Scatterbrained

Namarra. Who is she? Crash. Shit.

"You're not paying attention, Eclipse! Get your head back in the game!" Waltfeld yelled, clearly ticked about the redhead's lack of enthusiasm. "I didn't agree to not self-destruct this time just to have you get soft on me. You wanted a two-on-two match, so here it is."

"Yes and how kind of you to stay through the whole simulation, sir, instead of chickening out and leaving Eclipse hanging dry," DaCosta said, muttering something under his breath before the transmission ended.

It was another training session between the two new pilots of the Waltfeld crew and the two senior ones; Eclipse and the commander vs. DaCosta and Breck. So far, it was a close match. Breck had greatly improved since their last duel and despite Waltfeld's awesome tactics, Eclipse wasn't able to get in a decent attack on either of them.

"Damnit, Eclipse. Where the hell are you?" the commander asked, silently cursing again when he saw the words "Signal Lost" flashing where his partner's beacon was supposed to be. "Alright, simulation over. That was pathetic, Moon-girl!" The new nickname raised more eyebrows than anger gauges, but his point was made. Sure, the redhead had done squat—and the commander's abrupt self-destruction proved she hadn't earned her cup of coffee for that day—but with another Berserker on the loose, how was she supposed to concentrate?

Namarra Legund. I wonder how many others there are.

"Eclipse! Dear God, how many times must I say your name?" Waltfeld asked, setting his helmet down rather harshly on the table. "DaCosta, Breck, you two go grab some lunch. Moon-girl, you're coming with me."

The other two saluted and fled, leaving the redhead behind sighing. "Yessir."

At first she didn't think she'd get her dosage of caffeine, but as soon as an extra large mug was slapped onto the table in front of her, she offered of a quick prayer of thanks and took a sip. It may not have been what she needed at the moment, but it was damn close.

They were in what looked like a living room of some kind. Two green couches faced each other with a coffee table in the middle. A large, bay window was on the far wall, just behind the commander and off to the redhead's left was a fireplace with a slab of stone sitting on top. She knew the replica as "Evidence 01" but decided not to say anything. It wasn't a conversation she wanted to get into at the moment.

Waltfeld walked over from her right, plopping down on the opposite couch and setting his mug on a napkin. "Alright, what's got your head in a spin? You've never zoned out that bad and especially not in training. If it's going to be this way in our huge fight against the Archangel—'Legged Ship', whatever—then let me know and I'll keep you locked up here. You're going to get people killed, Eclipse."

"It was just a simulation, sir."

"Hah, good one. When did you pick up the bad attitude? Certainly not on my watch 'cause I'd have slapped that out of you the first time it reared its ugly head. Now tell me what's going on, or I'm shipping you back to the dimwits at Gibraltar. Maybe they can find a few toilets for you to scrub."

She watched him take another sip of his coffee, impressed with how calm he looked on the outside. Eclipse knew he was angry—positive, actually—but his appearance never betrayed him. Another one of his gifts, it seemed.

At first the redhead was just going to say something like, "I'm working it out; I'll be fine," but shut her mouth. He had been nothing but kind to her ever since she arrived—unless she counted being blackmailed into doing errands and getting caught in the local shooting—and telling him some lie would be disrespectful. Ultimately, she just sighed.

"Not going to tell me?"

"Don't know how."

"You pregnant?"

"H-huh? No!"

"Well, that crosses off option one," he muttered and lowered the cup from his lips. There was a small smile there, but Eclipse wasn't amused in the least. "Family problems?" he continued. "Aisha told me the girl we met the other day was a cousin of yours."

"Yes, I've been thinking about that a little, but it's not enough to hinder my battle performance, sir."

"Really? Then what is? It has to be pretty big, I'm thinking." When she still refused to respond, he sighed and got to his feet, carrying the mug with him. "I've got all day, so take your time. You're not leaving here until I'm convinced you won't be redefining the phrase 'friendly fire'."

It's not that simple, she kept reminding herself, clenching her fingers around the glass. How can I just sit here and talk about something like this?

An awkward moment passed while they said nothing. Waltfeld stood over by the fireplace, one arm bent on the sill and holding his cup as the other traced the rim with a finger. Eclipse stayed seated on the couch, huddled over and staring at the floor. She was still debating whether or not to talk about her run-in with SIN-ED.

"Here, maybe this'll break the ice." The redhead didn't notice him moving at first, but as soon as he was on one knee off to her left she literally jumped from her seat. In his right hand he held a velvet box—apparently, there was no more need for coffee—one he gingerly opened up and held before her eyes. A dainty but elegant ring lay inside, its diamond reflecting the sun's rays onto the coffee table near Eclipse's right hand, leaving her speechless at its beauty and faint by his actions. "Will you marry me?" he asked, a sincere—and even innocent—look in his eyes. She could've sworn they sparkled and that thought alone made her nervous. His mouth twitched with anticipation, but his pose never faltered.

He was serious.

"Sir, I—"

Laughter.

Maybe not so serious.

"How was it? Good?" he wondered, getting to his feet abruptly and brushing off the front of his khakis. "Do I need to change the tone in my voice? Deeper perhaps?" Putting the box back into his pocket, he patted it lightly as if to make sure it was really in there. The smile returned, showing he was proud of the gesture.

If only everyone in the room felt the same.

"Uh, Eclipse?" he asked, reaching out to touch the prone soldier cowering on the couch. "My goodness you're pale. You okay?"

Gulping once, the redhead finally found the strength to shake her head and sit straight, although she had moved a few feet away from her commander. "You call that 'breaking the ice'? I think you created a damned iceberg."

"Oh, sorry. Wait, you thought I was serious?" He blinked, brought a hand to his chin and stroked it thoughtfully. "Hm, I must be better than I thought."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"There's that attitude again."

Damn, he's worse than Heine, she sighed, grabbing her mug and taking a huge swig. She had to get something stronger later, or she'd be scarred forever.

"No, really; what'cha think?"

"For Aisha, fine. For me, drop the ring, stand up and walk away."

"Point taken," he said, retaking his seat on the other couch. Sitting down arrogantly—if that was even a way to sit—he remembered to grab his mug before putting it to his lips, sipping, and then humming in admiration.

Eclipse had never been so happy to for a coffee table in all her life.

"I have one more question before we switch topics back to your lovely life. Give the ring before, or after?"

"Before or after what, sir?"

Waltfeld sighed and took another, longer drink. Suddenly, he was serious. Not like he wasn't before—however, that was on a whole other level—but this had a different edge to it. Maybe this was what DaCosta had mentioned before.

He did take death seriously.

"I have a feeling the Archangel will be making its move soon and I'm not about to let them hit the Red Sea unscathed. If anything, I have a score to settle with the Strike pilot."

"You worried?" the redhead asked.

"About dying? Nah, it comes with the territory, but I don't want anyone else to if I can help it. That's why I'm so tough on you guys in training. I'd say 'don't take it personally,' but if you get killed, I'll be taking it personally. Capiche?"

Eclipse was touched; who wouldn't be? He was genuinely concerned about her well-being and when was the last time someone did that? "After," she said, startling him with the abruptness of the answer. "After the battle you can propose. Who wants to say yes with something this huge on the horizon?"

The commander looked at her thoughtfully, half-expecting her to have said 'before.' "Well, maybe—"

"Here, you watch my back, and I'll watch yours, capiche?"

The smile he gave was priceless—blame it on the word—as well as the heart-warming look in his eyes. Much like during his proposal, his gaze burned with anticipation, but it was filled with more respect than actual love. At that moment, they finally understood each other; trusted the other to uphold the bargain. Some might call it "touching"—while others may tell Eclipse she was long overdue for such a comrade—but for the redhead it was a sign she might be getting too attached to this place. However, for the time being, she didn't care.

Eclipse broke the look first, finishing off the mug in one, quick swig. Here we go, she thought, hoping the caffeine would numb her to the impending conversation. Well, sooner rather than later right? After all, he shared something intimate. She cursed him then, realizing his ploy and hating the fact that it was working. He disclosed something, now she had to return the favor. A classical, psychological maneuver and she was about to plunge headlong into it. But maybe he knew something. "Sir, what do you know about Berserkers?"

"Hm? Well, that's a little out of the blue," he muttered as he crossed his right leg over his left, resting his head on an upraised hand. "Honestly, I don't know what to believe. There's hints of them everywhere—that Strike pilot for example—and then there's supposedly genetic proof you're one."

"Wait, you think that Strike pilot's one?"

"He showed—"

"He?" the redhead interrupted.

"Yes, he. That young man the other day was the pilot, but anyway," he continued, waving off the confusion on her face, "he was able to adjust his mobile suit mid-battle—take into account the heat convection and difference in terrain—while not getting killed in the process. As you know, that's even impressive by Coordinator standards. Also," Waltfeld went on, seeing that Eclipse wasn't impressed, "he turned downright savage after it all, destroying two BuCUEs and then leading the other three into a death trap. I've never seen someone fight so… desperately."

Desperately, the redhead thought, hating how it always seemed to come up when people referred to Berserkers or even just regular soldiers. "Individuals can do anything when they're desperate," FS had said. Or at least something similar, she corrected and shifted the cup in her hands. So, desperation is the backbone—or at least a vertebra—of war, and the backbone of that is fear. If we take away fear, does that mean wars will cease? But how can a person take away a basic human emotion? Wait, Eclipse realized, stopping the mug at her lips, FS said he wanted to stop people's urge to fight. Does that mean they'll use fear as their main source? Judging by their recent antics, they're trying to increase the citizens' fear, but how much can one person take? Will they keep pushing the boundary until they snap and have no other option than to push for peace?

"Mind telling me what direction those gears of yours are turning?" the commander asked, watching her intently; however, there was a slight smile on his lips. Apparently, he liked to watch others think—as creepy as that may sound—but even more so, he liked to know what they were thinking about. To him, every voice mattered.

"Huh? Oh, I was just remembering a conversation between me and some friends. We can save that for another time. What I really want to know now is what you know about Berserkers."

"Ah, well another time it is. As far as Berserkers go, all of that genetic proof mixed with the fables I've been taught since I was a child makes this subject nothing more than a jumbled tub of Play Dough."

"So, you don't think they exist?"

"I think certain people here have the ability to imitate them, but only to an extent. Here, see this coffee? I can see it, smell it, feel it, and taste it, therefore, it's real. Now, love—not a tangible thing—is real because I can feel it."

"But what if I say I don't believe in love because I've never felt it."

Waltfeld thought about that for a little, as if he was gathering up the right words. Perhaps it was all just too hard to explain. "Well, you've always felt it, just different kinds."

"So, you're saying because you've never seen a Berserker or have felt what it's like to be one, they don't exist."

"Like I said, their capabilities do, but a true Berserker doesn't. If the myths are correct, that kind of person would bring down humanity before attempting to help it; and you don't seem like that kind of person." He smiled before continuing. "I believe in people accomplishing things by nothing more than the sweat from their brow." He paused. "Hah! That probably puts me in a bad position seeing as I'm a Coordinator and the commander of a ZAFT squad. I basically said I don't believe in my own existence."

"You don't like this war do you, sir?"

Waltfeld stopped laughing then, putting back on his serious face, standing, and then walking over to the window. "It's nothing more than legal genocide on steroids," he spat as he pushed aside the curtain. "However, I'm not about to stop fighting just because I don't approve of mass murder."

"Trying to protect everyone?"

"It may sound corny—and that I got whacked with the 'Cliché Hero' stick—but it's the truth. Who are people without the existence of other people?"

"It just sounds both noble and idealistic at the same time," Eclipse said.

"In a war, idealism isn't a bad thing. Pessimism will get you killed and optimism will get you killed with a smile on your face. At least in one way you're happy."

The redhead sighed and just drank her coffee. After all, how could she respond to something like that?


"Eclipse, for the last time, what the hell are you doing?" Waltfeld yelled. Honestly, the redhead wasn't doing poorly, it was the matter of his plans not working—thanks to the opponents knowing the commander so well—and Eclipse trying to make the best of the situation. If a duel attack wouldn't work, or their formation broke prematurely, she would attempt to salvage what she could by slowing DaCosta's advance or tripping Breck. However, no matter how hard she tried, Waltfeld would still gripe. It all seemed very out of character, but Eclipse was in no position—at the time—to have a heart-to-heart chat. "Go, now!" he insisted.

The redhead did just that. Staring at DaCosta's approaching BuCUE, she waited until the two were about 100 yards apart before turning sideways and skidding to a stop. The sand flew about 20 yards to catch the other machine mid-sprint and blinding him for a few moments. The greencoat managed to fire two shots from the 2-barrel railgun mounted on top of his unit, but only one nicked the right leg of Eclipse's machine.

"Jump!" Waltfeld ordered, sliding under her BuCUE and using his beam sabers to slice through the upper torso of DaCosta's suit. The whole thing was quite impressive and even the greencoat's loud "Damn," was filled with more admiration than frustration. Now there was only one unit left, but that didn't mean anything anymore. If given another chance, both Breck and DaCosta would have Eclipse beat five minutes into the simulation, instead of her embarrassing them in the same amount of time. Perhaps she was finally accepting the skilled newbie. "Where'd you last see Breck?" the commander asked, positioning his BuCUE at the redhead's rear. "I lost sight of him as soon as you skidded."

"I'm assuming he isn't in a good location. That jump was the most vulnerable move I could've done and he didn't even fire while I was in the air."

"Hiding then?"

"To our east, most likely. There's the best cover, but the worst visuals in that direction."

"All right, good observations, soldier. I'll attack from the north, you come around from the south."

"Yessir." Eclipse had never been one to hand out praise—inflated egos were getting annoying—but Breck's attack deserved at least a pat on the back. He wasn't in the east as originally thought. Behind a dune not 15 yards away, he shot a beam through the sand and managed to hit the undamaged battery pack in DaCosta's downed machine. The unit exploded under Eclipse's and the commander's feet, causing them to jump wide and the force of the explosion keeping them off balance as they landed.

"What the he—" Waltfeld began but was silenced after two well-placed shots to his railgun and then to the battery pack. His BuCUE exploded in a collage of colors, but the only one admiring it was Eclipse. Breck had cleared the dune and had already fired a shot by the time she noticed his position. Ducking just in time, the beam went through her railgun instead of the body, but now all she had were blades. Bringing a sword to a gun fight was never a good idea. Cursing, she used her only option and fled,

"Damn, that was nice," both the commander and DaCosta praised from the control room. "If I hadn't been the one killed, I'd be buying you a drink, but, hey, I have a bad habit of holding grudges."

"Yeah, well at least he didn't blow you up," the greencoat grumbled, but was ignored.

"You're on your own now, Eclipse," Waltfeld said into the headpiece, knowing the transmission was relaying loud and clear. In the end, the redhead wasn't going to be too happy. "Maybe you can finally prove to me you were a good choice. As it stands, you're nothing but a rookie about to be slaughtered by someone who should be wearing your red uniform."

DaCosta thought it sounded a bit harsh, even from someone who was a jerk at three in the morning. After all, she was one of the best pilots they had at the moment. "Uh, comm.—" he began, but an upraised hand stopped his comment.

Waltfeld knew what he was doing. "Why not convince me you're more Berserker than the Strike pilot and maybe I'll stop trying to coax him to take your spot."

What? Eclipse thought, both surprised by the statement as well as—surprisingly—pissed. She had seen the Strike in battle, and no matter how much the commander praised him before, he was more of a virgin to death than she was in all pretenses of the word. What had he done? Blew a hole in his home colony, took a few ballet lessons with Athrun—then kidnapped his pink-haired fiancé—and fell through the atmosphere to, most likely, fall asleep on a feathery bed for a week. Probably got room service too because he's the only decent fighter on that damned ship. Now, that compared to what Eclipse had done made her laugh. Him a real Berserker? She had a degree—if that's what they wanted to call it—in torture and execution with the highest grade point average to boot. She nearly chopped off a man's head with a wire, stabbed someone through the skull then continued to clean up the murder scene, and laughed at the foolishness of two comrades as they were torn apart in Heliopolis. To add to the list, she was apparently the deadliest thing this side of eternity and her two best friends were psychopaths.

Now, who was the real thing?

Hah, get him a diaper 'cause he's not even potty trained, she thought, searching her cameras for Breck. After everything that had been happening lately, the newbie's untimely demise looked rather appealing. Namarra's antics had enticed Eclipse's sour nature and her having left the scene with no deaths to her name had made the Berserker rather restless. Given, this was just training—and virtual reality gave more meaning to the word 'fake' than wax fruit—but the little things in life had always made her happy; even if it involved large explosions and gory images.

There we go, Waltfeld thought and smiled wryly. Nothing was too visible on the screen, but the difference between her machine now and how it was a few moments ago was interesting to note. It seemed more relaxed—comfortable even in its surroundings. No fidgeting, no hesitation, just basic familiarity. Sorry Eclipse, but curiosity and all that. I am a cat, you see, and it was very tempting.

"Sir?" DaCosta asked, noting the smile dancing on his lips. If the greencoat would've known any better, he might've been scared.

"Nothing. Just watch."

It was quite an interesting show. Breck came out of hiding first, knowing where the redhead was and advancing on her first. Apparently, he thought he still had the upper hand. Little did he know, he was terribly outmatched and the thing waiting for him behind the dune wasn't human.

Actually, it was a powered down BuCUE and open cockpit.

Huh? he thought and frantically searched his cameras. No signal was being detected and with all the rising heat, he couldn't pick up something as small as a human being. Cursing lightly, he backed up with eyes straining on the screens.

At least until they all went black.

"What the—" he began, but the next thing to go was his rear left leg, buckling his machine down to the ground. It whined with the effort, sounding more like a scream, considering the circumstances. Is she below? The pilot thought, struggling to get some visuals back on the screen. Not even the OS came through.

A front leg went next, causing him to whimper in fear. Damnit! Work! Work! Grasping the controls, he shook them violently, even hearing a few wires snap because of his antics.

Thunk.

Breck froze, hearing the banging from above him.

Thunk.

This time it was to his right, but, for some reason, the hatch never opened. The Berserker was obviously trying to get in, but why was she stalling? He had nothing—not even his ejection seat was working—so why hesitate?

Thunk.

Finally, it was forced open, squealing on the hinges to reveal the fair face of a familiar redhead. At least the hair was familiar. "Waltfeld says you have the skills of an elite, so, let's see what you look like in red." Bringing up her handgun, Eclipse rested the barrel gently on his forehead and smiled. In any other instance it may have seemed like a mother's look to her child before she pulled off a Band-Aid.

No matter what, it always hurt.

"Die."

Breck barely had the chance to swallow before he closed his eyes. Unlike other people, he wasn't brave enough to stare his impending killer in the face.

Bang.

"Shit, it was real? Woah! Damn, this girl has good reflexes. Commander, go around—"

DaCosta and Waltfeld had somehow climbed the newbie's BuCUE and stopped the redhead before she could kill the young pilot. They had started running over when they realized she had hacked into the system and started turning Breck's machine into scrap metal. DaCosta had gotten there first and pushed the firearm wide, but Eclipse had retaliated. Using the momentum from the shove, she had spun 360 degrees and nearly decked the greencoat across the face. Only his own reflexes saved him from that embarrassment.

Waltfeld had trapped her then, locking her arms in a full Nelson and lifting her off the ground. "DaCosta, the helmet. Get it off her," he ordered, grunting when she swung her head back and almost hit him. The commander weaved his fingers to the back of her neck after that.

Breck returned to reality as soon as he realized he wasn't dead. Actually, it had taken a while—scared senseless can slow any reaction—so the first thing he saw was Eclipse's defeated body hanging limp in Waltfeld's arms. Shit.


Déjà vu, the redhead muttered, staring at the coffee table and untouched mug sitting there. Waltfeld stood leaning against the couch across from her, finishing the last bit in his glass. Either he was thirsty or nervous.

Honestly, she figured it was nervousness.

"What did you do?" he finally asked. "You hacked the system and practically rewrote it to where you could walk around freely and not break the connection. I didn't even think something like that was possible but there you were destroying Breck's BuCUE on the outside yet you were still inside the simulation. The thing was moving and still you managed to snip a few wires and render him useless. Damn."

"Well, I'm glad you're impressed, sir," Eclipse muttered. "Do you think the Strike pilot is still in the running after seeing all of that?"

"You had a loaded gun pointed at a comrade's forehead and didn't even hesitate to pull the trigger. That kid couldn't even aim a gun let alone fire one." The commander just shook his head and went to the table to fill another glass. "So, can you do that whenever you want?"

"No."

"Are you able to do all of that—what you just did, I mean—now, or only when you're Berserk?"

"I don't know."

"How long are you like that? Can it last hours or even days?"

"It varies."

"How're you at—"

"Sir," Eclipse interrupted, rubbing her aching neck and forehead. He was like a four-year-old at Christmas. Hopefully, she wasn't the Barbie doll he wanted to behead and dissect. "Please, you know as much as I do and, frankly, I'm a bit unnerved by your enthusiasm. Here I thought you'd be different. Such a disappointment."

"I'm sorry," he sighed, picking out a comfortable spot on the couch across from her. "You have to understand, though, I needed to know what you could do. I'm a man of strategies, and your… unusual talent was a huge mystery to me. It was a risk I couldn't afford."

"Even though you didn't believe I existed?" she asked.

"You have capabilities, Eclipse, and maybe even enough to send the Strike running. I had to know."

"Yes, I understand, sir," she replied routinely and looked at the floor. A part of her had hoped he didn't care about that other half and judging by their conversation that morning, her hope had been well-placed. Lately, she had been feeling like an alien on display for a crowd of tourists with the only thing missing being a chain around her neck. Everywhere she was being judged—whether it be on how well she performed in battle, or how fast she could repair a mobile suit—and people's fascination with her had become redundant. Now, to add to the list, was the other assassin and fellow Berserker, Namarra Legund. I wonder if the same thing happens to her, she mused, finally grabbing her mug and taking a sip. Pity party, stage right.

"Obviously, I upset you."

"It's not something I'm proud of, sir."

"Why not? Don't you have the power to protect both your friends and yourself? Survival, after all, is the one thing soldiers cling to in war; you just have a heightened sense of it."

"Yeah, heightened edging on sadistic. No, sir, I don't want it."

"Funny, I don't think you would've snapped like that if you didn't. You were pretty offended when I said you weren't good enough to be considered a Berserker."

"I never seem to have a say in how that part of me reacts. Quite irritating, actually. You try being in my shoes for a day then tell me whether or not you like visualizing ripping the head off of other people."

"That happens?"

"I exaggerated a little, but close enough."

The commander just sighed. Obviously, she wasn't going to give up any information and was going to frustrate him in the process. Seeing as he didn't feel like getting into such a conversation, he let it go. "I've received word your other two teammates will be arriving in a few days."

"Is that a good thing, sir?" Eclipse asked, noting the sour look etched on his face. He tried to hide it with his mug, but it wasn't that simple.

"Well, to be honest, I've been trying to keep them at Gibraltar. We're strictly a BuCUE and land-based suits kind of team. Not to mention the pilots have had very little training in the desert."

"Well, you've taught me a lot. Why can't you do that for them?"

Waltfeld seemed to think on the prospect, but started shaking his head before long. "You didn't have a suit, so a BuCUE was the best choice. These guys are bringing some high-tech monstrosities with enough fire power to waste this place to ashes; in one shot, mind you."

"True, but we've been fighting the Archangel a lot longer than you have. No offense, sir."

"I realize that, but your ways haven't been working. We haven't tried mine yet so I'd like to give them a shot without Creuset's puppets glancing over my shoulder." The redhead blinked at the remark, but didn't say anything aloud. She knew there were plenty of people who respected Commander Le Creuset, but there were bound to be many who abhorred him as well. Given his unique social skills, she wasn't surprised, but wait, wasn't she on his team as well? Eclipse smiled lightly; apparently, Waltfeld trusted her.

At least a little bit considering her outbreak before.

"They are really good pilots, sir, and can only help with your operation."

He sighed, scratching the back of his head in thought. "Yeah, maybe I'll just keep them for back-up fire."

"They're really going to hate that."

"Well, tough. It's about time they learned the world doesn't revolve around them."

Eclipse almost laughed, especially at the serious look on his face. He seemed to like punks as much as she did and egotistical ones were even worse. If she hadn't bonded so well with them in Gibraltar, she may have been happy with their meager deployment. However, at the moment she couldn't help but feel sorry for her comrades. Maybe she'd have to teach them a thing or two as soon as they arrived.

"Now, as for your training," Waltfeld began, "I think you deserve a break."

"A break?"

"Yes, but there'll be some rules. Either Aisha, DaCosta, or I have to be with you at all times."

"And why is that?" He just stared back, offering no words, but none were needed since his face said everything for him. Maybe he didn't trust her after all. Pursing her lips, the redhead clenched her glass and stood up, throwing the mug on the floor with the same motion. "You have got to be kidding me!"

"I'm sorry, but you need to see things from my position. You almost killed Breck today."

"Because you provoked me!"

"And that's enough to make you shoot your training partner?"

"You don't know—"

"You're right and neither do you," Waltfeld countered. "We know nothing about this and unlike other commanders, I do give a damn. You are to be accompanied at all times and that's that."

A part of her wanted to scream and rant—throw a tantrum like she was four years old again—but her military training took over, reminding her she was both a soldier and older than a toddler. Sitting back down, she stared at the floor and the broken glass scattered there.

Perhaps things were never meant to change.


Eclipse gulped down the pain as Aisha applied some more Aloe Vera to the upper part of her back, silently cursing Waltfeld for ordering the two women to grab some fruit in the city. "I told you to wear sunscreen."

"No, you didn't," the redhead countered, biting her lip when the pilot pushed down harder. "You just happened to bring it up off-handedly when we were walking back. By that time I had already de-evolved to a lobster."

"I'm sorry, I forgot you aren't used to all this sun. You blend in so well, I was sure you'd been here for at least six months."

"Try six days—ow—actually not even that—damnit!"

"Hold still. You're a pansy, y'know that?"

"Just because you enjoy pushing extremely hard doesn't make me a wimp. You're just vindictive."

"Hey now, that's not something I want to hear said about the love of my life," the commander commented, walking into the room. "I came to tell you, you're two teammates have arrived."

"Huh, really?" Eclipse asked. It was the best news she had heard in days. Ever since her talk with Waltfeld three nights ago, she had been sent out on errands galore; coffee, fruit, vegetables, toiletries, and even bug spray once. She was barred access to the training facilities and the only time she was allowed to touch a BuCUE was if some mechanics needed an extra hand. Honestly, her stay there had been downright dull. Waltfeld, DaCosta, and especially Aisha seemed to take a liking to her, but that affection had a tendency to be hazardous to her health.

Hence the sunburn.

"Wow, you look excited; care to lend me some? I really don't want them here."

"Now, Andy, there's no need to be rude," the female pilot scolded, setting down the Aloe Vera and grabbing a brush on the desk. The redhead had stopped struggling a while ago. Aisha enjoyed pampering people and since brushing her hair was the tamest thing she could do, there was no point in arguing. Eclipse wondered if the commander picked up on her antics. Obviously, her maternal gene was kicking in—feeling obligated to take care of the younger pilot and all—but the question was, what did Waltfeld think about the whole thing? Was that the reason he had an engagement ring hiding in DaCosta's sock and underwear drawer?

"Yes, yes, I'll give them a grand introduction and then make Eclipse give them the tour. How's that sound?"

The redhead shrugged. As long as she didn't have to go back outside—or get more coffee—she'd be fine and seeing how Dearka and Yzak had been fairing didn't seem like a boring time.

"Good, then put on your uniform and let's get this over with."

Out of habit, Eclipse saluted and was about to run out of the room until Aisha—with a firm grip on her shoulder—clipped her bangs to the side with a bobby pin. "There, now go." The redhead was out the door within seconds.

"You seem to have taken a liking to her," Waltfeld mused.

"Well, she's one of the few here who can handle your wit and then give it back ten-fold. I admire people like that. Besides, you like her too."

"She's interesting, I'll give ya that. Can be a little too quiet at times for my taste, but she's definitely reliable. Hey, that reminds me, whatever happened to Rika? I thought she was supposed to be your little puppet for a while."

"Ever since you sent her on that recon mission she's been under your control, or have you forgotten?"

"Oh yeah. So, I take one of yours and you take one of mine?"

"Sounds about right."

The commander sighed and scratched the back of his head, a light smile dancing on his lips. He could never be mad at her. "Anyway, are you going to join us?"

"Nah."

"Aw, c'mon. Who am I without my precious co-pilot?"

"The commander of the Lesseps, now get going. DaCosta and Eclipse will keep you out of trouble and I have other—don't you dare make that face at me, Andrew Waltfeld," she threatened, pointing a finger at his precious puppy-dog eyes and quivering lip. "The last time I fell for that was when we went on our first official date and I've regretted it ever since."

"Ouch, that stings."

"Good."

They both smiled then, the commander walking over and pecking a few kisses on her cheeks and nose before leaving the room.


"What are we doing in this awful place?" Dearka moaned, shielding his eyes from the blowing sand. Yzak stood behind him doing the same thing with nothing more than a scowl on his face. He didn't like being there as much as the Buster pilot, and the blasted wind was making things worse. Good thing their spacesuits were breathable otherwise they'd be complaining about that as well.

"They say you can't really appreciate the desert until you've lived here," the commander said, coming up to the stranded redcoats with DaCosta and Eclipse at his back. "I'm Andy Waltfeld, the commanding officer here."

"Yzak Joule, of the Le Creuset Team," the Duel pilot said, saluting afterward.

"Dearka Elsman, also of the Le Creuset Team." He saluted as well, blinking absently when he saw the redhead in the background.

"It must've been tough getting down here. We appreciate you coming," Waltfeld said as they all saluted once more.

Yeah right, Eclipse thought, but kept her face blank. The commander's dislike of the two didn't come from any personal gripes, more like he didn't have a use for them in battle. When put that way, the redhead couldn't get angry.

"Thank you, sir," Yzak said.

Waltfeld smiled—a little too devilishly—as his eyes rested on the pilot's nasty cut. "When one doesn't have a bad scar removed, some might think it's a symbol of your… commitment." Yzak just looked down, but the commander pressed. "Or, since you turned your head away, maybe it's a symbol of… your humiliation?"

Eclipse shifted uneasily, eyeing Dearka. She hoped he wasn't going to jump Waltfeld in his friend's defense and especially since this was a typical Desert Tiger greeting. Tear them down then build them back up slowly.

"Why don't you just tell us where the 'Legged Ship' is," Yzak muttered.

Sighing, the commander walked a little closer to the Duel in order to size the thing up. He couldn't help but wonder how powerful it really was. "Currently, it's at the resistance base approximately 180 kilometers southeast from here. We sent out a reconnaissance drone; you wanna see the pictures?" Neither of them replied, causing another smirk to cross his lips. Turning back to the mobile suits, he did another evaluation. Yup, I see they're the same type of machines as the other one.

"And speaking of the Alliance's mobile suit," Dearka chimed in, "commander, what information can you give us about your engagement with it?"

"Yeah, well," Waltfeld chuckled. "We did as well as the Le Creuset team."

And that obviously didn't go well, Eclipse thought, absently watching the whole scene. She hoped her belief in the two redcoats wasn't misplaced and noticing the look in the commander's eyes, he was counting on them as well, even if it was only slightly. They needed as much help as they could get and no matter how much—or how little—training Dearka and Yzak had had in earth's gravity, it was appreciated.

"Oh, Eclipse," DaCosta said, turning to the redhead as soon as the other three began walking towards the base. "This arrived earlier today." He handed her a letter and left so she could enjoy the contents in private. Silently thanking him for being so courteous, she pulled out the slip of paper and read:

I knew you'd be somewhere around here and, hopefully, this got to you without a huge fuss. If there's one thing I hate, it's complications. That is if I don't cause them myself, of course. Anyway, I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other rather soon so I thought I'd drop you a line and make sure you haven't forgotten about little 'ole me. Be sure you're keeping a sharp eye on SIN-ED because with the chain cut, the guard dog's on the loose and there's a lot of bones around to be gnawing on.

Your fellow genetic mutant,

Bob

"So, Namarra, when things get slow with SIN-ED you decide to bug me, is that it?" the redhead joked and put the letter back into the envelope before chasing after the others. It was going to be an interesting couple of days.


A/N: Hey guys, new chapter. I had every intention of having this out earlier--before I went camping--but that never happened and I had a nice spree as soon as I came home to finish this off. So, I guess it all worked out in the end. I've already started on the next one and will hopefully get that up within the next few weeks. It's looking a tad iffy on my whole finishing this by the end of the summer idea, but I'm still gonna try. Good thing is, I'm officially on DVD 5 of Gundam SEED! Woot! Halfway through! Too bad this is when I have to slow everything down... Well, we'll see where it takes us I guess.

If you haven't noticed, I changed the rating back to Teen. Yeah, that didn't last long, did it? Well, here's my reasoning: yes, this story is very bloody and, even though the language might not be as bad as others out there, it's only going to get worse as the story goes on. Aside from all that, I'll try to keep it to a minimum so I can have it in this slot. It reaches a wider audience here and targets the same age group (ish) the Anime was intended to. Well, there's my ranting so hopefully it's acceptable.

Let me know if I did Andrew Waltfeld justice. Sometimes I felt as if I didn't do him "devious" enough and other times I thought I made him too much of a flake. Please let me know what you think. He's one of my favorite characters, but I may have overdone it. Thanks!

Namarra will be coming in a lot more now. I know a lot of you mentioned how interested you were in her character. That's good to know! Eclipse and Namarra are a hoot together--you'll probably find out within the next few chapters--and hopefully I'll make her up to your expectations. I'm so glad you all liked her!

Also, Cagalli's role in Eclipse's life will be delved into more later on as well. I'm sure all of you've noticed, I like to keep some things in the dark instead of sharing it all outright. That could be a good thing or a bad one and I'm working on not having you guys guessing too much, but some things are meant to be explained later on.

Oh, one last shout out to my Betas CSSStravag and Death-Scimitar. Let's just say this chapter would've sucked without their help. :) Thanks guys!


Gripes

Asmus and CSSStravag: Thanks for pointing out the battle sequence. I'm working on keeping them less confusing so your comments on the matter are always appreciated. You know I don't mind people tearing this apart--actually I prefer it--so keep it coming. Let me know if I did things better in this chapter.


Well, that seems to be all for this chapter. Thanks for all the reviews and readings, guys, and I'll see you in the next installment!

Over and out. (Wow, I've gotten into the habit of saying this haven't I?)

Strata