Disclaimer: I do not own the characters from Gundam Seed featured herein.

Just a short, angst-riddled one-shot introspective piece from Yzak.

I've always felt there wasn't much that could deeply affect Yzak's sensibilities and perceptions but whatever did manage to shake him would have him coming out stronger than ever. This is just a look at that idea.

Warnings: character death, swearing

Beginnings

There's a tree just outside the window. There aren't any flowers on it. I don't even know if this type of tree even has flowers to bloom. Botany wasn't a subject I paid much in-depth attention to. If it related to my overall goals, then it was important. Theories behind inertial dampening? Important possible life-saving stuff. Differentiating species of plants? Not so important for an ace pilot to know. I don't even know why I care what species this stupid tree is. It's a fucking tree.

Honestly, I don't want to be contemplating the tree. Still, frustrating myself with reasons why I should care about the plant is far easer to deal with than turning around to stare at the focus of the macabre tableau this room has been converted into.

And it is a tableau. There's no movement, no indication of life whatsoever. With my first glance I wasn't even certain there was someone here. The body looked fake: plastic and warped. The sheets were starched so sharp blood could be drawn with the merest touch. I took one look and bolted to the far corner. There was a padded seat near the window — horizontal blinds lowered though open. With the angle of the room, that corner was the only one that seemed to get any sort of natural light. As natural as light could get in PLANT. My gaze had immediately been captured by the tree. It was something else to look at and think about. Something besides … the body.

The wonderful thing about technology in this age was how far it had progressed. Old movies irritate me when they show hospital scenes. The machines beep with irritating regularity. This room was so silent I could pretend I was on stage in a pantomime. I'd walk to the wings and everything would come to life and be noisy and reality would swarm back and maybe I'd smile, just a little.

Hesitantly, I touch my lips.

No smile.

So maybe the noise and the smiles and the motion were the real pantomime. And if that was true, then this room wasn't really a stage and …

I turn my head to look at the centrepiece of this play.

Mother's never looked so pale.

The next time I look up there's no sunlight. I don't remember the sun setting. The light fixed in the ceiling is dim. A nurse had probably taken one look at me curled on the chair by the window and decided not to disturb me with bright lights. What idiocy.

My body creaks and screams as I move. I think I'm hungry, but I have other things I need to do first. For one, I should probably do what I came here to do in the first place.

"You really do look atrocious, Mother."

I almost smile as I consider what her reaction would have been could she see herself right now. But her eyes are closed and haven't opened for days. Besides there's not even a mirror in this room. Probably for the best. If she knew anyone had seen her like this …

I straighten a few strands of her fine pale hair, wishing I could do something for her skin as well. Her lips are cracked and there are deep bruises beneath her eyes. No political situation — no matter how severe — had ever affected her this much. Not even her confinement after that Zala debacle had drained her beauty so thoroughly.

It scares me a little.

Perception is everything, Yzak. Ability counts for nothing if you cannot present yourself well enough to be recognised for your talents. Never believe anyone who says appearance means nothing. It is the first thing everyone will see and they will always make a judgement, intentional or not.

You can't be strong if you don't look it, Mother. And you are always strong, so don't let your appearance lie for you. If you are confident, show it. If you are strong, act it. But this … wasting death … it's a lie, isn't it? You're just teaching me another lesson, right? That not everyone can be what they appear, that others lie with their appearance — that I have to be able to tell when others are deceiving me through what I perceive of them, right?

This is the lie, this sickness, not everything that came before.

Because you're strong, right?

It's our birthright.

Isn't it?

I'm staring at a memorial marker while quiet murmuring and buzzing echoes behind me. If I could be bothered I could have made out specific words — maybe even full sentences. But I'm just staring.

God, how I want to hate you.

You were never supposed to lie to me.

The murmurs start to fade and I feel someone come up behind me. Arms slip over my shoulders and squeeze tight before releasing me, one hand staying tangled with my own. I don't even need to look down at the contrast to know who would dare make a move like that.

"You're late, Dearka."

All other sounds stop completely. I mustn't have spoken for the entire service if they're reacting this severely. I don't bother thinking about that, though; I just turn to stare at Dearka, praying I won't see something I dread in his gaze.

He's apologetic and shrugs his shoulders in that familiar roll. "I almost wasn't allowed off ship. I've got a transfer coming up soon, so paperwork's a bastard right now."

A lame but entirely believable excuse. So typical. I scowl and his smile lifts. He nudges me gently with his elbow.

"I'm still here aren't I?"

"Yeah, I guess you are. Come on."

I hadn't let go of his hand and so I tug him forward to the grave and we both stare down at the stone marking the only real place my mother will ever be remembered.

Despite all her contributions and history in connection to PLANT, I knew that she would be forgotten. Everyone eventually is. This is how life is. Beginnings and endings with a mess in between. It's rather ironic that nearly every memorable beginning is marked with a death. I hope my mother won't be one of those.

I don't know if I have the strength of will to fight for a memory alone.

I tighten my grip on Dearka's hand. He squeezes back.