A/N: S1 21, slight AU of 22.

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Mobile Suit Gundam 00 © Sunrise

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A red haze.

Pulsing.

Ebbing.

Pulsing again.

Dark, thick, and wet: an impenetrable crimson mist spilling from his mind to his eye—or from his eye to his mind?

Lockon wasn't sure.

It was difficult for him to move; his body was restrained, held. Little droplets of red floated in front of his face. Shards of tinted glass, too.

Floating.

He was dimly aware of a ringing noise in the back of his head, nearly buried beneath an overlapping layer of what sounded to him like rushing surf. The sound crashed in his mind, pulsing and ebbing in red waves, ceaselessly overlapping, calm and rhythmic in steady pulses as each cycle methodically sought to overtake the surges before. Then, with a loud, sandy grating, all were sucked back out again.

Dynames.

Yes, that was right. He was piloting Dynames. And he was being restrained by the twisted remains of its damaged interior. That made sense. The piercing noise was an obnoxious alarm, blaring at him from somewhere amid Dynames' console. It was also aided by Haro, whose tinny voice sounded strangely panicked.

It was hard for him to think.

My eye…

One gloved hand shakily reached up to touch his helmet, feeling carefully along the twisted, maimed edges barely holding together splintered, spiderwebbed glass. Air came to his searing lungs in deep but ragged drags, and he had to fight hard to stay conscious. The edges of his vision were blurry and dark; they were also tinged with red. The light in the cockpit was dim.

My helmet's broken…

The faceplate…

My eye.

His eye was gone; he could tell. But the implications of his injury to his status as Ptolemaios' resident sniper hadn't made themselves known to his foggy brain, so he didn't panic. He just quietly floated along with Dynames, watching the drops of red hover between him and the drops of white outside which boldly represented stars in this otherwise endlessly black universe.

Tieria.

He wasn't sure if he had reached the other Meister in time enough to block the enemy's blow. He wasn't sure if he had done anything at all, really. He barely remembered the distance, that never-ending void stretched impossibly long between himself and Tieria's immobile machine… and then the sword. Blinding, red-white-hot, searing. It was also deafening, but within the rumbling roar he had somehow heard a musical tinkle; that must have been the hull's outer glass shattering.

His hands shook. His lungs burned. His body ached. His eye bled.

He wasn't sure if he would live or die.

He wasn't sure if he had protected Tieria.

He wasn't sure if Dynames could make it home.

If he would make it home.

But he had to try. He had to try.

"Brother! Wake up! C'mon, you lazy bag of bones, get up!"

"Hey, Neil! You gonna sleep all day? Mum's waitin' with pancakes."

Amy...Lyle...

I love you.

When he next awoke, he found his remaining eye trying its best to focus on the violet-framed face of the Meister whose life he had saved. Even though he wasn't able to do the same for his beloved little sister (lost in a heartbeat; it had happened so fast) or even his younger twin brother (separated by the happenstances of life and differing opinions), at least he had managed to protect his friend.

Two lost. But dammit, they didn't get the third.

And for Lockon Stratos (for Neil Dylandy) that would have to be enough.

It would have to be enough.