Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Gundam Wing, or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). Zero-zero/Maru Rei, for example, belongs to me. I do not own the series' creator, mech designer, or PHYSALIS, and I'm not making any money off this story. This story was written solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement was intended. Please, do not sue. All original concepts in this story are original (duh) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me. Do not steal. This story is AC (Alternate Continuity), takes place (for the most part) almost five years after Endless Waltz, and contains: violence, language, angst, flashbacks, acts of terrorism and subsequent political brouhaha, religious references, twisted senses of morality, and an obnoxious timeline.

Better Than Nothing:
Chapter Eight — Understand Nothing

"—How many survivors, did you say?" Doctor J asked, head turning to regard the twitching wreck across from him. There were only ten of them around the long table, papers and newspaper articles strewn haphazardly over the imitation wood. The eleventh was still on his way, supposedly, but at this point Trowa's arrival seemed unlikely. Instructor H jumped when he was spoken to, dropping the reports he had been holding. He started stuttering, trying to stammer out an answer as his hands fumbled with the paper. Professor G sighed, exasperated with the instructor's nervous babbling and spastic reactions.

"From which colony?"

"X-19987."

"About two hundred. They escaped on a space bus that had left an hour before the colony was destroyed. The shuttle was headed for the Sanc Kingdom in the ESUN. Hmn. . ." Professor G set the report aside and went back to scanning the stack he had been assigned to. "Lucky bastards."

". . .Is anyone else noticing a pattern here?" Heero had long since stopped reading, now standing in front of a star chart on the wall, marking where the colony had been. Wufei looked up, dark eyes shifting from map to pilot and then back down to the article.

"You mean, 'couple hundred people run away to Sanc, and then the colony gets blown up?' Yeah, I've noticed that, too," it was Duo talking, tossing the report he had been double checking across the table. "I think it reeks of conspiracy. Bet somebody's trying to connect these attacks to Relena and get her ousted."

"No, not that. . ." Heero murmured, tapping one of the colonies on the map. "All these colonies—"

"Well, what about the Barton Foundation? A lot of people are still holding grudges from the Mariemaia incident, for one reason or another," Duo continued, ignoring whatever it had been that Heero was trying to say. He tilted his chair onto its back two legs, rocking slightly. "I mean, is it possible that they're involved somehow? Either as the actual perpetrators or as the real target for the terrorists?"

"Doubtful," Wufei said with a sigh, also putting down the article he was reading. "None of the colonies belong with the Foundation, and even if they were behind the attacks—"

"They're not."

The men around the table turned to the door at the sound of the voice, Duo nearly lost his balance as his chair snapped back to a stable position. Wufei was abruptly on his feet, and Heero's hand tensed as he held back the urge to draw a gun. Slim shoulders rose in a small shrug, a light duffel bag hitting the floor with a dull thump, and the middle aged man in the doorway raised his hands to show that he was unarmed.

"The Foundation has a certain way of doing things, and guerrilla warfare isn't part of their style. Besides, most of them are preoccupied with Mariemaia's political situation right now," he looked up, surprisingly light blue eyes standing out in his sun-darkened face. One hand fell back to his side, and the other came up to run through his bright red hair. "If they don't get the majority of the ESUN Council and the UCL to vote for her, then in three months she'll be seeing the grand tour of Wieder Gefängnis, a female penitentiary in southern Germany. I've been checking on the activities of all the family members who might possibly have a motive, but it seems like the Bartons aren't the villains this time."

They stared at him, confused and uncertain, for the span of several minutes before Duo finally broke the silence that had followed the stranger's explanation:

"And you would be who?"

"Trowa!?" it was Wufei who recognized the man first, the name said in utter astonishment as he walked over to the ex-pilot, mouth slightly agape. "You. . .you look so old! And what the hell did you do to your hair?"

The man before them chuckled slightly, clasping the Chinese pilot by the forearms instead of a handshake. "Life does that to you, and I dyed it, Wufei; calm down."

"What for?"

"I. . .I just needed a change, that's all. I don't really want anyone recognizing me."

". . .That would explain your eyes." The two turned to look back at Heero, who had—upon hearing the familiar name—relaxed to his natural state of being wound-up too tight. "You had the color surgically altered, didn't you? They used to be green."

The room was quiet for a moment, and Duo leaned back against the table, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, I'm glad you could make it, Trowa. We need all the help we can get. We're not any closer to figuring out what's going on with the attacks than when we started."

"Heero," the name was said softly but still sounded like a command, and he looked back to Doctor J. A tension settled in his shoulders, and it took all of his old training to keep his body from trembling in that childish fear. His muscles constricted as if preparing for the strike. "You had started to say something before."

"Th-they. . .they're all old MS colonies."

"Come again?" Duo seemed confused, and he straightened, walking over to the map. "Whaddya mean, 'old MS colonies?'"

"Just look at the map. X-19987 used to have the largest and most advanced gundanium and titanium refineries this side of L1; X-17603 was built practically on top of a huge deposit of raw gundanium, and they were ones who first discovered the GND formula; the technology needed for the prototype Crush Shield and Planet Defensors was first developed on X-21432; and X-16514 had the scientists and laboratories responsible for most of the breakthroughs in beam weapon technology," Heero looked back at the others, brows furrowing thoughtfully. "It looks to me like this perpetrator doesn't like the people responsible for creating mobile suits."

Doctor J and Professor G shared a look and then returned their respective gazes to the map. They said nothing, and when it became apparent to everyone that they were not sharing, Wufei moved back over to the table. He leaned over the imitation wood, hands pressed palm-down on the paperwork, fingers splayed.

"That doesn't make any sense. If they wanted to destroy mobile suits, then they wouldn't be using them. What else, other than a battleship or space fortress, can just blow up a colony and move on?"

Master O whispered something to his charge in Cantonese, and no one could follow their fast-paced argument. It ended with Wufei sitting back down and glaring at the scientists angrily.

"Nothing really. And if it was a ship of some kind someone would have noticed it by now. No, it had to be something much smaller," Trowa finally said, moving from the doorway. He stopped closer to the rest of the group, thinking. "But what gets to me is that there's never been any sighting of a mobile suit in the areas surrounding the targeted colonies before the attack. Even if it is a Gundam, it still needs to refuel at some point."

". . .Not necessarily."

"Alright, you old bastard," Duo turned to face his scientist, arms crossed over his chest. "Whaddya know?"

"I know nothing," he said, raising his hands in a sign of peaceful surrender. "My memory has been wiped clear by time and disease. A pity, really, when you think about it—"

"G," the American said the letter like a threat, and the professor snickered.

"There are some kinds of generators that don't require fuel. In fact, I had been hunting one for about two years," G told them, smugly looking down his immense nose. "I kept the information in a hidden file, located on the hard drive of an incredibly old computer that no one else ever used anymore. However, last year, someone broke into my shop—you know, Duo, the warehouse—and hacked through it. They stole the files, and the information."

"I didn't even know we could do that. . ." Duo half-grumbled his response, snapping his fingers then and speaking up. "Wait a minute! But I thought that there was only one way that you could—"

"Yes, that's right, Duo," Doctor J was rubbing his palm over the head of his cane. "There is only one way that it's possible to have a Gundam operate at that level in space without needing to refuel. . ."

"But that's not a possibility! Doctor J," Heero made a broad gesture in the air with one arm, eyes filling with worry. "Not even you would design a Gundam with a nuclear generator! That's just insane. The probability of a malfunction resulting in the meltdown of the generator is too high. That would be like setting a bomb off in space; your pilot would be in the center of a miniature supernova waiting to happen. Not only that, but the radiation could leak out into the cockpit, resulting in mutations and delays in your pilot."

"We didn't make it," Professor G stated simply, setting his elbows up on the table.There was a long silence, G's words sinking in. Finally, one of the researchers at the far end of the table spoke up, taking his glasses off and cleaning them on his jacket as he asked:

"But, if you didn't, then who did?"


Maru was sitting on the floor, cleaning his gun when Quatre came back in with dinner. He was singing softly to himself, some old tune that the other did not recognize, ignoring the blond in favor of the metal and oily rag in his hands. His companion smiled a little, sitting down next to him on the concrete.

"—This train is bound for glory, this train. Oh, this train is bound for glory--don't take nothin' but the good and hon'ry; this train is bound for glory, this train. . ."

"I. . .I got the list done," Quatre said it carefully, and Maru stopped, looking over to the pale Arab. "It's all done now. There are three hundred names here. Do you want me to prepare the shuttle, or would you like to do it?"

". . .Go ahead. They're your people, after all."

Quatre turned his head sharply at that, gaze falling on the Gundams in the far end of the hangar. Where had they gone so wrong? He wondered what had led to this crazy turn of events. Why was he here, doing this? Murder, genocide? That was not what he wanted. He wanted people to go through their lives, to be happy. To be naïve and have innocent ideals, the way that he once did before the war. So why. . .?

"Having doubts, again?" Maru set the gun down, wiped his hands off on his jeans and leaned back. "It's okay if you are, you know. You can talk to me."

"I. . .I just. . ." he fought to find the words, turning back to his friend with pained eyes. "Does it have to be this way, Maru?"

"If you can't stomach my methods then just go home, Quatre."

"You know I don't mean it like that. . ." he trailed off, looking down at his hands. They had been washed clean, bright pink because he had scrubbed them raw, and still he could feel the blood on them, warm and slightly sticky. "I just. . . I'm scared. What if we're wrong?"

"That's a normal human reaction to change, Quatre; to be afraid. It's all right if you're human. I promise not to hold it against you."

". . .You're strange, Maru."

"I know."

The two young men were quiet for the span of several moments, and during that time Maru shifted so that he was now lying on his back, gazing up at the support beams that crossed the ceiling. Quatre soon followed suit.

"But we're not wrong, so you don't have to be scared unless you want to be," the other pilot looked over to him, a thoughtful kind of confusion evident in his expression as he sought to find the words that would best convey his ideas. "Do what you think is best; follow your instincts, and listen to your partner. Would Sandrock really let you kill without reason?"

"I guess you're right. . ." Quatre smiled, a nervous laugh escaping him as Maru started humming that same old tune again, ever so softly. "I mean, we're only killing the bad people, right?"

Maru did not answer, the lyrics to the song finding their way out of his mouth:

"Get on board, get on board. . . Get on board this gospel train. . ."