Title: One Shot
Author: Ryoko no Shinigami
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, suggestion of assisted suicide, and one death.
Pairings: None. Gasp at my non-pairing-ness.
Dedication: To Voodoo Fighting Weasel, coz you brought me knowledge of the WWF, Sandman, Neil Gaiman, Johnny the Homicidal Maniac, Squee, cheese, Kevin Smith movies, your own kick-ass stories, and the Flooganans, my band of religious mini-monks. In other words, almost everything that's important in life. Thanks.
I had one shot, and they didn't know I had it.
One shot.
I was trapped. They had thrown me in a cell.
It was dark. It's always dark in OZ prison cells. That way, the prisoners don't know which way to go.
I knew which way to go.
I had a flashlight.
I had a set of lock picks. Both had been hidden in my braid.
And I had one shot, and they didn't know I had it.
I don't know how it happened. Oh, I know how I had gotten caught. There had been too many of them. I couldn't take them all.
I know how they fought me, pummeling me to the ground.
I know how they had tossed me in the cell like a sack of flour.
But how did I get that shot?
It's standard procedure. When you're put in an enclosure, waiting for execution, you examine the perimeter. You see where you are.
That's how I came to be crawling on my hands and knees around the walls of my cell.
My flashlight was so tiny, it did nothing to dispel the gloom. The pinpoint of light flashed over nothing more than gray concrete walls.
I almost didn't see it.
But one flash of metal in the beam of my flashlight caught my eye. I crawled over, hands released from their restraints already by my quick work with the picks.
The tiny light wouldn't even show me the whole of what I had picked up, though it was small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.
So I let my hands travel over it. And then I knew what it was I had found.
A gun.
A tiny gun, only capable of one shot. Easy to aim, accurate from twenty yards or less.
So I had one shot, and they didn't know I had it.
But there was a catch.
This gun, this tiny, one-shot gun I held, was an OZ weapon.
An OZ invention.
What was it doing here, in the prison cell of a Gundam pilot, in an OZ prison?
I had one shot, and they didn't know I had it.
But someone knew.
Someone had given it to me.
Why?
Maybe not for me to try to get out.
Maybe not to use against OZ.
Maybe to use against…
Me.
Maybe so that they couldn't make me talk.
But someone had given me just one shot.
I would thank them later. Perhaps by killing them.
They didn't know who I am. For all they knew, I was just a lowly spy.
That's how I had survived this long.
It was easy to get out of my cell. They only had one guard. Because they didn't know who I am.
He was opening the door. I pushed it, hard. He collapsed against the wall.
I dragged him in, bound him in my chains.
I knelt beside him. My lips brushed against his ear, my breath stirring his short hair, a moment of closeness as I whispered to him,
"Just know that I could have killed you. Could have."
So I was free.
Free, in the middle of a crowded OZ base.
Free, not knowing how much time I had before they discovered my escape.
Free, with one shot. And they didn't know I had it.
Couldn't use it too soon. I might need it later.
Couldn't wait too long to use it. It might be too late.
I slipped into a darkened hallway as a group of enemy soldiers passed.
Considered shooting them then.
But no. They didn't even know I was escaped yet.
It was only a matter of time.
An alarm rang.
Time's up.
And now it's just running, running.
Running with one shot.
And they're running, too.
Desperate.
I'm desperate.
So I tug open a door, hoping, praying…
No. Not that one.
So I run.
Just one shot.
Another door, another jerk, and it swings open…
To another hallway, as good as any other.
So I duck inside. And run.
Try to remember how these things are set up, where it's likely I'm going…
A thick metal door.
Yes?
A kick to the keypad.
Yes!
A loading bay, with mobile suits
And then they caught up with me.
I don't know how it happened.
Oh, I know how they fought me, bullets screaming over my head.
I know one of them got me in the shoulder.
I didn't scream.
Boys don't cry.
But I made it through, up, over, into the suit.
A technician tried to stop me.
One shot.
But he was just a kid, not much older than me.
So I pushed him.
And watched as he tumbled down, onto the concrete.
Maybe he'll survive.
Or not.
And I'm out.
I'm free.
And I still have one shot.
I tuck the small gun into my jacket.
You never know when you'll need just one shot.
Owari