Author's Note: At last, here it is, the Deathdealer remake, now renamed as you all can tell by now. It may not be new, per se, but it's improved, certain plots holes fixed, new stuff added in, the Gundam Boys in their prime forms, and everybody's favorite villain OCs get an encore performance. For those of you who have read the Deathdealer, I invite you to sit down and read this. For those of you who haven't, I invite you in as well but if you want to skip ahead to the end, then read the Deathdealer. It's out there on Fanfiction, somewhere.

Now, if you're one of those who want to read something "new," well I've been working on another fic and it shouldn't be long now until I begin to post that one, sometime before the end of the month.

On one last note, I'd like to dedicate this fic to Archsage Soren because…well, hey, 'cause it's you.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing.

The Eternal Encore

Prologue

"Will you shut up Corey!"

"This is a bad idea! This is a very bad idea!"

"Look, all we have to do is stay here and wait for that brat to come back, that is if he can actually do it."

"But Brad! This is suicide!"

"Jesus Christ Corey! Don't you have any spine? This is a perfect plan! He probably doesn't even know that we're gone and if he does, he doesn't dare do anything public, especially since he doesn't want anybody to know he's alive."

"But we're in a church!"

"So what? Doesn't sanctuary mean anything anymore?"

"But-but you hit the Father! He hadn't done anything!"

"He was annoying me with that racket about peace. How else could I shut him up?"

"We've been here too long! We need to keep moving!"

"Corey, if you don't calm the hell down then I'll have to hit you like I did that priest. So relax or something. Things are going to work themselves out."

"What was that?"

"Great, now you're being paranoid."

"Listen! Can't you hear that?"

"Corey, shut u—"

"Brad! It's the Alliance and they're heading this way! They've got Mobile Suits!"

"Shit! Okay, we'll have to escape out the back or something, take those brats with us as hostages. Yeah, that's what we'll do."

"What's that whistling sound?"

"Oh—"

--

A truck drove down the streets frantically, the driver in a rush to reach his destination. People were depending on him. Sister was counting on him returning. He needed to get back!

A few sharp turns nearly caused him to wreck the truck but he managed to get through them in one piece. He was getting close, he could feel it, no he knew it. The closer he came to his destination, however, the more things seemed to feel wrong. He had been on the streets long enough to know that one had to trust their guts when such feelings appeared. This time, he would ignore it.

Only a few minutes later, he wished that he had followed his gut.

He braked the truck harshly and came to a screeching stop in front of a large area of wreckage, the remains of buildings and the fires that continued to consume them being the only evidence that something had once been there.

"No…" the driver gasped. He scrambled out of the truck's cab, his small legs carrying him as fast as they could into the fiery ruins. All the while, rivers of tears flowed down his face unheeded as his unusual violet eyes searched for survivors, somebody, anybody!

If he hadn't been searching for it, he would never had caught it.

It was a small sound, one most people wouldn't have heard but he wasn't most people. He had spent most of his life fine tuning his hearing in order to be able survive in the concrete wilderness that he had been forced into.

So, the moment he heard it, he was immediately hunting it down.

What he saw was a sight that would continuously haunt him for many, many years to come.

His surroundings suddenly didn't matter. It didn't matter that he was increasingly finding it hard to breath due to the smoke in the air but he hadn't a care for that. Lying amidst the ruins was the one and only person that could possibly have stood as a mother figure in his short and miserable life.

And now, she was on the verge of being taken away from him.

No, he wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't lose her, not like the others. He would save her, he would save her from death.

But ultimately, he would fail. Death's tender embrace would claim the kind woman whose only crime was caring for those that had been abandoned. The small child who had stolen a Mobile Suit in order to appease the men who had taken his sanctuary, the Maxwell Church hostage, who had threatened to take away the family that consisted of only an elderly priest and a young nun, now rose from the ashes of a charred graveyard created by the very people who were suppose to have prevented this from happening.

He took two names that day.

One would be to remind him of what he had had here, to remind him of what he used to be.

The other was to inform the rest of the world of what he had become.

He was Death.

And Death was his curse. It was his only friend in this world and would stay by him forever.

But he would not be selfish.

He would share his friend.

Duo Maxwell would share his friend with everyone.

--

Blanketed in darkness, one man placed down a phone, confirmation having just been given to him concerning a certain group of renegades that he had been keeping track of.

However, these men were not renegades, they were his and they had tried to run from him. But they could not escape him. They would never have been able to anyway; his reach extended further than anybody could imagine.

Not even his "valued" customers knew how far.

He kept himself hidden in secret, protected by a shield of shadows and misdirection that had taken him years to create. It was his mask, his illusion, and it was perfect.

But now he had other matters to consider, such as a new customer. This customer was no one special, just some young, pompous idealist named Trieze Khushrenada. Well, a customer was a customer and money was money.

He could care less what that young fool wanted with weapons.

What did it matter to him?

Absolutely nothing.

And that was exactly how he wanted it.