Tactical Espionage

By: Jackie

Prologue: Alive

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. I also did not come up with the original title of this story; it belongs to the creators of Metal Gear Solid/Konami.

Jackie's Note: Okay, so this is just the prologue. I've had this story "written" for a long time, but I never wrote it out. This chapter is a bit slow, but it is necessary! And just in case I don't get to post them up, chapters 1 and 2 are already written. (I'm writing other fics at the same time...) I have to type them up, though. ;)

July 7, 2005 - I finished writing this chapter on the day of the London Bombings. A sad but also joyous day in which many innocents were lost, but the strong will of the British people prevailed. May those who were lost in the attacks have eternal peace and their families be comforted even now.

Alive

AC 197 Mid November

Earth, A small town in England

10:34 pm

A lone man sat unattended at a bar. It was the same seat in which he always sat away from the other customers. The strange thing was that he rarely ever drank anything, though he would sit at the bar until untold hours of the night and early morning. He wore all black - black slacks, black shirt, black shoes. He covered it all with a black trench coat which he had just recently taken off. He wore a simple solid black baseball cap that covered his eyes.

He was hunched over the bar, though it seemed unnatural that he should slouch. His posture suggested that he was someone of nobility. Of course, no one really knew. The man rarely, if ever, spoke to anyone, and nobody knew his where-abouts during the day. The mysterious man was, in fact, a very popular topic for conversation in the town. People would speculate and gossip about who he really was and what he did and where he lived and on and on. IN fact, this very night, he was again the topic for conversation among the regular patrons of the bar.

"Back again, is he?" an old man said sitting at a circular table in the opposite corner of the bar from the stoic man.

"Well, he's here every other night, Angus, just like you. Why wouldn't he be here? the bar keeper responded. "The usual I presume?" but she didn't wait for a response and brought out a bottle of the man's favorite beer.

"Why don't you have a seat with us, Sandy?" another man at Angus' table called to the bar keeper.

"All right," she grabbed a nearby chair, positioned it at the table and sat down. "What's tonight's topic?" she asked the table.

"How about our lonely friend over there? Has he said anything tonight, Sandy?" Angus asked.

"Not a peep."

"Just sitting there, huh?" the man who called her over asked, "Like usual. I wonder who he is...?"

"Everyone does, Norm. I've asked him quite a few times," Sandy said.

Another woman at the table asked, "What did he say?"

"Nothing at first, then quietly, barely above a whisper, he said to call him Matt."

"Matt? That's it?" Norm asked and sandy nodded.

"Well, at least it's a start," Angus replied. "At least he's got a name of some kind." His eyes rested on the ever still and silent Matt. His posture was the same; he hadn't moved an inch.

"What do you suppose he comes here for, Sandy?" the woman asked.

"I've no idea. He rarely orders anything."

"Well, Benjamin here," the woman indicated another man sitting next to her with her thumb, "Says he's convinced that he's an escaped convict on the run from the law, and he comes here to watch the news and listen for any word about them being onto his trail."

"Ah do indeed," Benjamin responded. "Ah mean, look-et where 'ee sits. 'Ee's righ' in fron' of the television! You can' 'ear tha' thing nowhere else in this place. An' then 'ee's always 'ere for hours aft'a'ward! Ah bet you tha' 'ee 'ears ev'ry word said in this place! Then there's 'is get-up! Who wears all black everyday 'cept teenagers an' them punks that listen ta' metal? Ah ask you who wears it! No one, tha's who! An' no one's never seen 'is face. Never!"

"I've seen his face," Sandy interrupted.

"What colur are 'is eyes, then?" Benjamin countered.

"Well, I... I can't say that I've ever seen above his nose..." Sandy said, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"There!" Benjamin exclaimed as if the matter were solved. "Why do 'ee need ta' 'ide 'is features, Ah ask you! Somethin's not righ' abou' 'im, Ah tell you! Somethin' ain't righ'." Benjamin eyed Matt suspiciously. The man had yet to make a move or a sound.

"Aww, come on, Benny," Angus interjected. "Just because a man wears black and don't speak doesn't mean he's a criminal, though I reckon you're onto something there. He probably does come here for news. 'Bout what, though, I'm not sure."

"He seems awful lonesome..." Norm said, "Maybe he's isolated and just wants to keep tabs on the world. Maybe he's all alone, and he just wants to be around people."

"But that's so sad!" Sandy quietly exclaimed. "Surely he has some friends or family!"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't. Could be one of those guys who lost everything in the wars. I reckon us bar folk are all he's got," Angus said, a note of melancholy in his voice as he took a swig of his beer.

Five pairs of eyes rested on the man, but he still didn't move or say anything.

"What could have happened to him that he would choose to be so alone?" Sandy sadly asked.

The night wore on, and the bar emptied out save the man known as Matt. Sandy was putting up the chairs when Matt suddenly moved. He was staring at the TV screen. For the first time, sandy could see his full profile; he was younger than she'd expected.

"She turned her attention to the television. What on earth could have stolen his attention so completely that he abandoned all pretense of hiding his face?

On the twenty-four-hour news channel, a story about the Preventers and the ESUN Summit was unraveling live. In the middle of a news conference was a woman in her early 20's. She was covered in soot and had multiple cuts on her face and arms which were visible due to the rips in her uniform. Beneath her on the screen, the label read:

Director Une

Executive Director of Preventers

Questions were flying at her from off-screen reporters.

"-et's join the press conference already under way at the scene of this terrible, one can only hope, accident."

" - accident or was this intentional?" the news cast caught the end of one reporter's question.

"The emergency here is no accident. It was, in fact, a bomb," there was a gasp and furious scribbling as the Director answered their questions. "This was an attack on either all the delegates here or a particular person or group of people. Judging by the limited blast, I would lean for a particular person or group. - " she was cut off.

"The Vice Foreign Minister?"

"Possibly. The bomb was placed to impact the first two rows especially. That opens every person seated in those rows, including myself, as the possible target."

Just then, a row of text started to move across the bottom of the screen, further informing the audience.

"Terrorist attack on ESUN Summit," it scrolled. "Casualties and fatalities unknown..."

"Can you confirm or deny the rumors that the Vice Foreign Minister was injured or even killed in the blast?" The press was suddenly completely silent after this reporter asked her question.

"Ms. Dorlain was mostly shielded from the blast by her head of security who was actually the one who alerted us to the presence of the bomb. I don't know the extent of his injuries, but Ms. Dorlain sustained only minor cuts and burns from flying debris and shrapnel." With her words came an audible sigh of relief from the reporters.

"What about the other leaders?"

"I can't say for sure. I know many were injured, but again, all my preliminary reports are not detailed enough to give me the specifics. I have no word on the number of injuries or fatalities."

The next two questions came at the same time, "How was the bomb overlooked by security and the Preventers?" and "Who is responsible for the attack?"

The director raised her hand in a silencing motion and said, "I can only answer one question at a time. Already, we are trying to pin point exactly how, when, and from where the bomb came. We have no definitive answers to either of your questions on the matter, but I assure you that the Preventers will not rest until every person involved in this act is put to just-"

"Isn't it your job to prevent things like this from happening, thus your organization's name?" one reporter scathingly shouted.

"I assure you that no one in Preventers has been slacking, sir. We try our best to prevent situations like this from ever happening, but people are volatile. Sometimes, things can't be planned for. Other times, we make mistakes and fail to connect the dots. I cannot say at this present time which reason resulted in tonight's occurrences."

"Doesn't that make your organization, say, worthless?" the same reporter shouted.

She was silent for a moment, apparently taken aback by the question. The reporter was severely out of line; this wasn't the fault of the Preventers. Director Une composed herself and responded, "That depends on your definition of worth, I suppose. - Next."

"The bodyguard who protected the Vice Minister and discovered the bomb - is he dead?"

"As I've stated before, I am not fully aware of his current condition, but that being said, he's lived through far worse. I'm sure that he'll be fine, whatever his wounds may be."

"Do you have any estimates on the casualties?" one woman asked hopefully.

"Many of the delegates were injured, including some senior members of the ESUN," Une informed them. "Some of their injuries are quite severe. I have not received word on fatalities at this point in time.

"And now," she continued before another question could be asked, "I must get back to my responsibilities." Cries of protest rang out through the crowd as she spoke over them, "The moment I receive any new information, I'll share it with you." With that, she left the podium and headed toward the chaotic building behind her.

"Well, plenty of sketchy information there," the news anchor said as the screen focused on him again. "Again, if you're just joining us, a bomb has exploded at the ESUN Conference taking place in the former Cinq Kingdom, now the Democratic Republic of Cinq. Casualties and fatalities are unknown..."

Matt stood up startling Sandy; he'd seen enough. He grabbed his trench coat and pulled it over his shoulders.

The awkward silence between the two was too much for Sandy, and she spoke up, "That's just horrible, don't you think?"

He didn't say anything, but he did nod. He headed for the door without a word.

"You know, you remind me of someone," she continued as he reached the door. "Your face, but I can't remember who..."

He stopped for a moment waiting to see if she'd say anything else. When she didn't, he exited the bar and stepped into the chilly November air.

He didn't have a car, but in this little town, he didn't really need one. The mysterious man walked along the lighted sidewalks at a slow pace as a light snowy mist more hovered than fell around him. His hands shoved deeply into his coat pockets, he seemed to be enjoying the late Fall air.

It was time for him to leave this place. He was constantly on the move and had been for the last approximate year. Actually, he'd only finished with his therapy eight months beforehand. He'd stayed in this small town for two months; that was a record for him. Of course, now that someone had seen his face and partially recognized him, it was imperative that he move on and leave. He couldn't allow the world to know he existed. He wasn't even supposed to be alive. His one year recovery was an absolute miracle. Why had God spared him?

He stopped under a street lamp and pressed the crosswalk button. In the distance, he could hear the town clock ringing one o-clock. Even in this small community at this time of night, there were cars on the roads - mostly just people passing through. He stared up to watch the frozen mist drift down; the light of the street lamp fell upon the face of Treize Khushrenada.

Now at 26 years old, his face hadn't changed much save the scar on his left side. It ran from his temple through the corner of his eye ending at the edge of his jaw. A piece of Tallgeese's frontal screen had been embedded there; he had been "lucky" that it hadn't hit his actual eye, let alone that it stopped once it reached his skull.

He noticed a change of light at the edge of his vision and putting his head back down, he crossed the street. His hotel was about three blocks from where he was. He'd hurry over, gather his meager belongings, pay the manager, then head for the train station. But where to go...? There would only be a few trains to choose from, and he had no idea which one to pick. Wherever he chose, he supposed he'd have to wait until he was given a selection. Perhaps he'd venture to a larger city this time. After all, sometimes the best place to hide was in a crowd.

His thoughts turned abruptly to the press conference he'd just witnessed moments before. He wasn't expecting to see her, but then again, that was the reason he had been watching in the first place, wasn't it? She still took his breath away. At the mention of her name, he hadn't been able to keep himself from looking which had led to his now necessary departure.

She was now the head of an organization known as the Preventers. He didn't know too much about them save their stated mission, but he had been informed of their role in his daughter's attempted coup.

His blank features turned into a frown; it was so... unfathomably sardonic. He hadn't even known that he had a daughter and how ironic that she, too, tried to take over the world. Like father like daughter, he supposed. Why hadn't Leia told him?

His frown deepened at the thought of her. She served as a reminder of his immaturity. At best, Mariemaia was a mistake (at least on his part), which was a horrible thought. Horrible, but true. Mariemaia was the result of a seventeen-year-old boy who couldn't control his own hormones and a treacherous girl with the intention of using him to ruin the Khushrenada name and bring down the Romafeller Foundation - Not that his family or the Foundation needed any help in the matter.

Still, even though he'd never met his daughter, he felt... attached to her. He cared about her, and it wasn't just a little bit. How was it possible that he loved the girl? - Even if he did hate her mother. It was an amazing thought within itself: he, Treize Khushrenada, was a father. That single thought had the ability to evoke in him both humbled and enraged feelings. He was humbled at the miracle of life and enraged because he'd been robbed of the first eight years of his daughter's existence. But, as his ever-lurking conscience reminded him, he was now robbing himself of her years, so he had no room to complain.

Dekim Barton. If Treize had ever run into the "man," he wasn't sure what action he would take against the detestable cur. To indoctrinate soldiers with his twisted perverted mantra and parade it as Treize's ideals was despicable in its own right, but to brainwash his own daughter so he could hide behind her and take over the world was unforgivable. Then to shoot her... Though he didn't know exactly what he would do if he had been there or even aware of the situation at the time, one thing was for certain: he wouldn't have merely shot Dekim Barton. Such a death was too quick, painless, and even dignified for such a barbarian.

The completely ironic part about Mariemaia, however, was who adopted her. It couldn't have been more perfect if God had planned it Himself, which wasn't completely out of the realm of possibilities. Treize was beginning to think that there was no such thing as luck or coincidence. He was so tempted to reveal himself to them; in a perfect world, they could be the perfect family, but when he seriously contemplated the prospect, it was intimidating and even paralyzing at the very least. How did one approach their child who thought them dead, neglectful, and uncaring? How would he approach Mariemaia? Then there was the matter of Lady Une. With Mariemaia, he simply had to show himself alive and he was her father, but concerning his Lady, it took a little more than just showing up.

He wasn't sure if she'd ever loved him; her affections could have been the result of absolute loyalty for him. He doubted it, but it was possible. It was, of course, the main motive and explanation of why he had not pursued a relationship with her. At first glance, it seemed like a weak excuse, but Treize genuinely feared Ann's unwavering allegiance to him. Women generally would throw themselves at him, but he didn't care for them as their supposed devotion was rooted in things other than love be it his looks, wealth, power, or some other obscure object he possessed. With Une, he simply couldn't tell. Her faithfulness to him was wrapped up in more than just looks, wealth, or power; he knew that. She had truly cared about him, Treize, the person. The question manifested itself in whether she cared for him as more than her superior or friend. Treize knew exactly what would have happened if he'd ever attempted to court her; she would have acquiesced to his request. The problem he had was the unsurety of her true feelings. The last thing he wanted was to push her into a relationship that she didn't really want - to force her further into his shadow. If he'd voiced his affection to her, she would have reciprocated it aloud, but he wondered if the declaration would ring true in her heart. If he'd kissed her, she'd have kissed him back, but he wondered if she'd feel his same passion. Didn't he trust her? Technically, wasn't that what it came down to?

Of course, none of this really mattered, did it? She had accepted his death, along with the rest of the world, and moved on with her life. Even if she had been in love with him, what were the odds that she still loved him as she once did? Being "dead," loving him wasn't of much use. It was also fixing to be two years since he had become "deceased;" he couldn't blame her if she'd found someone else. He couldn't blame her, but he wasn't sure if he could forgive her. The thought of her in another man's arms... He couldn't stomach it.

The former head of OZ again pressed the crosswalk button at the street corner; he didn't have to wait long before the signal told him it was clear. Once on the other side, he picked up his pace. Even though he didn't enjoy the life of a nomad, he was ready to get out of this town. He was becoming anxious with the possibility of someone discovering who he was, and while leaving wouldn't completely solve the problem, it would ensure a bit of protection for him. Anyone who thought they'd seen Treize Khushrenada alive had to be suffering from hallucinations, right?

He also didn't like the fact that he'd left his suitcase in his room. Unlike normal suitcases that contained clothes, his contained nothing but cash. It was stupid to have left it there; he'd forgotten it that morning. He was secure in the knowledge that it was undisturbed, though. Save being cracked open by some heavy piece of machinery, the security pass-codes was the only way to open it. The possibly of one of the maids taking it was also slim-to-none as they weren't supposed to have serviced his room that day.

The money in the suitcase was all he had left. While over a million credits seemed like a whole lot, he couldn't exactly get a job to replace what he used. Technically, he had more than one million to his name, but since it was all in the various banks when he "died," he couldn't access it. The suitcase in his possession was a precaution he'd taken years beforehand. As soon as he'd returned to Earth, he'd retrieved it from his torn-down residence. It had originally contained nearly two million dollars, but such was the cost of his recovery.

It was 750,000 credits waisted in his opinion. His life wasn't worth it - not that he wasn't grateful. The procedures the doctors had performed on him were actually closer to totaling around 1.3 million, but they'd settled for a little over half that; he couldn't begin to understand why. Respectful of his wishes, they'd also agreed to keep his survival secret at no additional charge. Such a success story like his could bring fame and fortune to their doorsteps, but they didn't care. He'd understand such compassion for anyone else, but not him. He certainly hadn't done anything to deserve it.

Treize could see the freeway as he took a right, and further down the service road, he could see his hotel. He contemplated taking a taxi to the train station; the snow was beginning to fall more earnestly around him, and the wind was picking up. He had neglected to watch the weather, but it didn't take a meteorologist to tell him that this little town was about to receive its first snow storm of the coming winter season. That meant he had to hurry before they closed the rail systems. He quickened his stride yet again. He was leaving tonight. Staying around here wasn't likely to do him any good.

He reached the hotel, and using his key, entered his room on the first floor. Always prepared for a possible sudden departure, his belongings were already packed. All he owned was in a duffel bag with some essentials (changes of clothes, toiletries, and even some personal effects he'd been able to salvage) and, of course, his suitcase which was untouched.

He checked his wallet to make sure he had enough cash inside to pay for both his stay and his ticket. Cracking open that suitcase in a public place to get a few credits out was bound to bring trouble. He kept a tidy sum of 1,000 credits on him at all times. Everything in his life was now wrapped up in his crucial need to be able to escape on the fly.

Since when was Treize Khushrenada a coward?

Assured that he had everything, he grabbed his suitcase and swung his duffel bag over his shoulder. Exiting his home of one week (well, he couldn't stay in the same hotel; people were highly suspicious of him), he locked the door behind him then made his way to the front of the hotel.

Entering from the cold, he noticed the manager was watching the continuous coverage of the explosion in Cinq. He was a slightly overweight and balding man who didn't care too much about his appearance. He wore an old sweater and even older black slacks that were more a shade of gray. He was leaning back in his chair with his feet propped upon the desk in front of him. At Treize's entrance, he glanced up.

"Matt, is it?" he asked putting his feet down and trying to see under his cap to no avail. Noticing that "Matt" had his belongings, he contorted his face into a slightly confused frown, "Going somewhere, eh?"

Matt didn't respond. He only approached the desk and placed his suitcase on the floor next to him. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.

The manager still wore his confused frown, but then it clicked. He turned to the coverage of the bombing and faced Matt again, "Oh... I'm so sorry."

Matt frowned and raised his eyes to meet the concerned expression of the manager.

"Did you know someone caught in the blast?"

He blinked. Well, that worked. The cover story was already written. "Yes," he answered quietly glad that it wasn't a lie. "How much do I owe you?"

"Oh, that's terrible!" the manager ignored Matt's question, "Are they all right?"

"I don't know."

"Heading off to Cinq, then I imagine. You should hurry. The storm's coming in quick and the train station announced that those who need a lift to Cinq can catch the last train leaving in 30 minutes. - Say, you don't have a car, do you? I'll call a cab," he picked up the receiver.

"Thank you, but how much do I owe you?"

"Oh," he said stopping mid-dial. "Regularly, it's 79 credits a night, but I'll only charge you the weekend rate of 59. If someone you know was hurt in that blast, you're going to need all the money you can get." He finished dialing the cab service.

Treize counted it out. Fifty-nine credits a night for six nights.That was three-hundred-fifty-four credits; he might as well pay three-hundred-sixty. He marveled at the way people would pull together in times of tragedy. Suddenly, the only thing that mattered was helping each other out. He felt guilty taking advantage of this man's compassion, but he knew the futility of rejecting such offers. He removed the money from his wallet and placed it on the desk.

"-terrible, isn't it? ... Well, all right. Thanks," the manager hung up the vid phone. "They're on their way over as we speak," he informed Matt. "Oh, thank you," he said taking the money and not even bothering to count it. "So... who do you know over there?"

Treize weighed the merits of not answering the man's question. It would only create more mystery around him, which was something he didn't need. The last thing he wanted was to be the talk of the town when he left. Besides, the man had already been so kind to him. "A friend," he answered vaguely. "A good friend," there! It wasn't a lie; she just didn't know he was alive.

"You must be worried sick..." concern crept back into his voice.

"Yes..." he replied. Well, it wasn't a complete lie. He was worried, but not for the reasons this man inferred. What worried him was the target - the possibility that she might be who "they" were after.

The manager said after several seconds of silence, "Well, my prayers are with you and your friend." It was apparent that Matt didn't want to talk; who would after such a shock? "I think I'll turn in for the night," he rose from his seat and flipped off the television. Ambling over to Matt, he extended his hand, "Good luck. I hope your friend is okay."

Treize took his hand, "Thank you for your generosity."

The manager shrugged, "We all need to help each other more often." With that, he retired to his room.

A couple minutes later, the cab arrived. After a few shots at trying to strike up a conversation with the young man, the taxi driver allowed his passenger to ride in peace. In a few short minutes, they'd arrived at the train station. Treize hopped out and paid the man his due.

Walking into the station, he found the list of possible destinations. There were no lines, so all he had to do was choose. There were four possible trains he could take:

Germany - Departure 1:25

France - Departure 1:25

Denmark - Departure 1:35

Cinq - Departure 1:45

Well, it was currently fifteen past one by his watch, so Germany and France were out of the question. That left Denmark and Cinq. His eyes rested on Cinq. He could go there. He could make himself known to his daughter and Ann. He pondered the thought for quite some time... His decision was...

No. Some other time, perhaps.

He bought the ticket for Denmark. He couldn't face the two of them yet. He wasn't sure if he ever would face them. Passing through the station which was almost completely devoid of people, he boarded his train. Ann had too much to think about with this attack, anyway, he told himself.

It was a lie. An excuse. A spineless cop-out. He was scared. He was a coward.

Moments later, the train roared to life carrying Treize away from his responsibilities. He let his thoughts glide away as the train took him to his next temporary location. He know it was temporary. Everything was temporary save them, and he knew that one day he would have to confront them. One day, he would have the courage. He just hoped that day came soon.

Treize settled himself in his seat getting comfortable for his long trip away from his destiny.