A/N. No one was going to read it, but he still felt it still had to be written. Set during season one sometime between the end of episode 21 and midway through 23. A bit different from most other things.

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Never have, never will, just borrowing the characters.

Letter To No-One

The biro was worn out, chewed up and as good as useless, but it would do, scratching across slightly crumpled notepaper, fading in and out as he wrote. One corner of the page was full of scribbles from trying to get the pen to work in the first place and multiple times later on when it had all but given up the ghost. The sound of pen on paper was the only noise to break the silence that had settled over the room an hour earlier, long after everyone else had turned in, leaving behind wishes and orders, neither of which he'd adhered to, choosing instead to sit at the empty table in the canteen and write.

There was always a line between Right and Wrong, one everyone is supposed to know, regardless of which side they fall on in the eyes of others. Right is peaceful, studious, never causing trouble, while Wrong is exactly the opposite. Wrong are all the people who are strung up on the news and talked down, black listed, a price on their heads for the atrocities they have committed. People like those who brought the Middle East to its knees and left it in tatters, people who create child-soldiers and civil war and bring terror to the world.

It had been a decade since he had last written like this, yet there were a few skills from his old school days that had remained, used in other ways - there were more than a few differences between a history essay and a mission report yet the similarities were still there - but the older style of writing, with a biro and paper just minus the pile of text books and print outs and deadlines, flowed with as much ease as it ever had. His way with words on a page better, truer, than those that were spoken, a fact he blamed squarely on how much he had read, and not only as a child. Words on a page were easier, black or blue or red or whatever other colour he had acquired from the pen pot or had been left in the printer creating patterns across the clean, white page, like footsteps and angels in freshly fallen snow.

There has always been war, and the people who create it, fight it, and keep the cycle going, and maybe they deserve as much as anyone else to be black listed thusly. Ending war with war is not right, yet talking never solves anything, people only understand a fist to the face or a gun to the head, the heart, aimed at themselves in general, a threat to their own continued survival. It is just the way of humans to fight and to kill and to not understand until it is too late and the likes of Celestial Being have to appear and so the fighting continues, but at least it is now with a united effort.

At a snatch of movement out the corner of his one good eye he pauses to catch the small robot before he rolls off the table, Haro giving him a look that meant he was wondering if he'd found a new game, clearly a little disappointed at the shake of the head and wordless apology and soft smile as he placed the robot back on the table. Haro watched as he picked up the pen again, chewing absently on the end of it and frowning at the page, reading back over the words and reaching for the nearly empty coffee cup.

When the realisation that this was the purpose of the plan to which Celestial Being has been working, and previous world history is taken into consideration, it becomes clear that there is only one outcome: a war not between factions on Earth but between Earth and those who have been waging an indiscriminate war against them all. War between Earth and Celestial Being is inevitable, and there is only one truly favourable outcome, for the victors in war are always those who are Right, never those who are Wrong. As the initiators of this war, the invading force, the crimes committed under the name of Celestial Being are too great in number to be forgiven. Celestial Being is Wrong and Earth is Right; Celestial Being are those who shall surrender or die trying live.

The words were easy, their meaning was not. Their meaning was the cold chill of blue ink on a white page, facts and old knowledge and experience, and he knew that their tactical advisor had to be aware, that maybe she had been all along. The coffee had gone cold, the room cold, and maybe he had too, because there was a certain detachment that came with the words, just words on a page, just another essay to be written, handed in, marked and handed back with red pen annotations and notes about the lack of source citation. However, he had no text books or print outs or deadlines to meet, no teacher to mark this scribbled note on old paper with an older pen by a man too old and too tired; just a cold room and cold coffee and a robot for his last friend left.

Celestial Being will be destroyed for the world, for Earth, to live. Those who fight for what they believe to be, if not right, then at least the most efficient method of gaining peace will be destroyed, broken, left for dead or captured, put to death and made an example of: This is what happens when you go up against what is Right. Those who are Right destroy the monster they created in the first place. It is because of them that we exist, that we fight for our lives out here in space and on Earth, and now we have what we wanted - Earth united, but now we are the sacrifice.

The handwriting was sloppier now, close enough illegible, as he wrote faster, his expression unreadable, no longer writing an essay, no longer keeping it neat and tidy and well marked.

We go to die, and I don't want that, not for myself, and definitely not for the children on this ship, because they are just that: children. Some of us are old, some of us know better, most don't, not really, they're no more than children and they shouldn't be out here, but they, like us, are walking to their deaths. These people we have been working to help are out to kill us. Would they change their minds if they knew how young the crew is here?

The paper was crumpled, ripped and torn, tossed like confetti in the air, paper snow that settled round the broken pen left abandoned on the table and around the empty coffee cup, the writer walking out the door, Haro under one arm, never looking back.

I don't care what happens to me, just let the children live.

Lockon Str---

Neil Dylandy, 2307 AD.