While Wufei went home in defeat and Treize slept the sleep of the well contented, Trowa Barton sat in the middle of nowhere and made tacos.
At least, that's what they looked like; they were actually large amounts of plastique folded around an inflammatory jelly, guaranteeing further results than explosives alone possibly could. After all, a bomb would simply blow up; these would blow up and then burn through anything the jelly happened to touch. A vicious weapon, and Trowa enjoyed making them; oddly enough, it calmed him.
The plan was to put put these small bombs in strategic points around the specifically chosen mobile suite factory to take out the power for most of the compound. Without power, they'd be slower to react and mobilize their defensive forces; if all went well, the entire base would fall to the bullets of Heavyarms within twenty four hours of the initial explosion. It really was a perfect plan - but there was one problem: Trowa had received no orders to attack.
It had been two weeks since the pilot known as 01 had attempted to self destruct; as far as he knew, Trowa was the only person aware that pilot 01 was still alive. And since he had received no communiqué from Doktor S, he wasn't entirely sure what to do. It seemed since the entire 01 incident, all the gundam pilots and their missions had scattered to the wind; for half a month, there'd been no word.
Trowa had a choice in front of him; part of him wanted to simply wait, to be patient and see what the good Doktor had in mind. And if that was nothing, well... Trowa had done lots of nothing in the past. It was hardly an issue.
But the other half of his mind seemed to disagree. He had tended to pilot 01 for a couple of weeks now, and dealing with the young man in that condition had made him think. Heero had done what they had all - presumably - been told to do if the situation became critical; he had sacrificed himself and his gundam for the sake of the colonies, without any noticeable hesitation. Thinking about this, Trowa had searched himself - and had been surprised to discover that he did not have the resolve to do the same.
He had discovered that he, Trowa Barton, did not want to die.
So few actual desires crossed his mind that this one surprised him; it surprised him more when he realized that the damaged, unconscious boy presently in his care believed more in the Cause than he did. Or at least, so it seemed from appearances.
At any rate, it gave him a lot to think about; about his future actions, about his motives and his desire... and what he was going to do with the gundam if no orders ever came to him again. It would have to be something to make his point, to harm OZ - and to prove his loyalty to the colonies, as pilot 01 had. Something that might just involve self destructing.
It was at that moment, however, that the changes Wufei had unconsciously affected in this timeline reached Trowa like ripples on the water. Before, Trowa had received no new orders, had nursed Heero to health, and then had gone on to almost self destruct in the process of attacking a battalion of OZ pleasure-goers who had attended his circus.
This time, however, new orders came through, and Trowa's fate was altered.
The mission was very simple: find and destroy the remains of gundam 02 - the Deathscythe.
Setting up Heero so the young man could continue to recover in his absence, Trowa prepared Heavyarms and headed out to his next mission.
Several hours before Trowa Barton received his orders and blissfully unaware that Une was coming for him, Duo Maxwell relaxed on good, Arabian sand and took a breather.
It had been two weeks since Heero had bought it; two weeks since their biggest and best battle to date had died in effigy because the bastards who ran OZ had no trouble threatening innocent colony members. Two weeks of total, paranoid, stagnant inactivity during which there were no orders, no battles, and nothing at all to do but stare at the wall.
Duo was beginning to think that if Professor G didn't come up with something for him soon, he was just going to have to make up an order himself.
God only knew how it was that Quatre was managing to handle this. The Maganacs were everywhere and both pilots' needs WERE being met, yes - but Duo himself was beginning to feel a definite need for alone-time, time without anybody who wore a fez. There were too many people hovering at every moment, and while it was true that their direct worship was apparently reserved for Quatre the Angelic, Duo the Friend of Quatre was getting his own share.
He needed a break. So much so that he had taken his newly-repaired Deathscythe and headed off for an evening, looking for the lonliest spot of desert he could find, and there had set up camp.
The first hour or two after that were just great. He'd made a little fire, had a little dinner; refused to do any kind of serious thinking, talked to Deathscythe about what he would do when the war was over, and then taken a little nap. Unfortunately, however, that was when the nightmare began.
Heero
Heero, calmly stepping out of gundam 01 with a kind of mad joy on his face
Triumphant, joyful madness
And fully knowing what he was doing, know what he was facing
What the colonies were facing
Pushing the button that would send him into death.
"Suicides go to hell," sister Helen explained - and then Duo woke up with a start.
It took Duo a moment to register where he was; for a moment, it had felt like he was back in Maxwell parish orphanage, in Sunday School and Mass, learning about the rules of the catechism - only with pilot 01 (a.k.a. one Heero Yuy) as the example of someone who got to skip Purgatory and instead went straight to hell.
Not even a chance on collecting the two hundred dollars, baby.
"Gaah, but he did it for a good CAUSE!" Duo shouted at the air, taking some catharsis in the way the echoes bounced off the rocks around him. "Doesn't that MATTER to you? Huh?" No answer came; he shivered and hugged his knees, trying to snap out of the shakes the dream had given him. Duo had been raised quasi-Catholic - that is, in a Catholic organization - but honestly, he himself had never believed the tenants.
"But how can you believe in a God you can't see?"
Soft laughter around him, warm smiles and amused faces. Duo was six, an orphan, only just taken in off the streets, and the nuns were asking him questions for the sake of the visiting prospective parents in the room. Duo had good very prospects indeed - he was bright eyed, loquacious, intelligent and funny; it didn't hurt that he was cute as a button, either.
"That's what faith is for, Duo," explained Sister Helen, the nice one. One of the women behind her giggled and whispered something about cherubic faces, but Duo ignored that; he was too busy working through Sister Helen's statement.
He thought for a moment, little mouth pursed into a pout. "Well... I don't like that. I think I'll believe in the god of death, instead. After all, I see death all around me, so I KNOW he must be real! Besides, if there really WERE a God, then He'd stop the war, and He hasn't - so He must not exist." And, pleased with his logic, he had smiled at all those present.
It had been slightly beyond him to understand why no one smiled back - why, in fact, some of the prospective parents that were there that day had looked uncomfortable and gone on to interview some other child. It had hurt him; enough that he'd begun to wonder if there were something wrong... with HIM.
And then Father Maxwell had hugged him, promising that everything would be all right - and for a while... it was.
"Yeah," Duo said bitterly to himself, some nine years later and long since orphaned more than once. He was silent for a moment, remembering. It had been a group of rebels against the Earth-Sphere Alliance who had done it; who had massacred the church because its followers had dared to preach peace in a time of war, killing everyone there except for him - because he'd tried to do just what they wanted.
They wanted a mobile suit; so Duo had gone to steal one for them.
Duo had inordinate skills as a pickpocket; thief and minor entrepreneur, he'd found it ridiculously easy to sneak into an Alliance base and successfully steal a Taurus unit. Returning later that day in a large truck he'd also stolen, Duo had blindly believed that the rebel leader would keep his promise; that if he - Duo - brought them a mobile suit, they'd leave the Maxwell parish people alone.
That had not been the case. Duo had learned firsthand the pain that comes through lying as Sister Helen - the only survivor - died in his arms.
Now, nine years later, Duo reflected on all these things and wondered what - if anything - he had in common with Heero Yuy.
"What kind of guy were you, Heero Yuy?" he asked of nobody. "What kind of life did you have? Was it so bad that you didn't hesitate to trade it for a gravestone?" There was something amazing in the way pilot 01 had gone about all his missions with the utmost devotion - and yet thrown all of it and his life away the moment that weirdo with the hook-hand had hinted that he should.
Duo felt quite sure he would not have been ready to do that. So... did that mean he wasn't as good a gundam pilot?
Duo threw a rock over the side of the cliff, listening to the cracking sound of its echoed fall deep in the canyon and pondering. Should he be like Heero? Just... blow himself up for the sake of the cause?
Part of him rather thought that would only serve to make him useless for any FUTURE events; but then, it had always been in Duo's nature to question. No... it would have to be something pretty desperate to make Duo Maxwell be so willing to die. Then again, he'd seen Heero on a day-to-day basis for a while there; the kid didn't even know how to smile. He never had any fun, never tried to be normal. Maybe he'd been so willing to die... because he'd never really lived.
THERE was a thought. Unsure, but enjoying the challenge, Duo continued to think about it, shifting his position from time to time, letting the night drag over him, and rubbing his arms to keep them from getting too cold. Then, around 2 am, a noise disturbed him.
Looking up sharply and scrambling to his feet, Duo concentrated on the night's silence. Was somebody coming? Couldn't really let Deathscythe be seen if somebody WAS, but nobody was supposed to be OUT here....
A deep rumbling vibration tickled the bottoms of Duo's feet; then a large, cracking sound of splitting rock came, Duo knew: that was the sound and feel of many mobile suits coming this way, or he was a seamstress.
"Shit!" he said under his breath, and turned to start sprinting toward Deathscythe. Why he had seen fit to flop on the ground so far from the gundam NOW was incomprehensible; it had seemed like a good idea at the time....
The distinct sound of something being fired at him reached his ears, and Duo automatically ducked, hoping their aim was worse than his was. And then whatever had been fired landed on Deathscythe, and the night's stillness was shattered completely as if it had never existed.
From the point of impact, electricity suddenly spidered throughout the machine, frying every circuit and shorting every connective panel in a retina-burning display of power. Duo had almost reached the gundam when this happened, and was - by luck or fate - thrown from Deathscythe by the initial charge. Skidding at least fifteen feet through the sand and gravel, Duo grimaced and clutched at his burned skin and trying not to cry out as he helplessly watched as Deathscythe died.
Three more of those objects came flying overhead, and each one found its mark. The gundam's death-thralls grew worse; then its main computer malfunctioned, and suddenly it began firing off its missiles.
Oh, hell - killed by my own Gundam....
That thought spurred Duo back to reality in spite of the numbness and pain, and he somehow he scrambled to his feet and started moving. He would have time to think about what, who, when, where, and how later - for now, survival took precedent, that meant he had to get out of there. Focus, Duo, FOCUS, he warned himself sternly, and ran.
Vaguely grateful for the fact that the weaponry being shot off was superheating the air and therefore making it impossible to track him via heat sensors, Duo stumbled directly toward the mobile dolls in the shadows, knowing they'd never expect him to do such a thing and hoping that nobody was watching. He might - might - just get away.
After all - only a mad man would run toward the enemy.
Treize studied Lady Une in his private monitors, watching her as she watched the attack. He had given Une permission to use the nets a few minutes after Wufei had left; at first it had not seemed like a very sound idea, but now - well, for some reason, he felt more daring.
His eyes expertly glanced over the Gundam's specs scrolling across his screen. Oh, that was definitely 02 - "was," of course, being the operative word - being fried down there, and that meant that the pilot was the one who called himself the "god of death." Interesting.
He smiled softly as Une barked orders into her radio, sending units hither, thither and yon in an effort to cordon off the area. Ah, the pilot was never going to be that easy to catch... but Une simply didn't understand that concept. It would have been no challenge at all if he were, and such an unchallenging person would NEVER have been picked to pilot a Gundam. Privately, Treize wondered if this "deathgod" were as unusual as the other pilot he'd spoken with this evening; perhaps the boy could be captured and then he'd find out. Amused at the idea, he rooted for the pilot to survive and watched the fireworks.
And then, Une's monitor went blank. Leaning forward with one fist clenched and the other pointing as if administering doom via fingertip, she shouted orders for satellite monitors and wavelength adjustment, trying to get the sensors back online. It seemed that the nets had been TOO successful; the gundam's deaththroes had shorted out some of the monitoring equipment on the nearby mobile suits.
In a few moments, she got her way; the picture cleared -
There was no sign of Duo.
There was a lot of glass where the sand had melted; a husk - still twitching - of the Gundam with OZ's new weaponry on it; and several lost-looking mobile suits - but no pilot. Well, the soldiers had their orders; they reorganized and searched the area.
There was no sign of the pilot alive or dead.
No prisoner.
No body.
In his quarters, Treize laughed softly and turned the monitor off, shaking his head. He guessed where the pilot would be - where he himself would have gone, in that situation - and wondered how long it would take Une to figure it out.
If she figured it out.
Ah... Lady, he thought one more time, pursing his lips and rising to go to bed. Perhaps you do not have so much farther to go. Perhaps, for you... you have already arrived.
Dismissing such things as no longer relevant and putting away the missing-pilot mystery as already solved in his head, Treize Kushrenada went to bed and thought about it no more.
Meanwhile, on the field, the soldiers were growing tired of searching for a pilot who had most likely been cooked to ash; it seemed a waste of time and equipment. "All right guys, this is a done deal," said the captain of the mobile suit troops, stifling a yawn. "There's no pilot here out here - sound off, and do it quick so we can all go home to bed. Alpha leader one, copy. All systems go," he said, and waited for response.
"Alpha one, copy. All systems go."
"Alpha two copy. All systems go."
"Beta leader one, copy. All systems go."
One by one, all the soldiers sounded off, confirming the state of their mobile suits before retreating to the base in Bejing. It was definitely time to call it a day.
No one noticed the suit, farthest in the field, that sounded off - and then flew in the opposite direction.
"Gamma 2, copy. All systems go," Duo said, mimicking the British accent the former pilot of the suit had had; since said pilot was dead, he didn't mind the imitation. Of course, it helped that Duo's native language was English - American, really, but it was a good sight closer than Japanese. He spared a glance at the soldier stiffening at his feet, head at that uncomfortable angle that heads only managed when the neck attached to them was broken. It served the soldier right; he hadn't properly latched his port-door shut, which was a huge tactical error - one that he would obviously never make again.
Duo choked once, not quite allowing himself to laugh as he piloted the suit to the west; he was determined to get someplace safe, dump this thing, and then and steal a car. His Deathscythe; it would have almost been easier if they'd gotten HIM.
Duo shook his head hard, ignoring the pain that flared down his back when he did so. STOP it, Maxwell, he thought, trying to copy Sister Helen's tone of voice. Hysterics now would do no good; Professor G could build him another one, and then he'd have his Deathscythe back and all would be well. There was nothing to be upset about. Nothing at all. For now, he'd just... well....
Duo mentally ran down his list of injuries; second degree burns, at least two broken ribs, his left arm wasn't working right... this was bad, very bad. He didn't dare go back toward Quatre; the last thing he wanted to do was give away that position of secrecy. Okay... okay. no problem. He'd head toward the ocean - hit another continent, THAT could work - deal with his wounds, find a way to warn Quatre, and then see about getting a new Deathscythe. Nooooooo problem. He could handle it.
With this in mind and the weight in his heart heavier than it had ever been, he flew toward his goal, determined to survive and honestly not aware that he was crying.