The scarlet fabric was heavy and soft against his fingertips. It hung, that memorable thick garment, weighty and warm over his arm like a dark drape for a window. It was flawless — seamless stitching, elegant cut, embroidered logo in its familiar location like the advertisement for a common household product. He was a product, a product of the military, and the article of clothing in his hand shouted it as loud and as clear as it had when he had last donned it, two distant years ago.
The uniform was a brand, a label, a punishment. It shrieked, "I am a soldier. I follow orders. I fight, I kill, I have killed. I am disposable and can die." A tiny snicker of disgust slipped from parted lips, as the offending piece of clothing was deposited carelessly onto the bed in a mild half-rage.
It screamed, "I am Athrun Zala, soldier of ZAFT."
The unyielding garment remained strewn across the covers, mocking him, accusing him. You fought even though you didn't know why you were fighting. You thought you were supposed to defend the homeland no matter what the cost.
And you were wrong.
He shook his mane of sapphire hair to clear the image of failure from his mind. Slowly, as if wading through a pool of viscous memories and regrets, he shed the outer layer of his present clothing.
The reach for the waiting uniform after that was all too automatic. His arm extended, and he gripped the soft fabric with fingers that had long ago been impressed with an enduring habit. There came a vague thought, a sudden wonder at why his limbs weren't obeying him. They were moving as if tugged at by subconscious strings. He didn't want to sport the damnable regalia, and yet, he was already half way through as his animated limbs dressed him.
One arm slid mechanically into a silken-lined sleeve, then the other with a twin determination. He blinked. The sensation was soothing, calming, reassuring. He was capable of this, for this time he'd chosen to wear the uniform for a different reason.
A split second of dread coursed through him, leaving him momentarily fearing that the red of the garment had leapt off the fabric to sear his eyes. He squinted them shut, but only for an instant. The crimson hauntings were forced back, and he vowed to keep them locked away.
He buttoned the front of the jacket steadily, while his clouded eyes wandered elsewhere and the room drifted out of focus. Skillful, trained fingers did the walking of their own accord, and the process was complete before he'd gotten a chance to savor it. He felt the coarse stripes that signified his rank resting over his left breast pocket, the white and gold bars that had, along with the scarlet shade of the uniform itself, for so long proved he was an elite.
He had been one of the best. He still had a chance to uphold that claim. This time, Athrun Zala knew what he was fighting for.
The determination with which he slipped on the standard white boots proved it. He clicked his heels together crisply just to be sure.
His gleaming silver belt came last. The click of the closing buckle echoed in the empty quarters with a tone of finality that suggested there was no going back. Slender fingers fumbled only slightly as he shortened the belt's length to fit his waistline. All gaping doors had been closed upon him, and there was only one path left to take.
The finished product… he was wearing it again. Two years had passed, yet he adjusted his collar airily as if he were once more deep in the bowels of the Vesalius, marching about in his usual, routine manner. At once he frowned. The realization of the repetition in his movements was damnable. Was he truly a wretched slave of habit, or was it the aura of the uniform itself that corrupted him so? At once the collar felt constricting, and he tugged at it in desperation, feeling the stitched-in image of a PLANT run beneath his thumb.
The moment of panic passed. Next came a fleeting spell of dizziness as he smoothed his palm over the insignia on his left arm, but that sensation passed as well.
He cleared his throat experimentally, rolled his tensed shoulders, took a few tentative steps. His back straightened and his gaze sharpened. He didn't have to like the symbol the military ensemble stood for, he only needed to be incredibly sure it was right for him to be sporting it once more. And it felt right, so right, in a way that both shamed him and comforted him simultaneously.
Yes… Yes, this was what it felt like to be a soldier of ZAFT. This was his past and his present, his curse and his new blessing. This was what he was and that which he would always be. It was his very Destiny, for he was Athrun Zala, soldier of ZAFT until the bitter, frightful end. He brushed the finest of creases from the surface of the garment with a gentle hand.
He was ZAFT again, and he'd bear that knowledge like the mightiest of soldiers.
A/N: Apologies for messing up any details about the uniform. I'm not cool enough to know the exact materials it's made out of and what buttons and/or zippers go where and whatnot.
Also, I'm aware that he technically wasn't "joining ZAFT" again, but rather "pretending to" while Dullindal allowed him free reign, use of the Savior, and the privileges of the FAITH members. I tweaked it a little by purposely not emphasizing that for the sake of the story. xP
Can you tell I love ZAFT? If I get smart enough maybe they'll let me join!