SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING

SAINAN NO KEKKA
Scars: Heero

 
He watches the long-haired boy emerge from the shuttle ramp, eyes bright and eager, taking in his surroundings with a childlike innocence that seems strangely incongruous with his tall, tightly-knit frame. He has grown. Even his movements are surer, more fluid and confidently mature.

He is surprised that he can remember that much.

Crouching behind the cinder blocks that mark the divide between the landing pad and the concrete walk, he waits. The sun is warm but not hot, and yet he can feel sweat trickle between his shoulder blades and drip down his back and chest, collecting in small pools at the crooks of his elbows. It is almost like seeing a ghost there in front of him, and if he had known who the passengers on that shuttle were, he would never have come. For a moment he has the hope that somehow the boy will sense his presence, but no, he keeps on walking, walking past. Still only human.

The boy stops a short distance away, turns, speaks to first one and then the other of the higher ranking officials upon the platform. It is always the officials, always the ones who dictate the policy, the ones who know so little about the blind fear and sheer terror and terrible beauty of space. Of being at the controls of a machine so powerful that whoever was at the helm could rule the world if he had the mind to it.

And yet the pilots of those machines had obeyed these officials without question. Blindly? One might have called it blindly.

The boy's friends are on the platform now. He watches as they shuffle slowly towards the small group in the center, watches the security guards ringing the place with hands hung loosely at their sides, seemingly nonchalant. Notices the almost-but-not-quite tenseness of the muscles of each gun arm under the sleeve. As a professional assassin, he is paid to pick up on these things. It is not a matter of pride, but a matter of survival.

The boy speaks. Argues. He watches the swing of the braid, the belligerent stance, the long-forgotten habit of crossing slim arms over a boyish chest and standing with feet apart, waiting. Except the chest is no longer boyish, the arms no longer slim.

He has grown up, and for some reason, that is shocking.

He supposes he shouldn't feel bad for not knowing, not wanting to believe that they would all grow up. After all, he has had no memory of this boy, this fellow pilot, for the last two years. Time passes quickly in that place of no civilization, and this young man who had once been his friend has been no more than a voice, a quick recollection of a face, a flash of memory in his mind.

But no longer.

The girl moves to the boy's side, puts a hand on his arm. He recognizes her too. She was one of the later ones to join them, but she played her part during the war, as they all did. He wonders why she is still there with him. A smarter girl would have gotten out of there long ago, found someone better.

The conversation seems to be at an end, with the boy looking decidedly unhappy about the outcome, but one look at the girl by his side shows that he will be doing exactly as he is told. Some things never change, even with time.

And then the cranes spring to life.

The bay doors of the shuttle open, and he can see it. He draws in a deep breath as the crane gently hooks itself to the shoulders of the craft, bringing it up gently with a whine of gears, propping it up like a giant limp human body with green eyes staring lifelessly out into the sun. But it does not matter. It is his, his ship.

He had forgotten.

And the moment is past and it is just a hulk of metal again as they lower it into the flatbed truck and place the canopy over the top, obscuring it from view. For some reason his heart is beating wildly in his chest and he takes several deep, calming breaths, suddenly very much needing the drugs. But his next treatment is not scheduled until 1800 hours, and it is only early afternoon.

For some reason, when he turns back to the boy, he expects him to be dressed in the outfit of a Catholic priest, but it is still the same old jeans and ragged sneakers, old white t-shirt with some sort of jersy thrown over it and a duffel bag slung over one broad shoulder. Cliffside Heights, the bag reads, with a number 13 on the side.

Lucky number 13. Or is it unlucky number 13?

Either way, he supposes it does not matter so much anymore. The God of Death is gone now, replaced by a red-faced, tired and angry boy in normal teenage clothes with three other teenagers tagging at his heels, looking just as tired and angry as he. The meeting seems to be breaking up and he follows the boy with his eyes, watches him as he and the girl disappear inside a green and brown military jeep. Watches as the jeep roars away.

He rocks back on his heels and then lets himself fall against the cinder blocks still trying to calm a heart that should not be beating this quickly. It must be the drugs.

For a brief moment there he wonders what he will say when - if - they actually meet. Wonders if his memory is sufficient enough to at least recreate the illusion of a past friendship, then wonders why it matters. Wonders what possessed him to come out here in the first place.

He decides that that particular question may never be answered, decides that it is time for him to go as well. There are still people on the landing pad, but the drama which he came to see has ended, and he has no interest in the ending of this one.

It is amazing to him how easy it is for one to forget the past, but he supposes it is just like scars over old wounds: scars which will remain but will gradually become such a part of life that it is difficult to remember where they came from in the first place.

 
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