Disclaimer: Neither my coauthor nor I own Gundam Wing. All original characters do, however, belong to us. Please enjoy the story.

Note: This story takes place in AC. 197 -- the pilots are 18 ( except Trowa, who is 19 ). War between anti-Unification rebels and the Unified Army seems impossible to avoid. The story begins on the brink of another mobile suit war, this one without the benefit of Gundams. The pilots have split ways and now are finding themselves facing off on opposite sides of the battle. The young men who once won peace are now left struggling to determine which cause is right -- total, Unified peace, or personal identity?

Pairings: Undetermined, but watch for Hilde, Sally, Noin, and Dorothy to show up, along with several male and female OC characters.

Please, Please, PLEASE, review this story! The end product is going to be huge, but we're going to need a lot of constructive criticism, so please let us know what we should work on or if we miss something. Also, let us know if you're enjoying the story! Thank you!

High Road
Part One: End Game

Chapter One

There was a cold and slow rain that day, blanketing the ancient city in a dull gray that seemed suck the life out of the world. But though his blonde locks were plastered down to his face and his clothes were soaked despite his protective overcoat, Quatre Raberba Winner couldn't have been bothered about the weather. There were far more important things on his mind than London's long, dreary fall and its promise of wet weeks. He thrust fists like ice into his pockets and blew out a long breath that floated like smoke into the air, pelted by rain. Beside him, Heero Yuy let his cobalt eyes skim once more over the alley.

"You can't have been surprised." Heero's voice was hardly a murmur over the pattering of raindrops against the gravel at their feet. Quatre didn't bother to look his way, knowing that his Japanese companion would be staring out over the street, watching for danger. Instead, he pulled air back into his lungs and shook his head.

"Surprised isn't the right word." But what was? "I simply commented that the rebels are more organized than I expected given the short amount of time since Unification. It's only been two years, Heero. They've either got serious financial backing or a substantial supporter."

"Whatever they've got, it isn't going to matter in a few weeks. Whether Miss Relena approves or not --" the last was a scathing insult, the Miss spat off of Heero's tongue like some foul-tasting morsel -- "war has come again."

Quatre held back a wince by sheer power of will. Most of the Western World had been economically shattered by Unification, but stubbornly he held onto his peaceful ideas, unwilling to concede defeat. There were times at night when he still doubted his choice, but then again, he hadn't had much of one. Publicly, long before all this craziness, Quatre had backed global Unification, but at a much more moderate pace. Relena had swept through and created a single Earth Sphere Unified Nation, obliterating all national and political borders seemingly on a whim. But what could he do? He'd cast his lot with the Peacecrafts, and held onto the elusive dream that one day, battle would no longer exist.

He wasn't an idealist. He'd seen too much in his young and war-filled life for those kinds of dangerous illusions. But he had dreams, just like any other man. Just like the man standing beside him.

"There was a time not too long ago when you would have followed Relena Peacecraft to the grave," he reminded the stoic brunette softly. For a moment, he wondered if Heero had heard him, and then those stony blue eyes cut to the entrepreneur's face.

"Those days were different," he replied softly, an edge in his voice that told Quatre to pursue the matter further would be utter foolishness. "Unification at the hands of such a bleeding heart as Relena was a sheer disaster. And I think we both know she's a puppet regent with generals and viceroys pulling her strings."

Quatre opened his mouth to deny it, and found that he couldn't -- Heero's words rang with truth.

"I guess I don't have to ask you what side you'll be fighting for," he said instead, his mind wandering to the rebels, constantly moving, starting skirmishes and disarray. And yet a part of him ached to be with them, to be fighting for a cause he believed in, to be fighting for homelands and blood ties and the right to bear personal and national identity.

"I guess not."

Quatre's mouth firmed into a hard line. Once Heero had chosen a path for himself, there was little to say that could sway him.

"Right. As your friend, I wish you luck and good health," he said, shaking the Japanese man's hand, "but as your enemy I can't wish you victory."

A ghost of a smile. "Goodbye, Quatre. Until we meet again."

It would be on the battlefield, and they both knew it with startling certainty. They nodded to each other one last time, and then Heero was moving briskly away, melting into shadows and rain clouds like a bad dream. On the brink of winter, and again Quatre watched a trusted and dear companion walk away, perhaps for good. For the umpteenth time, he felt deserted and orphaned. He'd long ago lost touch with the other Gundam Pilots, part of an unspoken agreement to bury the skeletons in the back of the closet. His communications with Heero had been his last tie to the past. Funny, things had seemed so much more certain then, good and evil clearly defined as black and white, with very little gray space between. But now their was nothing left but shades of gray.

His beautiful eyes turned to the sky, his mouth twisted wryly. Ever the shades of gray.

The line was drawn in the sand now. If he saw Heero again in this life, it would be down the sights of a gun. He had no idea where the other pilots stood on the matter, but he supposed it didn't matter. As it was, he was prepared to take charge and fight if he had to. He'd be seeing the front lines again, sooner than he'd imagined.

"Godspeed, Heero." He shook his head and turned, quietly picking his way around growing puddles and out of the alleyway. There was nothing left to do now but return to work and try not to think about the violently rising tide.

---

Restaurants are always loud but today the clinking of silver wear and the sounds of too many people talking at once filled O'Malleys to the brim seeming to leave no room for Meilin Tsukishiro. She pushed her way through the crowded restaurant with a tray in one hand, the other hand out like a linebacker, her head swimming in thoughts of sitting down in comfy chairs and silence. She served one table, took two orders, then retreated back to the kitchen where Louie and his army of chefs milled about in the smoke and strong smell of burnt salmon.

"Um, Lou that man at table 3 wants his Cajun salmon now." She rolled her emerald eyes and set the tray on the counter next to the beverage machine. She then turned, grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and chugged it.

"Well its ready but you let one of the others get it to him. You've been working six hours without a break." Lou said, his accent thick and harsh as he yelled to her over the noise. She smiled at him and tugged at the collar of her "O'malleys" polo as if relieved. One of the cooks handed her a sandwich, winked, and walked back over to the deep frier.

"Thanks Raul!" She called to him as Lou continued to insist she take her lunch. She ran up to him, kissed his cheek, and then headed out the back door.

The silence and fresh cool air hit her like a brick wall. She soaked it in for a moment before letting out a loud, relieved sigh and letting her long black hair fall from its pony tail. It was overcast outside and the clouds were dark and threatening rain. She frowned at them, imaging them frowning back and saying "Yes. We bring thunder and other things that scare you like lightning and strong winds!" She shivered and took a seat on the curb pulling her arms in around her tight. She had just started thinking that she should have really brought out a jacket when she noticed movement off to her right. She turned her head slowly, a cold feeling growing from her stomach. Not more than fifteen feet away from her stood a tall man covered in dirt and dried blood. There was a deep gash across his forehead and it looked like his left arm was bleeding in two different areas. Meilin dropped her sandwich, but made no other moves. Her limbs wouldn't work, all she could do was stare as he approached. She didn't know what to do. If she screamed, no one would hear her; the restaurant was too loud and too busy.

"Get up." The man ordered, his voice scratchy and worn as if he had been screaming for hours on end. Meilin did as she was told, afraid that the man was armed. Her eyes searched him quickly for a weapon and found a gun in his belt. She gasped lightly right before his hands closed around her neck. He backed her against the bricks of the building roughly, the white of his eyes a contrast to the dirt and dried blood that covered his face. Meilin struggled, her feet barely touching the ground. She was feeling a panic she had never felt before as she stared into black menacing eyes. "You are going to go inside and find me a first aid kit. You are going to bring it back out here and you are not going to talk to anyone in between do you understand?" He growled in her face, then shoved her roughly to the ground. With tears in her eyes Meilin stumbled to her feet and hastily made for the door. "If you don't come back," The man started right before she opened the door. She paused to listen to the threat. "I'll find you." She didn't turn to look at him. She simply swallowed hard and continued into the restaurant.

The familiar sounds and smells all seemed muted. Louie said something to her as she passed by but she simply couldn't hear him. She went straight for the hostess stand where the first aid kit was held and took it no questions asked. The kitchen was a blur as she rushed through it trying hard not to let tears fall and praying that neither Lou nor Raul would fallow her outside. One of them asked if she was ok and she nodded quickly then rushed out the door.

"What took so long?" The man demanded as he snatched it from her grip and dropped it on the ground. He knelt by it and tore it open digging for gauze and alcohol pads.

"I had to get through the crowds." She said quickly backing towards the door. The man grunted at her, then continued with his wounds as if she had disappeared. She had turned and placed a hand on the door when she heard "ouch!" and a stream of curses in Chinese fallow. She turned back towards the man and watched as he peeled the cloth of his shirt from one of the partly dried wounds on his arm. She could see through the dirt now, as if a window had opened up. The man was younger with black hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. He winced again as he peeled off more cloth and now Meilin could see a piece of shrapnel embedded in the mans arm.

"Y-you're going to need a doctor."

"You get back inside!" He ordered her, his eyes filled with rage and pain. She starred at him, for a moment making eye contact. She couldn't find anything but rage in him, and pity filled her heart. He had to be part of the war, and thought she was curious, she knew not to ask what side he was one.

"You don't order me around. That's MY first aid kit." She gave him a harsh look and received one in return, but no rude remark. He simply sneered, then continued dressing his wounds. She let down some guard and took a step forward. "Would you like some help?"

"No. I told you to get inside. You never saw me."

She straightened, feeling insulted and turned towards the door. "You're welcome." She muttered and re entered the restaurants.

---

He glanced up just as the door was closing behind her forcefully, his "Thank you," dying on his lips as he realized she'd abandoned him to the cold and his own icy company.

For a long moment, Chang Wufei stared at the door that the young woman had slammed in his face and felt emotions boil up inside him almost to the bursting. There was, of course, the anger at being shot down during battle, the exhaustion from his frantic flee away from the scene of the crash, and then just the pain as he tried to dress his own wounds. But there was something more than that here. He felt…guilty.

Wufei's treatment of women was not what most Westerners would call civil or polite, but he lived strictly by ancient Chinese traditions. When women were given the kinds of freedoms that Western women had, they had the kind of problems that Western women had -- too much ambition made them try to take on a career and a family, leaving households wrecked and broken, too much sex appeal and vulnerability left them open for attack by predators, particularly sexual predators, and too much empowerment only left them clamoring for more. Had he been in China, that woman never would have spoken to him that way. It simply wasn't done.

And yet, here he was, standing in the cold back alley of a pub, feeling remorseful. It wasn't something he had much experience with. But they way she'd shoved back into the restaurant after trying to help him, the stubborn pride in her eyes and the bitter hurt…it had left an impression on him.

"Fuck." He didn't want her to leave an impression on him, and suddenly he raged against the idea that he'd let himself so easily be affected by concerned emerald eyes. Point of fact -- he didn't have time to be coddled. Being coddled only led to weakness. And this was certainly not the time for that.

Scooping the contents of the first aid kit back into its case, Wufei picked it up and stumbled awkwardly down the alleyway that trailed toward the street from the restaurant, moving far away from the place where the woman with beautiful eyes had given him a glimpse of what he was fighting for.

---

The quiet settled around Angel like a blanket, promising rest from what had been almost a day of frantic evacuation preparations. Relena Peacecraft's all-too-well equipped mobile army was on the way toward their camp just outside of London's massive suburbia. As it was, her small group of rebels could have melted away to a different part of the country no problem. But things weren't that easy. They'd been joined by several other rebel cells and quite a few sympathetic refugees, and now the evacuation was an elaborate process.

She collapsed on her knees in the unfamiliar bedroom, grateful for the space to breathe, grateful for the quiet, grateful for the opportunity to get off of her agonized feet.

Thousands of people were trying to get away from a massive, mobilized and well-trained army. She closed her blue eyes as foreboding washed through her entire body. All these people…

Dressed in combat boots, cargo pants and a green tank top, Angel should have looked like the next tired rebel. But there was a classical, regal beauty to her that her comrades seemed to rally behind. Even so simply dressed, she was their icon, their symbol of all that was right and beautiful about the world, about being English. She'd been embarrassed by the attention at first, but that had faded -- she couldn't worry about personal vanity when there were battles to be fought.

She tilted her head in prayer, asking for God's forgiveness and mercy -- mercy for the people trying to get away, forgiveness for the blood she'd spilled and was intending to spill. She simply sat in quiet, not-entirely-one-sided conversation with God, finding herself again beneath the dirt and agony, letting the silence fill her with renewed purpose.

And then the door banged open and Angel was jerked out of her thoughts. She whipped her head around, biting back an angry retort. Behind her, one of her rebel companions stood breathlessly in the doorway.

"Angel, there's no way we're going to get all these people out of here."

A pang in her chest, and she had to force her next breath. "I know."

"The army's moving too fast, they're going to catch up with --"

"I know!" Angel hauled herself to her feet, guilty anger roaring through her veins. "We're going to have to make a stand, Michael. But I want those refugees to be far outside of harm's way before we do. The army will be here by morning. But the evacuees should have been out of her three hours ago."

Michael met her gaze, unflinching. They both knew that such a feat was impossible -- that everyone was already moving faster than they could especially with exhaustion and hunger nipping at their heels.

"We'll be ready by morning," he said, his voice brooking no argument. Angel nodded and he retreated out of the room, leaving her with her broken solitude.

"I pray God that's the case," she whispered to no one. "But I know we won't be."