Author's Note
I don't own Gundam Wing.
This is a random idea I had some time ago. Oneshot about the war involving a familiar face, and his training. Enjoy and review please!
Mirrors
Trudging in through the front door, he'd never felt so—empty. His feet dragged him through that front door at a steady rate, he traversed up the stairs, and to his room. The umpteen hallways and the lavish exterior did not faze him. In fact, his eyes were looking beyond the walls and beyond aforementioned hallways. They were leading him to a mirror, to see the damage the day had brought.
"What foolish creature am I, to believe that I can kill without repentance? What heartless soul am I, to take a life without such thought of the family left behind? What kind of devil must I become to win this war?"
He finally found the mirror. From the eyes of the boy, he saw nothing but a grotesque creature, a monster who had blood splattered over its battered face. He saw the flaming red eyes of a creature who thrived from the kill. A power-driven specter who was born from the battlefield. Dirt filled its ragged blond hair, and even at this moment reached out to kill everything within reach.
A maid entered the room, saw his demented presence, and quivered. She offered assistance, and the demonic creature of the night shooed her away. With a soft sigh, she retired, a gentle click of the shutting door in her wake.
"How could I—?"
Now his eyes saw the world in the mirror. The horrific, bloody scene that he had seen only hours before. The vomiting and the assurance. The mirror showed a scene with a man he had not known. His back was turned, and there was a shaking gun in view. With even shakier aim, the gun was raised to the unknown man. He seemed to be shouting, as and gun was fired. A single person. It had been one man. But he felt like a monster. He felt like those scary adults children avoided in the playgrounds. His eyes watered, vomit threatening to surface. The blood and gore had been too much. And it was only one person—only one person, the first, who had his back turned. His eyes saw the end. The building was covered in blood that was not his own. It was splattered on floors, walls, and ceilings all the same. The bodies strewn across the floors and halls and bridges. It had been only one person, until reinforcements arrived.
"Is this what one must become to win a war?"
The mirror, however, reflected a young, blond Arab. His platinum blond hair was slightly caked in dried blood. His face was paled, and his blue eyes were slightly glazed, tears flowing freely from them. His whole body was shaking. This boy's clothes were torn and dirty, covered in dirt, leaves, and even more blood. In his right hand was a smoking gun, while the other held a bloody knife. A frown was plastered on this form, as it finally retreated to the shower.
Unfortunately, this was the first of many killings he would commit. He followed what he saw in the mirror. That bloody scene was only one of many to plague his dreams. He did win that war. If you see him in that mirror right now, you'd see nothing but a calm, collected young man. Any traces of what had happened that day long forgotten by the maid who had entered that day.
But the mirror hasn't forgotten what it's seen. In fact, in that mirror, you might catch a glimpse from time to time of his weakness, when others aren't looking. In those moments, he's never covered in blood. Not anymore. He learned how to make a cleaner kill. Instead, he's crying. Never shaking, never sobbing, just crying. The mirror sees this at the times the boy sees a monster now.
"Did we really win the war?"
Mirrors don't lie.