Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing. *pouts*

Notes: This little thing nearly got me a maths detention because I wasn't listening to the dragon, sorry, teacher.

Mission Thought

They say that starting is the hardest thing. They're right. Or rather, finding the time to start, or the inspiration, or the words to say what is in your heart. An odd phrase that. I mean, if you opened up your heart, all you would get would be a gush of warm crimson, staining the page. I know this, trust me. So many of our phrases are odd, when you think about it.

But anyway, I don't know why I'm writing this. But neither, I suspect, does anyone who puts pen to paper and pour their thoughts into words.

There's always the security risk of writing anything down. Others, reading it, may find the chink in your armor; the crack in your defenses that makes the mask split and fall away. I can't risk that. I can't risk anybody, not even those closest to me, knowing how often I feel lost, confused. How much my training has broken down, to the extent that I have begun to look at people as people, individuals, not necessary encumbrances. How I've started asking 'Why?' Why was I trained? Why must we kill? Why am I not allowed to feel? Why? Why? Why?

I'll burn this when I've written it. I must. I can risk no one finding it, analyzing it. Knowing me. Not even them, my companions, fellow fighters….friends. Such a strange word. But what else can be used to describe a group who has been through so much, seen so much, together. So very different. So very much the same.

One, fiery, passionate, son of the Dragons. Dark and swift.

One, blonde, innocent-seeming, child of the endless, golden desert. Light incarnate.

One, tall, quiet, masked. Circus child. No-name. Cat-like, silent warrior.

One, street child. Sparkling, bouncing, despairing, joyous. Deaths Lord. Childlike killer, hidden behind mischievous amethyst eyes.

And me. Quiet, perfect, emotionless soldier. Frightened, unloved child. Son of technology.

I lock that child deep within me. In a prison, a blank, gray stone room with no windows or door. No escape.

But slowly, slowly, those gray walls are showing cracks. Bellying in like messed about by some colossal hand.

To be truthful, it's not a hand that's breaking down my walls. It's violet eyes and flowing, cinnamon hair. It's solidified mischief, with the tenacity of a trained assassin. It's happy shouts, and lazy sprawl across narrow school-dorm bed. It's a sharp pencil, poking the back of my neck. It's sleepy, stumbling mornings, endless cups of coffee with burnt and blackened toast. It's stifled sobs, buried in a pillow late at night. It's bloodlust, battle-madness, laughing at death.

It's a flawed, faceted, black, red and violet gem.

Night, spilt blood, eternal hope.

Death, burgeoning love, vibrant life.

My heart,

My soul,

My Duo.

Heero Yuy

Pilot 01