He was eleven, or maybe he was twelve; at any rate, he was small for his age, this little boy who could look through me with the calmest, coolest cobalt eyes you'd ever seen in your life. His eyes, I remember, were quite extraordinary, and served to give him an androgynous appeal. They were delicately lashed and such a very clear, pure color. They almost made him look innocent, until you took into account the scowl he perpetually wore. His eyes were set perfectly into a well-defined, hawkish little face, in which those eyes would simply glare. If you tried to look in any deeper, you'd simply see yourself reflected. He could block you with a power as good as anything psychic. He had had that talent even before I met him. I simply developed it.
I remember many aspects of his training, yes. How could I ever forget? Every stifled scream, every choked cry, they seared themselves into my memory. But by age twelve he learned to drown it all. He learned to stop pain from ever reaching his brain. I know. I was the one who twisted back his small fingers until his training snapped and he let himself scream in agony. Then I was the one who would scold him with a volley of scathing words, I was the one who would cause that reflective glassiness to come back into those once-innocent eyes. Then I'd be the one to slowly break those tiny fingers one by one. And teach him to break codes with his toes if his fingers were unable to. All the while I'd see those eyes...
Yeah, those eyes were killer. It was almost a pity when he learned to halt expression in them. I say almost, because this was necessary. I mean, we couldn't have some OZ soldier look into those eyes and see pain. That would not do. That would aggravate things; OZ soldiers are rarely known for their sympathy.
I'm the one that drilled everything out of him. I stand up here and I say it, I say, "I DID IT." But know this, you idiotic hypocrites: It had to be done. It had to be done! Someone had to bear the burden of the colonies' foolishness. I was too old, too lame. How could I accomplish anything with both eyes gone, with one of my arms a metal claw, with one leg nearly crumbling beneath me? Then I saw a six year old with a mop of tousled brown hair and quiet, glowing blue eyes and a brave face walk past. I saw the spark of kindness and raw innocence in those eyes struggling with pain and grief. No one, least of all a stupid old man like me, could resist a little boy as brave as that. I took him under my wing and taught him to be more than human. Taught him to be *above* a human.
I don't hear anyone here complaining about the results. World peace is all good and well for you. But you know what? In case you don't, I'll spell it out for you. People suffered for you. The five pilots were like Jesus on the cross. They killed their souls so that people like *you* - self-satisfied, normal people like *you* - might be able to live free of war.
I can't be judged anymore, and neither am I fit to judge. I've done more - seen more - than any of you ever have in your short, smug lifetimes. Yet despite all my shortcomings, I don't believe I've done wrong. I belive I could have trained him better, so that Mariemaia could never have occured. If I could, I would go back, and fix the things I did wrong. Hell, if I could do that, I'd kill Heero Yuy's assassin.
Blood is necessary for an ultimate peace. I shed a little boy's blood over and over. The stains still mark the floor.
I hear no complaints.