When the Smoke Clears

            A/N: This is a series of angsty stories I'm writing about the Gundam Pilots who think about their life before, during, and after their skirmishes against OZ during the main GW Series, and along with the skirmishes during the 'Endless Waltz'. Be warned, a lot of angst. If it sounds a little OOC to you, I'm sorry. Thanks, Enjoy-

Heero Yuy


Known as 01, or Pilot of Wing Zero

            Life is something I've taken away. Never given… only taken. What is the objective of war? To kill. Something I've been taught ever since I was born. I am nothing but a killing machine, a tool of war. Just like pawns and knights in the game of chess, this is all that was taught to me. This is all I have learned.

            I've never had a chance to a normal childhood. All this fighting, all this death and destruction never really fazed me. At least that's what it looked like. I've always been scared, I've always been afraid of the day and the time that someone finally would be able to take my life and move on, just as I have done to the many others before me.

            It seems that the day has never come yet. I'm waiting patiently for the soul who has come to rid me of my pain and ease my suffering.

            I don't know. Are most of my battles justified? Have I fought for what I believed in?

            I'd like to hope so. The war between the Earth and the Colonies was justified, I fought for the safety of people upon Earth.

            The rest doesn't seem right. Nothing seems to fit into my life and it seems that my friends and I are the only ones that survive. These battles seem endless, to last for seconds, for hours, and for days, and for weeks on end. The energy I use is amazing, I find myself shutting everything out except for the task on hand in my mind: to fulfill my objective.

            I don't know how many people I've killed. The numbers are countless. Every explosion takes a life. I've taken so many people with these hands.

            Nothing but bloodstained appendages.

            Everything I've done has either been justified or wrong. I've been deprived of every single thing I had coming to me ever since I was born. It feels like fighting's the only thing I've ever done. Will I ever be able to stop raising my fists in anger? To keep my hand from taking another life?

            Time heals everything. Does it? No. Not for me, not for my sake. Every second has been an unnatural hell and every second I live on, there is the tearing pain I feel of the many lives I've taken.

            I'm nothing but a survivor. Nothing but a person in the flames, an enigma in the dark.

And when the smoke clears, I'm the only one left.

A/N: Sorry. It was short, and I like to hope that it was meaningful and very angsty. If there is any problems, please tell me and I will be eternally grateful to you. Please review!