obviously hadn't been what she had been expecting from him, an accused war criminal. It was true she had only been involved with Raberba Winner, and hoped to marry him at some point, but political differences had forced them apart, along with the knowledge that none of Winner's thirty children approved of her. Being stepmother to the Winner brood would have been a nightmare, but she would have accepted that in exchange for the money and influence the position would have brought her.

Raberba had dumped her, though, after one of his empathic daughters had thrown a fit. It had been the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. He could over look some differences in political ideology, but he insisted on trustworthiness. Qamar had claimed that Fatima was more concerned with power then him, and she would be seen dead before she allowed the relationship to continue. Qamar had been right about Fatima's motivations, but that didn't stop the other woman from resenting her.

Now, though, she was grateful. If the brat hadn't pulled her stunt, she very well might have ended up as Mrs. Winner, which would have had disastrous repercussions. Raberba had been a traditionalist, and he would have keep her at home, locked in a Muslim marriage. Now she was powerful and respected in her own right, power she had gained through her own cunning and political manipulations, rather then by her looks. It was more satisfying that way.

Quatre knew the whole story, though he hadn't seen the woman in nearly twelve years. His childhood memories were vague, but he could feel the force of her presence as she leaned closer to speak to him. "Really, Quatre," she said. "Why did you ever let things get this bad? You didn't allow the lawyers your sister Yaminah is assembling to do their job- they could have stalled the extradition long enough to build a case for immunity. In fact, why did you confess in the first place? You should have said nothing, maybe even sued for slander. Made them back off."

"I confessed because it was the truth," he answered, meeting her eyes levelly.

He had surprised her again. "Can you really be that innocent?" she whispered, taking his chin in her right hand and tilting it up so she can examine his face. "My God, you are," she exclaimed. Then she frowned down. "You don't look much like your father, but there's something about him in your stance- an arrogance, perhaps."

No one had ever called him arrogant. He blinked, wanting to refute her accusation, but unable to find the words that wouldn't prove her right. "Why are you doing this, Fatima?" he asked softly.

"Doing what?"

He tried not to wince as her fingernails pressed against the tender flesh of his neck. "Trying to use me. I can't believe it's coincidence you're in charge of the investigation against me by chance."

Her fingers tightened, and Quatre was hard pressed to keep tears from springing to his eyes. "Now, you'd like me to explain everything, like a gloating villain? Explain my plans so you can plot to foil them? I'm not that stupid.

"And I have news for you. I'm not the villain of the piece - you are. Ask anyone." With that stinger, she quit the room, leaving behind a young man with his thoughts in turmoil.

His hand went unconsciously to where she had pressed her nails into his skin, wincing as he felt the wet warmness that could only be blood. She hadn't meant to hurt him, but she had. It hadn't been the purpose of her visit. She had been playing an entirely different game. She had visited briefly to let him know she was there and he was in her power, but there was more to it then that.

He brought his fingers back in front of his eyes, staring at the stain on his fingers. So much blood. How much blood had he seen?

Blood.

In the dimly lit restraining cell, it appeared almost black, like the black blood of legendary demons.

I am a demon, he thought. The bogeyman mothers used to scare their children into behaving. The monster with the cherubic face.

I am a martyr.

He remembered being younger, schooling with his older sister Ghaida. Ghaida had been unique among the family in that she was a Christian. Part of that religion seemed to be worshipping a man who had hung himself up on a tree, suffering for his beliefs. A martyr. One who made great sacrifices or suffered much in order to further a belief, cause, or principle. She had impressed on him the importance of being willing to become a martyr for a cause, not fighting back when offered the chance, but instead offering himself for peace.

Quatre had thought it was an incredibly noble thing to do. And an incredibly strange one.

He had chosen to fight, chosen to protect what was dear to him using the Gundam. He had chosen to stand up for what he believed in. He had put aside the beliefs of generations of his ancestors, become estranged from his father, become someone he never would have dreamt possible. A warrior.

This time, he had calmly accepted his fate. Fatima had been correct when she pointed out how irrational that had been. He had wanted to state his innocence, wanted to believe that the truth would be all he needed to protect him, but that was naive. He was naive. She had been right.

Damn that woman.

The truth...

Sometimes the only thing you can fight with is the truth. Reeshya had said that, but she hadn't meant for him to accept whatever the World Nation did to him. She had been begging him not to go, not calmly accept an unjust arrest. But he had.

Why had he? he wondered. Why did I let them take me away from my family?

Do I want to be a martyr again?

Quatre growled in frustration, grabbing the pillow on his bed and throwing it against the wall. I am not a martyr! Martyrs DIE, and dying is the least productive thing I can do!

I am a hero, he thought firmly. A man of distinguished valor or enterprise in danger, or fortitude in suffering; a prominent or central personage in any remarkable action or event; hence, a great or illustrious person. I was before. And I'll be again.

I'm not a businessman. I'm not a villain. I'm not a martyr- I'm a hero. We all were.

Somehow, that realization made him feel better. For the first time since the war, he felt at peace with himself.

He knew what he was.

He knew what he was doing.

He knew that challenges he had ahead of him.

And he knew he could win this one.

"Bring it on, Fatima," he whispered. "I'm ready for whatever you can deal out."

 
Scene XII: Faces Out of the Darkness

The one thing Wufei did not expect to see when he stepped into the room that night was the dark-skinned boy standing by the doorway, staring straight at him as he walked in carrying a paper bag full of groceries.

"Where's Heero?" Wufei said, not bothering to say hello. The bag started slipping from his grip and he stopped, set it down by the chipped table next to the mirror.

Darkflight shrugged. "I don't know. Haven't seen him."

"He wasn't in the room when you got here?"

Darkflight shrugged again, and Wufei watched his back for a moment before turning away, reaching into the bag of groceries, pulling out a slightly wrinkled orange and a loaf of bread. The window was open on the other side of the room and the last light of evening stained the floor and walls a pale, ghostly blue-gray. There was no wind. He dug one fingernail into the skin of the orange, ignoring the juice that squirted onto his face, methodically peeling strip after strip, dropping them onto the floor.

"Want some?" Holding out the finished product, scarcely the diameter of his hand.

Darkflight shook his head rather sullenly, turning back to his guardian post by the window, and Wufei shrugged, slid a slice of orange into his mouth. The fruit was bitter, but he chewed, swallowed, reached for another piece. Looked again at Darkflight standing by the window.

"Are you waiting for him?"

There was no need to voice who Wufei was referring to.

"You know I am." A slight curl of the lip. "Not that it makes any difference."

Wufei set down the orange and regarded the boy standing by the window, silhouetted by the fading light, lean and wiry and far too thin, dark skin seeming to absorb the shadows around him.

"Do you still think he'll come back with you?"

"Leave me alone," Darkflight said, and Wufei tensed, ready for the inevitable barrage of defensiveness that usually came with that statement, something he'd learned through traveling with the erratic boy. He had only spoken to Heero's former partner a few times, but every time it was if he was the one doing wrong, he who had taken Heero away from where he belonged.

But Darkflight said nothing after that, lapsed into a moody silence that made his skin crawl. He was used to silence, but with another person around it was uncomfortable, like he should speak. He had never had this problem before. An aftereffect of his self-imposed solitude, maybe.

"Heero deserves a better life," Wufei said. Not trying to convince Darkflight. Just making a statement, something that had to be said.

"Wing doesn't need you," Darkflight said through clenched teeth. Emphasis on the name Wing. "You don't understand him."

"We were Gundam pilots together," Wufei said calmly. "I think we understand each other pretty well."

"Fuck you," Darkflight said, but there was none of the normal acidic stinging that came with the words. He sounded defeated, tired. Wufei straightened from his exploration of the grocery bag, watching him.

"What are you so afraid of?" he said.

Darkflight's head turned sharply, and there was fire in his eyes. "I'm not afraid of anything," he spat, the fight back in his words. "I'm not afraid of you."

"I didn't think you were." Cutting a slice of bread, the knife held in his sure grip. "That's not what I'm asking."

"You wouldn't understand," Darkflight bit out. "You've never been to L1, have you? The Breaks?"

"I can't say I have."

"Wing told me about you." The scorn was audible in the dark boy's voice. "Rich kid, colony royalty, growing up having it all. You had the world handed to you on a silver platter. I had to fight, to kill, for what I wanted. Wing understands that. Wing belongs in the Breaks with me. It's our world, and I'm not going to let you take it all away!"

"I'm not taking anything away from you." He put the loaf away, the knife, cupping the cut slice of bread in his palm. "And my colony no longer exists. Look, Darkflight, I know you don't like me. And you know what? That's all right with me. When this is done, when it's all over, I'm not going to choose Heero's path for him. If he wants to go back to the Breaks, with you, it's up to him. I'm his friend, not his father. It's not up to me."

The dark-skinned boy said nothing, but the silence was tense.

"Or," Wufei said gently, "maybe you're afraid that if he remembers what he lost, he won't want anything to do with you anymore."

"You don't understand!" Darkflight said desperately, but Wufei could tell that he had hit a sore spot. "Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"I'm an assassin too, you know," Wufei said. Darkflight's head jerked up sharply, and Wufei held his gaze level. "I was trained as a pilot, a killer, an assassin, a soldier. I'm all of those things. And so is Heero. That's why he's so good at what he does. We've both been to places that probably equal your Breaks in conditions, so don't think that I don't know what it's like there. Heero's a free soul. You have to understand that. All of us were...we were trained that way."

"More than trained," Darkflight said.

Wufei frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Don't tell me you don't know that," Darkflight said. "I thought you knew everything about Heero." The name came awkwardly out of his mouth, almost like a curse. "Or was I wrong?"

"You mean the genetic manipulation," Wufei said. "How did you know that?"

"He told me. I do know him."

Wufei sighed, taking a bite of the bread. Darkflight knew much more than he had thought, and he supposed he had been wrong in trying to judge their relationship before gathering all the facts. He regarded the other boy in the dimming light, trying to place him on the scale in his mind, weighing him. Darkflight was an enigma, a mixture of strangeness and eerie familiarity, so different from how he used to be and yet the same.

He was not jealous of Darkflight. No, just sometimes he felt like an intrusion into their world, the private world that the two of them had built in the years when he was not there.

"Just..." Darkflight said, and Wufei turned. The other boy's eyes were hooded. "Don't try to take him where he doesn't belong. Or you'll have me to deal with."

"I'm not-" Wufei began, then shrugged and turned towards the door. "I'm not going to argue with you." Opening the motel room door, admitting the cheap glare of the streetlights. "If he comes back, tell him I've gone out."

He didn't wait for a response, letting the door slam behind him as he trotted down the stairs and onto the concrete of the parking lot. The moon was rising, a slim crescent in the sky surrounded by cloudy stars, and he wondered where Heero had gone.

Neither of them spoke of his drug addiction. It was there but unmentioned, just as Darkflight was there and unmentioned. Two very tangible reminders of the past which would not die, and Wufei had no intention of getting rid of either one. If Darkflight chose to stay with them, it would be to their best interest, and to his as well, but Wufei wouldn't be surprised if one day he simply wasn't there anymore. The drug addiction was a little harder to deal with, but it was not something that could be corrected overnight. And so he said nothing.

If it had been two years ago he would have sneered at Darkflight's words, ordered Heero to stay within his sight at all times, waxed eloquent on the nature of the new war they were fighting. But it wasn't two years ago, and he was tired.

There was no going back.

He hadn't even really known Heero, even when the war ended, but now he felt like they had known each other all their lives.

It was a small town in the middle of nowhere, which was why he had decided that they'd stay here for the night. They had been staying in small towns, for fear that someone somewhere would recognize either his or Heero's faces from some newspaper or television commentary, and it would be all over. But in the past few weeks, he had felt an insatiable craving to get away, to lose himself in the crowds and bright lights of the unnamed downtown of some grand city, become just one of the shifting blobs that moved with the motion of the great ocean of people around him. He had not been to a city since...since the riot.

Geneva was only a few days, hours, perhaps, from where they were now, and he wished he had a number or access to a computer so he could contact Sally. Sally would understand his mission, he knew. She'd always understood him, even when he had not understood himself. The conversation in the hangar that night before he had left had haunted him since he'd seen Heero Yuy's hard blue eyes staring into his from under the mask, but he only remembered bits and pieces now.

The war isn't over - it's just beginning.

You fought for penance. You're not a fighter, Wufei. You're a scholar- or you were. Now, you've made yourself into a man who walks two worlds.

She had spoken of Nataku. He had not thought of Nataku since they had fled China, but he thought of her now, somewhere among the stars, perhaps watching him walk down the narrow alleyway of a street, searching for something he couldn't name.

No matter what you do, you will be searching for your place in this life. What I'm worried about is that you won't find it.

Maybe Sally was right.

There were a few bars and shady places open in what could be considered the center of the dingy town, and he glanced as his reflection in the dirty glass as he passed shop after shop. He needed a haircut, he decided, while evaluating the fringe of hair hanging down over his ears and his eyes. He had lost his hairband and never bothered to find another one. His face was haggard, tired, and there were dark circles under his eyes, a bruise on his left cheek. Where had that come from?

"Lost?"

Wufei jumped and realized that he had stopped walking, had been staring into the same darkened shop window for at least a few minutes. The voice came from behind him and he turned warily, coming face to face with a tough-looking, dark-haired young man. His face was friendly but closed, and he was looking curiously into the shop window. Looking, Wufei realized, at his reflection.

"I'm just thinking," he automatically said in Japanese, and the man's face cleared before Wufei realized that he had been addressed in thick, accented English.

"So you speak Japanese. Not many people around here who do."

"I speak Japanese," Wufei said shortly, not wishing to strike up a conversation with a stranger who might recognize his face. It was entirely dark now, with the only light coming from the few streetlights along the road and the blinking neon signs of the bar several buildings down, but he couldn't afford to take chances. "What do you want?"

The man shrugged, stuck out his hand. "Yoroshiku. Machida Varis."

"That's not a Japanese name," Wufei said, curious despite himself, as he reached out to shake the man's hand.

Varis laughed. "You're right. Last name Japanese, first name Latvian. My beloved mama was from Latvia, and she named me. Father was from L1 and met her when he came to Earth to study at the Academy."

"The Academy?" The hair on the back of his arms pricked and he suddenly cursed himself for leaving his gun at the motel. The knife was securely strapped to the back of his leg above his shoe, and to get to it he would have to act quickly..."What Academy?"

"Lake Victoria Academy, of course. There's only one." Watching him closely.

With one quick motion he bent and whipped the knife from under his leg, a breath of air passing close to his face as he shoved the man against the closed doorway of the shop and pointed the knife at his throat. "What do you want?" he hissed.

Varis' expression didn't change. He was about as tall as Wufei was, but compactly built, and it had been two years since the war. If he wanted to kill him...

"You're still as good as ever," Varis said.

Wufei blinked. "What?"

Surprisngly, Varis didn't move, let himself be pinned by the knife, looking at Wufei appraisingly. "I recognize you, Chang Wufei, but I doubt you'd remember me."

"What are you talking about?" he said, bringing the knife a little closer to the man's throat. "If you want to talk your way out of this, it won't work. I don't plan on being captured or killed by the likes of you."

"Actually," Varis said, "It's the opposite. I'd like to join you."

Wufei blinked again. "You WHAT?"

"If you'll let go of me," Varis said, "I'll explain." For the first time Wufei noticed that the bulging blue vein on the man's forehead was twitching ever so slightly. "I promise, I won't lay a hand on you. I'm not here to kill you."

For a frozen second Wufei hesitated, then stepped away, pointing the knife in front of him. "I'm counting on your word."

"My word is my honor," Varis said, and for the first time a hard look came into his eyes. "Ever since the war ended, that's all I really have left."

"You fought...in the war?" A question more of surprise than of actual curiosity, but Varis didn't answer. Instead, he put a hand to the pocket of his dark, threadbare pants, and Wufei stepped forward threateningly.

"It's not a weapon."

"I'm not taking any chances," Wufei retorted. "How do you know my name?"

Varis snorted. "Everyone knows your name." Still rummaging in his pocket. "It's only been in the prime news spot every day since it first came out. Your name and picture...I'd be surprised if half the world population doesn't have every name and face of you and your friends committed to memory."

"Like you?" He put scorn into the words.

"I didn't have to memorize," Varis said. "I already knew."

Before Wufei could respond to that, a hard metal object was thrust into his hand, and he looked up to see Varis nodding towards it. "Do you recognize that?"

He turned it over in his fingers, the knife forgotten. It was a badge, a sword with serrated wings centered in the middle of a crest of fire. The thing seemed made entirely of silver, shining in the glare of the streetlights, and he ran his fingertips over the bottom where words were carved, in English.

SPECIAL OPERATIONS

It took a moment for the meaning to hit him, and he gripped the badge in suddenly tightening fingers, remembering his sojourn aboard the Peacemillion, the hangar where the Gundams were kept, the soldiers who had worn the black uniforms and carried the guard rifles. Elite forces, Sally had called them. Security measures, in case White Fang or Romefeller decided to infiltrate the ship.

The face of the young guard that had manned the night shift for hangar security, never speaking, just nodding to him as he passed in and out through the hangar doors. He had never known his name.

"I remember you," he said softly. "You were the guard in the hangar...you were in charge of security in B sector."

Varis reached out, took the badge from Wufei's hand. The lines of his face were familiar now, though they were years older, covered in dust and grime. "It's been a long time. I didn't know if you'd recognize me."

"You always did a good job," Wufei said. Feeling foolish for his initial reaction, he leaned down and replaced the knife in the sheath of his shoe. "Thank you."

Varis shrugged. "Not that it helps any now, does it?" Rummaging in his pocket again, pulling out another object. "Here."

It was an electronic identification card, with the thin metal strip running down one side and information printed on the other side in both English and Japanese. MACHIDA VARIS, D. PREVENTERS SPECIAL FORCES.

Wufei ran his thumb down the edge of the card, feeling the plastic dig into his skin. The wind was getting colder, and he regretted not bringing a heavier jacket. The dead light of the streetlamps hovered in the air above the deserted road. "Who sent you?"

"Actually, no one. I'm one of the contact points for the Eastern Asian border."

Wufei glanced warily at him. "I'm not sure I should believe that story."

Varis laughed. "I know Lady - General Une about as well as you do, and believe me, she didn't send me. She has no idea where any of you are, and neither did I. You five did a very good job of hiding your whereabouts after the war. I'm a trained professional. Intelligence, covert operations, criminal tracking, you name it, I can do it, but I couldn't find you. And believe me, I tried."

Wufei's lip twisted. "All of us are trained professionals too. When we don't want to be found, we won't be."

"I know that too. I'm actually lucky I managed to track you down."

"And how did you do that?" Varis held out his hand for his ID, but Wufei pulled it away.

"I'm running a little low on trust right now. You give me your story first."

Varis shrugged again. "Why not? After the war I joined the Preventers, not because I wanted to, but because it was what any sane young man would do who had been in the elite security forces during the war, had no civilian skills whatsoever, and had no place to go. My parents fought for OZ, were killed about halfway through the war, and I had no close family. Sally...General Po knew I was good, so she was the one who suggested that I put in a request for Special Forces."

"I thought you were already Special Forces," Wufei said.

"There's an application process...they don't accept right away. Rather complicated. Long story short, I got in. My first assignment I stayed in Geneva, and I'd just got moved here to investigate a crime ring when the Gundam story broke. I didn't get any specific information from headquarters, but I was informed by my superior officers to...keep an eye out for suspicious behavior."

"So you were sent."

"Not directly to find the pilots, no," Varis ran a hand through thick black hair. "And actually, I spotted you outside of that little town in northern China where you stopped about two nights ago. Been following you ever since."

"So then why didn't you show yourself sooner?"

"I had to make sure. It has been two years. Who's that dark-skinned boy with you?"

"Just someone I know," Wufei said shortly. "None of your business."

"Someone you know? Or someone-"

Wufei shoved him against the side of the doorway, clamping a hand over the soldier's mouth. "Look here. You might know who we are and have our best intentions in mind, but I'm not taking any chances. You mention his name and I'll have to kill you right here and now. And I am a trained assassin, no matter how good you are. You can't get away."

Varis nodded, and Wufei released his grip, stepping back. He held the identification card and Varis took it, stuffing it back in his pocket. "Deal," he said. "I won't mention...him. And I haven't contacted headquarters, if that's what you were worried about."

"I'd rather get there myself," Wufei muttered. "Don't want to make a scene."

"If you don't mind..." Varis began, and Wufei shook his head.

"No. You're not coming with me. Go back to where you came from."

"I'd be helpful," he said.

Wufei snorted. "You'd only get in the way. I can find my way to Geneva from here."

"How are you going to get in?"

Wufei narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"They don't just open the base gates to anyone, you know. You need an identification card."

Wufei sighed, exasperated. "Why are you so set on coming with me? I'm a wanted terrorist. You don't want to hang around the likes of me."

There was a short pause, and for the first time, Wufei saw an expression come into Varis' eyes, a faint look of hopeful longing. "I want to help," he said. "I'm not doing any good...stuck out here. You know?" He looked young, suddenly, the same as he had looked two years ago on the Peacemillion. "I know you're innocent...I want to help prove that. I just want to get back there so I can do something!"

The passion in his voice was quiet, but audible, and for a moment, Wufei hesitated, still tempted to say no, this isn't a fight for soldiers like you. This is my fault, my penance. This is...all because of me.

"Fine," he heard himself say. "We'll take you to Geneva...if you can get us into the base."

"That's what this is for," Varis answered, patting his pocket. He was smiling slightly.

"And if I find out you're lying to us," Wufei said, "or if I even have the slightest doubt in my mind about where your true loyalties lie..." he trailed off, turning and looking the soldier full in the face, making his words hard and cold.

"I will kill you."

 
Act VI Part II | Act VI Part IV | Back to Sainan no Kekka