Author's Introduction:

I've actually never written one of these before, which makes no sense because ever since I was little, I've loved to watch G-Force. When I got older, I was introduced to the kitsch of Battle of the Planets and the poetry of the redubbed Gatchaman, but I never wrote for them before. I had a couple of false starts back in high school, but nothing definitive.

Until now.

It makes sense, of course, knowing my secret put-away heart as I do, that it would be this episode that would have finally inspired me properly, as it inspired my imagination the very first time I saw it, so many years ago.

And it makes me very proud to announce that 7-Zark-7 will not be appearing in this story, and if he gets within fifty feet of here, the security guards have been ordered to shoot to kill. With that in mind, I hope you'll accept my humble offering and have pity on me.

The Words To Say

a Gatchaman fanfic by Firestar9mm

Welcome back, said the voice on the radio
But I never left, I was always right here
In your hand all the colors you thought were kings
At the turn of the card can just disappear
I wish I could comfort you
If love is our defense
It's all right, I can comfort you
If you let me, I could love you to death

(Tom McRae, A Day Like Today)

Sure, Joe would argue the point, but Ken Washio was actually very aware of the irony of his very existence.

He remembered well the day the friendly weight of Dr. Nambu's hand had rested on his shoulder, the kindness in the older man's eyes that he hadn't quite been able to hide as he said, "Your life is about to take a very different path, Ken." He remembered the excitement that had fluttered about his heart as he responded with the phrase he would grow to repeat often, both silently and aloud.

"I won't let you down."

The irony had only dawned on him years later, mostly under the laser focus of Joe's friendly (and at times not so friendly) needling of him as being too uptight, too anal-retentive, too oblivious to things.

Basically, in trying to create the perfect soldier, the ISO had, in Ken's opinion, created a very, very flawed mechanism.

Sure, he could run faster, jump higher, and hit harder than government soldiers and alien invaders. He could perform acrobatic feats that could confuse the mind and dazzle the eye. Should he truly need to, Ken knew in his secret put-away heart, he could fly. Perhaps that was what the ISO considered "perfection". But with or without Joe's prompting, Ken was aware of the fact that he had come with some…defects. Like always sitting with his back to the wall in every eating establishment except the Snack J. Like buying clothes for their ease of movement in case of a need for extreme measures. Like picking out flaws and inconsistencies in every single science fiction or war movie he watched. Like what Joe called "not knowing what girls are for".

Girls. That was the big one that Joe always teased him about. And, as much as Ken hated to admit it, it was possible Joe had some kind of a point. By his own ridiculously high standards, he didn't know anything about girls. Didn't know how they thought, didn't know what they did, didn't know what they liked.

Which was why he was staring at a display of blossoms growing increasingly frustrated.

Even looking at the flowers made him a little sick to his stomach. The scent of them was heavy and cloying and evoked thoughts of funerals. Ken was tired of thinking about death after all they'd been through recently. Their colors were too harsh, bleeding together in his eyes, reminding him of things that he thought were best left forgotten.

Perhaps that was the biggest flaw of all. Nothing was safe to Ken anymore—roses and carnations made his nerves short-circuit with horror, red as blood, white as bone. Seemingly innocuous objects would become monstrous without warning, and things that were supposed to be safe would, in the turn of a second, become deadly.

What am I doing here?

Suddenly enraged at his own perceived uselessness, Ken turned to leave and nearly ran smack into a young lady who'd been about to tap him on the shoulder.

"You look like you need some help," she said. Her smile was open and friendly, and her eyes twinkled with mischief, as if she were amused by his apparent confusion. "What are you looking for?"

Ken felt miserable in the light of that happy, innocent smile. "I…" He wanted to tell her that he was just leaving, but part of him was doggedly reminding him why he had come into the shop to start.

The girl didn't let him finish. She smiled knowingly, nodding her head, ponytail wagging. "I know that look. Don't worry, I'll help you find something perfect. Just tell me a little bit about her. What's she like?"

Ken felt like a rabbit that has just seen the oncoming headlights. What was she like?

There was no one answer to that question. What she was like differed depending on what part of him was answering the question. His eyes would say that she was the soft sparkle of a smile that was utterly incapable of shielding her thoughts. His eyes would say that she was a rarity of genetics, that green eyes and anemic complexion beneath the silky pelt of hair combined in a way he'd never seen anything like. His eyes would say that she was legs that went on forever.

It was his eyes that darted guiltily away when she met them sometimes, his eyes that he feared were windows into him that would tell her all his secrets before he could stop them.

His mind would say that she was exactly the sort of person he'd want at his side in a fight, just behind him and a little to the left. His mind would say that she was iron knuckles, feet of stone and the spin and whirr of a yoyo that was death on the wind. His mind would say that she had the fingers of a surgeon and would cover them in blood to save a life or cut a wire with chilling efficiency to keep their skin and bones together. His mind would say that she was rock steady no matter how much C-4 was in the room.

It was his mind that had stubbornly refused to believe Jinpei when the boy had breathlessly, tearfully reported that his sister was gone, eaten by a monster that looked like a flower and fed like piranha. His mind had dismissed the news as fairy tale gibberish, nonsense. Monster flowers, indeed! Such a thing was impossible, his mind had said—as impossible, as fanciful, as utterly nonsensical as the very idea that he might someday wake in a world without her.

His heart would say nothing at all about her. It had never been able to grasp the words. It was an erratic beat when she winked long lashes at him playfully. It was stabbing pain when his mind had finally wrapped around the supposedly nonsensical idea that that thing, that that Jigokiller thing had taken her away and wouldn't give her back to them. To him. It was heart that had burned when he had jettisoned his fuel tanks in order to torch a universe of monster flowers, heart the only one that had protested his detestable chore when mind refused to listen and hands stupidly obeyed the signals that had become second nature to them.

It was heart that had turned to heavy stone in his chest when the terrible deed was done. It was mind that didn't believe the lies it was telling him about how it was all necessary, and eyes that had been unable to hold back the tears when he'd realized he'd done something unspeakable to her.

…Not the incineration of the monsters that had consumed her, not that so much. It was the giving up on her—it was that that stung his eyes, stabbed at his chest, that which he felt he'd never be able to forgive himself for, even if she did.

"Hey. Hey." The florist's gentle call brought him back to the present moment. "Are you okay?" she asked, still giving him that friendly smile.

"I…" His throat was scratchy, the rest of him lost in memory.

"Come on," the girl cajoled with a laugh. "Don't be shy. What's her name?"

Her name. The magic word, the sound that kept him up at night and had haunted him when he thought he'd never call for her again, the sound he liked to roll his tongue around, that had been fixed in his brain when his bracelet had flashed with a bird scramble and his blood had ignited with excitement at the thought that she may yet be alive.

"Jun," he said, voice still scratchy but steadier than he'd thought he could make it. "Her name is Jun."

The girl relaxed a bit, happy to have gotten somewhere. "What a pretty name. Okay, we'll find something for Jun, then." Pale ponytail waving, she turned towards the rows of bright and cheerful blossoms. "What does she like? Is she a rose girl or a tulip girl?"

The roses were still as red as blood, and Ken quickly shook his head. "No roses. Nothing red. Nothing white, either."

She laughed. "You're not leaving me much room here! Okay, what about something a little friendlier?" She indicated a smaller cluster of flowers, bright impatiens tiger-striped pale and dark.

Ken's stomach heaved at the sight of the impatiens, dark-banded indigo and startlingly white on spiky stems was too reminiscent of the hideous Jigokiller flowers, and he did not want to remind her—or himself—of them. "Not those. Definitely…definitely not those."

The girl pouted jokingly, still smiling, hands on her hips. "My goodness! What sort of flowers does she like, then?"

Ken flushed, tugging at the collar of his jersey. "Actually…we're not too fond of flowers lately."

Completely confused, the florist blinked at him. "If you'll pardon my asking, sir, why are you here then?"

Ken flushed deeper, running a hand through his tousled hair. "I don't know how else to say what I want to say. Don't guys usually buy girls flowers?"

The florist giggled. "What are you trying to say to her?"

Another impossible question. "Please," he said softly, blue eyes intense. "I…I nearly lost her."

The girl beamed, impressed with his emotion. "I see," she said, nodding again with the force of her assumption. "There was a misunderstanding and a big fight. She left you, and you thought she wouldn't come back, but she did, and now you realize how lucky you are to have her."

Ken turned this oddly accurate misconception over in his mind, decided it worked, and nodded himself. "I want her to know that…that I'm happy she's home." And that was the truth.

With a laugh, the florist scanned the flowers once more. "I have to hand it to you, sir. I have no idea how to help you!"

Ken wanted to leave, but now that she'd drawn a bead on him it was impossible to refuse her help without seeming impolite. This was going to be torture, especially surrounded by the damnable flowers that made his skin prickle with barely controlled rage and fear. Turning to select something—anything!—a little desperately, he noticed another worker carrying an armful of flowers towards the back door that led to the alley behind the shop.

"That's it!" the Eagle exclaimed, lighting up. "Those are the ones I want."

The shopgirl goggled at him. "Sir—"

Ken cut her off. "No, those are the ones. Could you wrap those up for me, please?"

Jun was humming a little song as she wiped down the bar, twirling a lock of hair absently into a J around her finger as was her way, a small smile on her lips. She was obviously also very happy to be back where she belonged, even if the night's patrons had left the place a complete mess, Ken noted. Sometimes he wondered if the rowdies that sometimes came to the J just splashed beer all over the walls and floor instead of drinking it.

Jun noticed him belatedly, looking up from her work. "Hi, you," she said, in a voice that was far sweeter than a commander who had slapped her to hide his relief at finding her alive deserved, Ken mused. The florist was right—he was lucky. But he'd known that if he hadn't hidden behind the mask of protocol, if he hadn't raised his hand in such a way, he'd have seized her in his arms, folded her in his wings and not let her go until he'd stopped shaking.

"Hello," he said softly. "Long night?"

"Yessss," she sighed, stretching her arms above her head. "I'm so ready for bed. Wanta drink or something?"

"No," he said. "No, thank you. I won't keep you awake. I just…I just wanted to see you for a second and say good night. How are you feeling?"

"Tired," she said, "but I'm okay." Her eyes softened. "Hey. They're dead, remember? You don't have to babysit me."

"I'm not babysitting you," he said immediately. "Can't I just want to know if you're all right, or if you needed anything? Can't I just want to say good night?"

Jun's brow dipped over one eye, the other raised inquisitively. Her lips quirked into a smile. "What have you got behind your back?"

Ken couldn't help smiling a little himself as he drew the arm he'd had behind his back around to show her what he held. Offering his gift to her, he felt all shyness drop away in the rightness of the moment. "I brought you these," he said, and deposited the flowers he'd chosen into her arms.

Jun looked down at the bouquet—a cone of cellophane tied with a ribbon containing a motley collection of drooping daisies, bruised roses and shedding tulips. Petals fell like snow from the shriveled blossoms, a few broken stems swinging like pendulums and shivering at the slightest breath. Dead. All very, very dead.

Jun's eyes were dancing as she met his gaze. "They're perfect, Ken," she breathed. "Thank you."

For the first time, he knew exactly what to say to her. "Welcome home."

Author's Notes:

I love the Jigokillers two-part episode. It's totally neat to see the team's reactions to the possibility of losing Jun, and a welcome change from the usual intro-mecha-explosion, intro-mecha-explosion format of the early Gatch episodes.

Poor Ken is abused at times, not just by Joe but by fanbrats. Sometimes I feel like people write him like a robot, I-am-Ken-please-insert-girder, doot doot. I love asking him how he feels about things, because sometimes his answers are such a surprise! I loved working on this with him because it's proof that Ken indeed has a sense of humor.

I have no idea what Jun's place is actually called. I've seen people refer to it as the Snack J, the Snack Jun, and Jun's Joint, and have no idea what is actually canon. Does anyone know?

Ooh, I'm so pleased to have finally written a Gatchaman fanfic! Short as it was, anyway. Maybe it won't take me twenty years to write another!