Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.
Some parts of conversations in this chapter are taken from a discussion between Peter Keating and Ellsworthy Toohey in The Fountainhead.
In chapter seven of Birth and Binding, a teacher in theology class asks Sylvia Noventa: "What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"
She replies, "Then in order to be truly wealthy, a man should collect souls?"
Choosers of the Slain II:
The Collector of Souls, Part II
by Terra
He could hear a beeping sound. It was a high-pitched whine, whirring in his ears in a continuous, steady rhythm. Quatre opened his eyes. He wasn't dreaming. He was hearing, could hear sounds all around him – the beeping of a heart monitor, the air pumping in his oxygen mask, the cracks of his bones when he shifted restlessly. His first impression was of warmth and bright light. Then the world came into focus and the blurry fuzziness became white-washed walls and fluttering curtains; his room looked nothing like a hospital.
He was in a tropically lit room and he could feel soft breezes on his skin. He smelled the ocean. He had just thrown the covers off when a deep voice rumbled from the doorway: "Welcome to Seychelles, Master Quatre."1
"Rashid!" said Quatre, startled; slipping off his oxygen mask. He tried to sit up, ignoring the blinding pain the movement caused, gritting his teeth against the nausea as the room shifted violently. He managed, "How did I get here?'
Rashid's amused, smiling expression became somber and Quatre knew he was speaking now, not to his old friend, but to the leader of the Maganac Corps. At his question, Rashid walked over to his bedside, sank down on one of the chairs and answered seriously: "We were coming to meet you in Luxembourg when we saw the attack. Auda arrived in time to save your life. He had – he had to kill a woman. He would be here now, but he's too ashamed to show his face to you. Commander Sadaul is with him now. I don't know if he will ever forgive himself."2
"She shot me," he murmured. "I remember." Meeting Rashid's grave brown eyes, he added: "Tell Auda to come see me. I won't have him punishing himself for this."
"Yes, Master Quatre. That woman...she shot you twice. The second bullet grazed your head," he gestured to his right temple, "so the doctors put you in stasis to prevent brain damage. They say you have a concussion. When we found you, your ears were bleeding."
"It was the explosion. It burst my eardrums," said Quatre, absently touching the bandage covering his head. "Hand me my medical chart?" Rashid gave him the binder hanging off the edge of the railing. He glanced quickly through it, scanning his blood work, x-rays and the notes scrawled in the margins. "Perforations in the tympanic membrane. It looks like the surgeons repaired it — good." He nodded, satisfied. "They did a good job. I was deaf after the attack, but I can hear fine now." Keeping his movements slow, he turned back to the other man; he asked: "And what about Daniel? And Carlos? The men who were with me?"
"The local authorities arrested Carlos del Toro," replied Rashid steadily. "As for the other man, this Daniel – the last I saw of him, he was en route to a hospital."
Quatre smiled; tired and strained. "I see. Please thank Auda for me. I've lost count of how many times the Maganacs have saved my life."
"No more than you've saved ours."
"How is my staff at Larochette? Were they able to escape?"
"Yes. Most were able to evacuate in time. The majority of fatalities were from the attackers and your bodyguards."
"I must speak with their families as soon as possible." When Rashid began to protest, Quatre added: "You know I can't stay here in bed when every minute is crucial. Their families will want an explanation. How is this being reported on the news?"
"They're calling it the Larochette Massacre," he said apologetically, sighing. "And a law enforcement disaster. Local PDs took almost eight minutes to respond and by then, it was too late to keep Larochette from burning down. There were dozens of reporters around before the attack so they caught everything on film. Everyone will see that you did nothing to provoke them."
"Maybe. But not until the public outrage dies down and cooler heads watch those videos. How were you able to get me out?"
Rashid cleared his throat, discomfited, a reluctant set to his face. He said cryptically, "We had help."
"From whom? The Preventers?"
"Not…exactly."
"Rashid?"
"We didn't have any other option," he said, resigned. "It was a tactical nightmare. We had no other way to carry you out, not with the police and firefighters everywhere. That's...when we ran into Zechs Merquise."
"Zechs?" asked Quatre, surprised.
"He flew down in a jet. He landed for us and took off again — before anyone could stop us."
"Where is he now?"
"He's outside. He's been waiting for you to wake up. I told him you were too injured, but he refused to leave without speaking to you."
"It's all right, Rashid. Let him in. One wanted man to another." Quatre smiled wryly. "He might even have advice for me. He's right. I do need to talk to him."
"If you must, Master Quatre," said Rashid slowly, unwillingly, his eyes lingering on the bandage around Quatre's head. Finally, he rose to his feet and walked through the door.
-
There was a soft knock on the door. It opened and her maid walked in with a tray, laden with a tea set, crumpets and Belgian chocolates. She curtsied awkwardly, balancing the tea service with one hand and holding open the door with the other. Setting it down on the table, Clarice said: "Darjeeling, madam. Shall I pour?"
"No. Thank you, Clarice," said Dorothy. "You may leave."
When her maid closed the door behind her, Dorothy lifted the teapot and began pouring. She inquired blandly as if they were old friends meeting for a morning tea party: "Sugar?"
"Yes." When she had taken a sip, Sylvia resumed her previous pose and asked derisively, "Surely, this isn't shocking to you, Dorothy?"
"No. I've seen you practicing your altruism for ten years," she answered, smiling bitterly. "I've seen it being practiced all over the world."
"Then why the disgust? You've known this was coming. Don't deny it," scolded Sylvia, delighted at the sudden violence of Dorothy's expression. "It's almost here: a world of obedience and unity. A world where the thought of each man will not be his own, but an attempt to guess the thought of the brain of his neighbor who'll have no thought of his own, but an attempt to guess the thought of the next neighbor — and so on."
"You're right. I am disgusted. But not with you, Sylvia. With this world — that makes someone like you possible. You're the perfect revenge. The great dehumanizer. There's nothing worse I could inflict on this world."
Sylvia laughed; a cruel, sonorous sound. "And nothing more inevitable," she said. "In my world, since all must agree with all, no man will hold a desire for himself, but will direct all his efforts to satisfy the desires of his neighbors. Since all must serve all, no man will work for so innocent an incentive as money, but for that headless monster: prestige. The approval of his fellows – the opinion of men who'll be allowed to hold no opinion. Not individual thought; only public polls. An average of zeroes. A world with its motor cut off and a single heart, pumped by hand. My hand...and the hands of a few, a very few others like me."
"Socialism?" asked Dorothy, amused. "How quaint. But you wouldn't want to be known as a collectivist. The twentieth century already proved the futility of that philosophy."
"Oh, no. Don't mistake me," she admonished, scoffing daintily. "Mine is the oldest one of all. Look back at history, at any great system of ethics and they all preach the sacrifice of personal joy. They've all had a single leitmotif: sacrifice, renunciation, self-denial. That's the best moral atmosphere for my work. Everything enjoyable, from cigarettes to sex to ambition to the profit motive, is considered depraved or sinful. Just prove that a thing makes men happy — and you've damned it. That's how far we've come. We've tied happiness to guilt. And we've got mankind by the throat."
"We?"
"Don't act coy. It doesn't suit you, darling." Sylvia looked affectionately at the woman sitting demurely in front of her. "You know that it's much too early to tip my hand."
"You believe that after this is all over, they'll let you rule?"
"They won't have a choice. The people will see me as a prophet. It'll be comforting and familiar – my message of sacrifice. It's been drummed into the minds of men for too many thousands of years as the pinnacle of virtue. But where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting sacrificial offerings. Where there's service, there's someone being served," said Sylvia, smiling viciously. "The person, who speaks of sacrifice, speaks of slaves and masters. And intends to be the master."
"Then the man who tells you that you must be happy, that it's your natural right to be hedonistic, that your first duty is to yourself – that's the only the man who's not after your soul?" asked Dorothy with polite curiosity; her interest manufactured, obligatory.
"Yes. That will be the man who has nothing to gain from power. But instead of being inspired, people will hate him for what he makes them see in themselves. They'll want to kill him for not needing them. When he comes, they'll scream their empty hands off, howling that he's a selfish monster. So, you see, mankind itself will be my weapon against heroes."
"It can't be an act."
"No. That would never be enough," replied Sylvia with the patronizing air of imparting a lesson. "One can't put on an act like that – of true subservience. Of complete submission to a world of unity and obedience. It must be an act inside, for oneself, and then there is no limit, no way out."
"And what of you? The rulers?"
"What of us? We'll achieve no more than anyone else. I'll have no purpose save to keep men content. To lie, flatter, praise, inflate their vanity. To make speeches about the people and the common good — as if by virtue of numbers," she bit out disdainfully, "great lumps of people are somehow nobler than one."
"When it's the exact reverse that's true?"
"Precisely. You can convince one person to be honorable, but a crowd, a mob, a nation? Hopeless. Dorothy, my dear, I'm the most selfless woman you've ever known. I have less independence than the man who I just forced to sell his soul. He, at least, has the option to use people for what they can give him. I want nothing for myself. I use people only for what I can do for them, to them. I have no private, insidious purpose. I only want power."
"You don't consider power to be a selfish motive?"
"Of course not. In the world of the future, it will be let all live for all. Let all sacrifice and none profit. Let all suffer and none enjoy. Let progress stop. Let all stagnate. There's equality in stagnation, you know. All subjugated to the will of all. Universal slavery with no masters. Slavery to slavery," declared Sylvia, a practiced smile on her lips, her eyes softening. "A great, never-ending circle. Complete equality."
"If you're going to be so honest, tell me why you're really here."
"Can't I just have come to gloat?" she replied lightly.
"I exposed them. I went on the air like you asked. Haven't I already fulfilled my purpose? What more do you want?"
"Dorothy, you needn't say it like that — like you'd agreed to do it as a favor to me. Let's call it what it was. Blackmail. Extortion," she said. "Compromise even. To delay the broadcast until they were in Davos so they'd be safe, so they'd have time to prepare. Let's get it all out in the open."
"What do you want?" repeated Dorothy.
"Why, isn't it obvious?" said Sylvia, her green eyes wide, indulgent. "I want you to testify for the prosecution."
-
Rashid returned a minute later, following cautiously behind a tall, blond man with shaggy short hair and glacial eyes that narrowed when he saw Quatre's condition. Rashid cast an untrusting look at his companion, probing him for any indication of unsavory motives, before inclining his head at Quatre – I'll be right outside, his nod said – and exiting the room. He left the door open.
Quatre turned back to his unlikely savior; the contrast between this stranger and the man he had last seen on the bridge of Libra declaring war was unsettling. It took a long moment for Quatre to place a name to this man, who didn't look capable of waging interstellar wars or unleashing eternal nuclear winters. He was surprised to see Milliardo Peacecraft – no, Zechs Merquise now – in jeans and a battered jacket. This man, standing casually and rumpled, couldn't be more incongruous from the regal, charismatic commander who had incited the Colonies to arms and inspired hundreds to die for him. "Zechs," he said finally. "I don't think we ever met — but you have tried to kill me so I think that entitles me to forego some formalities."
"Quatre," replied Zechs dryly; walking to the foot of the bed, the corners of his mouth curved with humor. "I just saved your life so I think that entitles me to the same."
"It's interesting. I think I'm beginning to understand your family better."
"How is that?"
"You're like Relena," he observed. "Always trying to save people from themselves."
"I promise you she won't think that's a compliment."
"Being compared to you?"
"I am the man who tried to destroy the world," said Zechs with irony. "Her opponents like to remind the electorate that we're related every election cycle."
"How fortunate then that the world thinks you're dead."
"Convenient," he agreed.
"Your return is very timely. What did you come back for?"
"Mars is a cesspool of corruption." His tone was sharp, derisive. "The government is politically unstable. There'll be a coup to overthrow the local ESUN regime any day now."
"The situation's deteriorated that much?"
"It shouldn't surprise you. Earth sent its most expendable castoffs to colonize Mars. Lock criminals, political radicals, zealots and the uneducated dregs of society in a deathtrap — and it's every man for himself," declared Zechs disdainfully. "The only neutral power bloc is shrinking. The refugees seeking asylum don't want any violence, but there are too few of them. Now that we're finally making breakthroughs, the settlers are slipping the nooses around their necks. They want independence."
Quatre predicted: "Rebellion will fan xenophobic fears here on Earth. War will make the mobs close ranks – make them more hateful, more violent. Relena and I had hoped news of her candidacy for president would give them pause."
"That was always unlikely. She's too popular on Mars. Spearheading the Terraformation Project gave her too much political capital. The Secessionists needed to act before she's sworn in as our second president."
"So you came to convince her to return to Mars with you?"
He said curtly, "Yes. But that's impossible now. Not with the escalation in worldwide violence and the government operating on lockdown. It's been," he glanced down at his wristwatch, "almost twenty-six hours since Dorothy went live with your names. I've been watching the newsfeeds all day. Relena's office still hasn't released a statement. What is she waiting for?"
"She's not ready to denounce us yet," replied Quatre absently, leaning back against the headboard, drumming his fingers unconsciously on the bedspread; deep in thought.
"It's political suicide to side with you now. The public outrage being what it is — if she doesn't condemn the Gundams then she'll be ousted." Zechs concluded grimly: "And if she refuses to resign, the House of Lords will impeach her."
"We haven't spoken since the Economic Forum, but you and I both know that she'll oppose the tide of public opinion for as long as she can."
"Yes," he conceded. "She's not enough of a politician for her own good."
Quatre laughed; startled to realize how much more approachable and human – how like his sister – Zechs was in person. "Relena places too much value on personal integrity," he shrugged, "what's a pragmatist to do?"
"Her idealism won't even make a dent. Not until the mobs stop howling for blood."
"She's worked miracles before."
"I wouldn't count on one this time."
Quatre acknowledged: "I'm not. Tell me more about the situation on Mars."
"It's more volatile than people here realize. But not as different as the rebels would like to believe. If I know anything – it's that bureaucrats and technocrats are incompetent no matter what planet you're on. I'm still not sure," he said deprecatingly, glancing out the window, his eyes unfocused in remembrance, "how we managed to build anything with the miles of red tape the ESUN tried to strangle us with."
"Earthside, the media has been spinning Relena as the savior of a project mired by budget shortfalls and corrupt management. Is the Terraformation further along than we've been led to believe?"
"The project wouldn't have gotten off the ground without her. Living conditions were unbearable at first. But we're very close to becoming a self-sufficient colony now. The Secessionists have been stockpiling shipments from Earth for months in preparation."
"And now someone's trying to incite a civil war while Relena's hands are tied by this crisis." Quatre frowned, trying to recall the last intelligence report he received. He continued: "I have some people stationed there. They assured me that Erik Skarsgärd is only a harmless figurehead. And that the Secessionists are too radical and unorganized. They have no popular support."
"Your people are right about one thing – Skarsgärd is just the face of the party. They call him 'The Norwegian,'" said Zechs with distaste. "But your intelligence is outdated. The Secessionists are a real power bloc now. A few months ago, they restructured their party, fired up their base, toned down their rhetoric. When the colony construction market imploded, Mars was hit the worst. The Earth Sphere slipped into recession and supplies slowed to a trickle. The Secessionists played the blame game — pointed fingers at Earth, and started gaining traction with the settlers."
"This Erik Skarsgärd. You say he's Norwegian? As in the former kingdom of Norway?"
"Yes," he affirmed. "The tip of Europe. It's a Romefeller stronghold."
"Romefeller again. Interesting. If Skarsgärd is only a figurehead then who's the real leader?"
"He isn't completely powerless. You should see him. All the women on Mars are mad for him," said Zechs sardonically. "If he runs for office — that's half the vote in his pocket." His tone became leaden with frustration: "The Secessionists received a large infusion of cash recently. Every channel I used to track down the source led to the same name: Marya Kirsanova. All that I know is that she's a Terran...and a member of Romefeller."
"What's her position?"
"She runs Romefeller's foreign aid agency, ESAID. On the surface, the money is clean, earmarked for infrastructure. But most of it has gone directly into the coffers of the Secessionsts."3
"A Terran funding a Martian rebellion? It's the Barton Foundation all over again," said Quatre thoughtfully, frowning. "Kirsanova...that's Russian. It's not that popular a surname. Any relation to Arkady Kirsanov?"
"His daughter. Where are you going with this?"
"If your information is correct, then her father is the man who revived Romefeller after the war. Too many of our problems are leading back to them. It can't be a coincidence."
"The question is: what does Romefeller have to gain from inciting rebellion on Mars?"
"I can't say. If Romefeller exposed our identities and is manipulating Martian politics, then they must be using one to distract us from the other. But which one is their main target?"
Zechs said contemplatively, "Turning public sentiment against you unifies the Earth. Turning Mars against the Earth will only strengthen that unity. Having a common enemy is the easiest way to usurp power."
"One of the Kirsanovs contacted my sister," he informed Zechs, whose eyes narrowed in suspicion. "He's the foremost Terran expert on the Geneva Conventions. I've been encouraged to seek his counsel."
"That family is too connected to recent events. If you consult him, and accidentally reveal where you are, you'll be playing into their hands."
"Maybe. But it'll open doors. Investigating Romefeller is priority one."
"Are you planning on conducting this investigation six feet under?" demanded Zechs.
"It seems to have worked wonders for you," he countered.
"You want to exile yourself to Mars for ten years? Believe me, I'm not standing in your way. You and I fit right in with the rest of the ex-war criminals. But barring that brilliant plan — what's your next move?"
"I'm turning myself over to Preventer protective custody. Then the ESUN will probably try me for war crimes."
"Do it soon. You have the best chance of defending yourself in court." Zechs added: "If you're acquitted, they'll have no grounds to charge anyone else."
"I know. But it won't change anything even if I win or the mob lynches me. Or I'm found guilty. No matter the outcome, a trial will divert the Earth Sphere's attention away from Mars. Then we'll have a coup on our hands. My guess is that Romefeller will sweep the parliamentary elections and depending on Relena's next move — maybe even win the presidency."
"Who's their presidential candidate?"
"Their current favorite is Lucien Reinard. Vice President Desmond fell out of favor with the public after the Poor Man's Fire in Brussels last month. The pundits went after him viciously," explained Quatre with an ironic smile. "He originally ran on a platform of poverty legislation reform."
"I've been out of the loop of Earth politics for too long. Reinard is a career politician?"
"Not just any politician. He's one of the elites. Served three full terms as the provincial governor of Northern Europe. The Senate even considered changing the rules to let him run for a fourth term."4
Zechs noted: "Sounds like Relena has real competition."
"Right now, her popularity with the people is hanging on by a thread. Everyone speculated that I would be her running mate...and they were right. Our friendship is too well-known. She'll survive this, but unless she makes her allegiances clear — you and I will besmirch her record too badly for her to recover."
"So you'll offer yourself up as a sacrifice. And then what?"
"It's not a sacrifice if it's freely given," asserted Quatre, tilting his head to the door. "Zechs, if someone came in here with a gun and opened fire, I'd give my life to save you. Not because it's any kind of duty. But for reasons and standards of my own. I could die for you. But I couldn't and wouldn't live for you. I can't and I won't live for the mobs."
"Would you?" he smiled unconsciously, bemused. "A man sacrificed his life for me once—" Zechs stopped abruptly, astonished; he had not meant to confess this aloud; after a moment, his face changed, no longer shuttered, naked in the realization that there was nothing he wanted to hide from this man. He continued, "...and he never knew who I was or why I wanted to invade the Sanc Kingdom. I never told him I only wanted vengeance against Daigonegell. Against the destroyers of my homeland and those who murdered my family. But he still believed in me. Why — I don't know. He stole the Tallgeese when he saw I was too badly wounded to pilot it."5
"What was his name?"
"Otto."
"Otto didn't sacrifice himself for you. He had faith. What he did was give you the most precious gift that can be given. Stop torturing yourself and accept it, honor it."
Zechs said slowly, "There was a woman...Sylvia Noventa, who came to Mars a few months ago. They called her the Humanitarian. She gave a speech on sacrifice and selflessness and virtue to a standing ovation. People clapped for half an hour. But what she preached were the things destroying the world. No one else understood, but she was praising the worst in men: actual selflessness."
"You realize that?"
"The way she described it was vicious nonsense. I'm not sure she knew what she advocated," he said dismissively, shaking his head. "Selflessness in the absolute sense? It's weakness and cowardice. It's what I couldn't understand about people for so long — why ten years ago, I allowed them to use me. That was the kind of man Quinze was: truly selfless. The people that woman admires have no self. They live within others. They live second-hand."6
Quatre contended: "It's easy to run to others. Harder to stand on one's own record. A person can fake virtue for an audience, but not in their own eyes. Our ego is our last line of defense, our strictest judge."
"That's why they run from it. They spend their lives running. It's easier to donate to charity and think yourself noble than to base self-respect on real virtues, on standards of achievement. It's too easy to seek substitutes: love, charm, kindness, charity. But there is no substitute for competence." Zechs laughed scornfully. "I wonder if she knows that I was the true embodiment of her ideal."
"I doubt she would approve of your motive."
"No. But motives can never alter facts. If it's true selflessness people are after, then they should've looked at me, at Treize. I've never owned anything. I've never wanted anything. If I were to set out in pure altruism to serve the people, then I would do exactly what I did. Obey the destructive impulses of the majority will; feed their blind hate, carry out their wish to kill and make war. When I was in the White Fang, I erased my ego out of existence – I emptied myself. So that I could be their instrument and give them the bloody massacre they wanted. And yet the history books call me corrupt."
"I didn't think you'd admit that to yourself," said Quatre eventually; amused, astonished, involuntarily contemptuous. "But that's not what Sylvia Noventa means by altruism. She means you shouldn't leave it up to the people to decide what they want. You should decide it. You should determine, not what you like nor what they like, but what you think they should like. And then ram it down their throats."
"Of course. What else can a person do if he must serve the people? If he must live for others? Either pander to everyone's wishes and be called corrupt or impose on them by force your own idea of the common good. Is there any other way?"
"No."
"What's left then? What begins when altruism ends?"
"The self. Being selfish, not selfless."
"I'm not an altruist, Quatre. I can't decide for others. I sold my soul once, but I had no illusions about it. I never believed what the public believed. And I've learned to despise them. I was prepared to barter my life, become a martyr and take all their sins with me, but I was stopped," spoke Zechs, a curious strain in his voice from suppressing the relief in his words – and astonishment that he should feel any liberation in admitting this truth to a man who had once stood adamantly against him.
"You would've taken a billion people with you. And unleashed a nuclear winter on the Earth. Forcing humanity to the stars where it's too dangerous to fight wars isn't creating peace. It's a more insidious form of enslavement. That's the kind of destruction true altruism makes possible. Genocide for the greater good. Or worse, a holocaust of souls."7
"It's what I wanted them to see. To realize what total war would look like, the kind of damage it would leave behind. I thought that I could rid Earth of all its weapons and make that humanity's last war. But even if Heero Yuy hadn't stopped me — I would have failed."
Quatre said gently, "You can't stop wars by taking away weapons and drowning the survivors in blood. That wouldn't have changed people. Not on the inside."
"Can it even be done?"
"I don't know. But I'm going to try," he vowed.
-
1The Republic of Seychelles is an archipelago nation of 115 islands off the coast of Africa in the Indian Ocean. Near Madagascar, it is the least populated of all the African countries. After rebuilding L3-X18999, Rashid Kurama and a few other members of the Maganac Corps came back to Earth and settled on one of the Seychelles islands to live in relative obscurity.
2Commander Sadaul was the leader of the village where the Maganac Corps hid underground during the series. He was driven out when OZ attacked because Quatre and Duo went there after the New Edwards Base incident. After the Eve Wars, he and many of his villagepeople uprooted and settled on an island in Seychelles, where the Maganac Corps is currently stationed.
3ESAID stands for Earth Sphere Agency of Interstellar Development, the foreign aid arm of the Romefeller Foundation. Marya Arkadeyevna Kirsanova is the chief operating officer; her office sets the agenda and determines which causes most urgently need aid money. (based off the real USAID organization)
4The ESUN Treaty dissolved all national and colonial borders effectively uniting the Earth Sphere under one central government. Provincial governors rule regions that often encompass several former nations. Lucien Reinard governed the Scandinavian Peninsula, which includes Norway.
5Otto was a lieutenant in the Specials Division (OZ) who appeared in the first nine episodes and greatly admired the Lighting Count. Zechs asked him to repair Tallgeese and after Operation Daybreak on May 19, AC 195, they invaded the Sanc Kingdom to overthrow the last remnants of the Alliance. Zechs was severely wounded from piloting Tallgeese so Otto stole it and went on a suicide mission, dismantling key defenses. Afterwards, Zechs infiltrated the Peacecraft Palace and killed Brigadier General Daigonegell, the man who planned the takeover of the Sanc Kingdom.
6Quinze, an adviser to politician Heero Yuy and co-orchestrator of Operation Meteor with Dekim Barton, recruited Zechs Merquise to become the leader of the White Fang and led the Artemis Revolution. Rebel colonists seized the Lunar Base and the Libra, setting into motion events that would lead to a final confrontation.
7When Libra's main cannon was destroyed by the Peacemillion crashing into it, Zechs decided to drop it on the Earth to force humanity to the stars where war is too dangerous to wage. If even one section of the Libra crashed onto Earth, it would result in catastrophic environmental damage due to its nuclear reactors. The dust created along with the nuclear fallout would block out the sun, creating an eternal nuclear winter. Earth would become mostly uninhabitable and eventually, billions of people would die.
-
A/N- Thanks so much to my beta Shadow Chaster for always editing so quickly and catching the mistakes. I try to limit my chapters to 6000 words but this ended up being twice that! This chapter is pivotal in terms of plot development. But was it too dense to read? Did you fall asleep on your keyboards? Comments or constructive criticism are very welcome. Thank you for reading!
