Excising Demons, a gundam wing/ac fanfic

excising d.e.m.o.n.s.

-irishais-

War. Peace. Revolution.

Three beats, three movements, three cycles of blood and betrayal and power. Three steps in an endless waltz--an endless waltz, can you believe that bullshit? Like it means something to dance and dance again on the grave of Death. A big, gruesome showcase of the world's dancing talents. Here, Death, let me impress you with a mambo!

War's the waltz, I think. Slow, measured, rehearsed even though in the end it's pretty much just mindless slaughter of a melody and a man. War is like those big old ballrooms in Earth's history, where all the girls are in fancy dresses and the men look smug and well-bred, who have a whole horde of underlings to do their bidding. They're the generals. Pompous bastards. They get their elegant, upscale, expensive blitz around the dance floor, and maybe--if they're lucky--get to pocket a favor from the lady in the end. Like a planet or something. One of the colonies in exchange for a load of C4 that got smuggled in from your god knows where.

War's a gussied-up treaty that someone slaps on the president's desk--"Hey, sir, Mister Commander-in-Chief, this is what we want, and this is what they want, here's a pen, there's the dotted line."

A bunch of over-inflated egotistical pricks who pick up the poor, shove a gun in their hands and send them on their merry way--don't forget to write.

Peace is totally a swing dance. It's free, it's energetic, it's complete chaos. Also, it's ragingly competitive--a dance-off just to prove who has the bigger flash and flair. They've got nothing better to do, right? They've got their pretty girls and their pretty cars, pretty everything now that no one's trying to shoot at them. Lucky sons-of-bitches in shiny shoes and hot threads.

It will all fall apart, though, and no one will see it coming. One slip, one step left instead of right, and bam, your partner's got a sprained ankle and you just cost yourself the trophy.

Don't worry, it gets easier, if you don't think about it too hard.

Revolution--there's a nasty little fucker. Springs on you out of nowhere, like a salsa. That beautiful, arrogant couple striding out into the center of the dance floor that makes you set down your drink because you've got no idea what they're planning, only that it's got to be something to shake up the place. They don't disappoint, not with music like that--all pulse and throbbing rhythm.

It's an illegal weapons shipment, it's mechs being made on the moon, it's the Vice Foreign Minister getting herself kidnapped in the name of peace. Anyone else see the irony in that? Peace isn't going to last when you snatch the former queen of the world out from underneath our noses. It just doesn't fly, nope. Ain't gonna work like that.

One, two, three, one, two, three--you got that beat? Follow it, keep it in your veins, and don't fucking let it go to your head.

War. Peace. Revolution.

Good thing I like to dance. I'll have to teach you the steps sometime.