*********Learning To live Again…*********

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Disclaimer: I own nil. Told you once; here it is again. Bansai and Sunrise are the bunch.

WARNINGS—6x9, 1xR, 2xH, 13x11, possibly hints of 3x4, but the relationships other than 6x9 are pretty much just insinuations. You won't see /anyone/ kiss. So there definitely won't be anything stronger than kisses. Oh, also there'll be fair amounts of sarcasm, and perhaps sappiness, and a fair amount of drama. /And/ the occasional realistic gory details, as I /am/ in a branch of medical grad school!

Flames will be ignored. In fact, lots of comments will be. But they might be read first.

Synopsis: It's after the destruction of Libra, answering questions left in the dark between the TV series and Endless Waltz, focusing on what happened to Zechs, but with a fair bit on the rest, too. Viewpoints thus change throughout the tale, but it's 3rd person. Yeah, it's been done. But I don't care. The other versions still left me with lots of questions, so here's my version. If /you/ have questions of your own that you want answered by this, you never know—I /might/ be willing. ;) I don't mind /good/ questions… A few details of the show might have been forgotten by me—can't help it, as my mind is no steel trap. You can contact me about it if you like, but don't expect much, at least not immediately.

This chapter title's words are from a song ("Invincible") by Pat Benetar. Chapter one was "In The End" by Linkin Park. Seemed fitting. Other songs might get used as titles later on—I haven't decided yet.

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---Chapter 2---

---With The Power Of Conviction…---



---Christmas Day, AC 196---

By the way, remember that short prayer in the middle of the inferno?

It wasn't answered.

It just thought it was.

Something crackled, fizzling and hissing like a frustrated cat holding a temper tantrum. It… tickled, like whiskers, but unpleasantly, painfully so, more like strong static shock… It was the first sensation he knew. It wasn't supposed to be there. Nothing was supposed to be there.

It hurt like hell. It burned, it cut, it had buried itself deep into bone and danced over his nerves like expert fingers on a piano keyboard, singing a song of agony. He wanted to scream, cry, writhe, and beg at the same time, but even he wasn't that good at multi-tasking. And if anyone was, they weren't alive anymore to brag about it, or else couldn't be heard.

So in the darkness, the silence of space, a man simply screamed a wordless, soundless howl of despair, failure, dismay, and pain.

Or tried to. He had no voice left, so not even an embarrassing squeak could be formed. The very attempt to take a deep breath for such a scream hurt too much to succeed at even that little. And his bloodied lips could just form the outline of the word "No!"

//Nooooo! You can't hate me this much! What kind of a God are you? You're supposed to be merciful! I should be dead!//

Weary eyes cracked open, eyelids weighed down more by despair than weakness, and unhappy icy eyes dampened as they focused on twisted metal and shattered glass, lit by the sparking of ragged wires. They brought to mind the image of a Christmas tree, the twisted and torn metal as deceptively soft as spiky pine branches, "ornaments" of shattered glass scattered all over, with cascades of threatening sparks ironically sparkling like winking lights… With that analogy came a trickle of memories of faint, distant past Christmases, happier times. Nostalgia.

//Illusions, delusions. If you're going to die, Zechs, you could die on better thoughts than foolish comparisons,// he growled at himself. //Focus…//

//Why?//

He blinked slowly at that realization. Why indeed. Going slowly insane wouldn't do any more than damage his dignity. As if that mattered out here… Who would see? Who would care? He was alone.

//I'm to die alone…//

//Except for you, Epyon. But we monsters should stick together, hm?// A sarcastic thought.

The sparks slowly fizzled out, blinking out of existence, leaving a thick blackness in which he may as well have been blind. Without them or the screens or interior lights remaining, eyesight was pointless. And with the loss of the sparks, so too did the tingling, tickling, painful static feeling ease. A bit more feeling returned to his limbs… So too returned a bit more solid-feeling agony. He hadn't known a human being could ache so much.

//I didn't know /I/ could ache so much…//

//Please… Make it stop, Epyon. I'm tired…// The words felt childish, yet in a way, he felt like he was six again. Already tired of the blood, even back then…

The air had a metallic tang to it. Zechs wasn't sure if it was Epyon's half-melted state, or his own blood floating about in zero-G that created it. It didn't matter much to him, to tell the truth, except that his throat felt so dry, and that metallic taste wasn't helping any. It took effort to lick bloody, dry lips, but the effort was futile—it changed nothing. The awful taste remained, as did his steadily increasing thirst.

//Note to self—for your next incarnation, be sure to have water available at the time of your next death.//

//And while you're at it, some aspirin. Or better yet, ether so you could just put yourself to sleep.//

A laugh struggled to escape him—a sad, tired, dead laugh—but all he could manage was a rough, bloody cough that confirmed the metallic taste's origin and dampened his mouth. That soothed his thirst slightly, for now. A minor respite. It would return, he knew. Nothing existed to stop it, not here…

//Noin would have been amused if I said that to her right now… Aspirin and a glass of water next time. I am a fool… A soon-to-be-dead fool, but all fools die young, do they not?//

His eyes closed, not that it made any difference in the smothering blackness. Was it the visual darkness that was beginning to weigh him down, or the shadow hesitantly creeping over his consciousness? For some reason, he felt so heavy right now, the worst of the weight in his chest, choking his heart…

//I'm sorry, Noin…//

//I was cursed from the start… Before you knew me… We weren't meant to be…//

//You deserve better… You'll find better… I couldn't tell you—I tried to show you that…//

//It wasn't meant to be… I wasn't meant to be happy.//

//I didn't mean to…// The thought trailed, breaking, unfinished. Those that followed didn't even fight for coherent ends.

//I'm sorry…//

//I wish…//

After all, it was a futile battle.

And he was tired of fighting.

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Heero glared at the opening hangar doors impatiently, as if blaming them for all the wreckage that floated just outside their protection. Floating debris cluttered space, sparkling here or there as sunlight teased them, pretending they were pretty. Some of it provided its own light—sparks. Bits of defeated mobile suits: Virgos, Leos, hints of Tauruses, perhaps the Tallgeese II scattered in bits among them. Remains of the Peacemillion. Wandering chunks of Barge, maybe. The blasted remains of Libra. Maybe the Epyon.

That last one did worry him. Not just the pilot of it. He couldn't be certain Zechs, even if he lived, was done fighting. He couldn't take the chance. He wasn't about to analyze whether he actually cared enough about the man (or Relena) to be doing this, or if he just wanted questions answered—time was too short. He /definitely/ couldn't let someone else get to the remains before him, though.

//There's too much that can be done with the Epyon's remains. Or even Zechs's. The false rumor of his survival could rally White Fang, after all… They could make a martyr of him.//

Dark blue eyes narrowed almost angrily, and he punched for Zero to blast out as soon as the doors had opened enough to scrape by. Time was precious.

//My feelings tell me I have to find him fast, if I'm to bother at all. I don't know why. But they haven't failed me yet.//

"Sheesh, Heero, at least save the remaining paint on your machine," a familiar voice commented on the com, as a shadow of another machine chased after Zero.

Duo. He, too, had decided his Gundam was best for this mission. One never knew what trouble they might encounter. Like a regrouped White Fang after the same goal. Or anyone who wanted a rallying point for a new war. Or the means for mass destruction, the secrets of a machine of madness…

"We're running out of time," Heero commented sharply, that intuition goading him like a whip. //Hurry, hurry, hurry, or don't bother at all!// it told him.

"We're probably the only ones looking for anything out here, Heero," reassured Deathscythe's pilot. "'Cept maybe Lady Une."

Gritting his teeth to resist the urge to fidget, Heero swept Wing Zero in an elegant arc for the heart of the metallic nebula of debris that remained of Libra. "I follow my feelings, Duo… And they're telling me we have little time. We don't dare fail."

//We don't…// he mused, an image of aqua eyes sorrowfully gazing at folded hands coming to mind. The eyes of a pacifist. The eyes of a fighter. Oh, the kinship was there, though she didn't know it. The battles were simply of a different sort.

//Zechs probably knew that… The weapons were simply different. He was an expert at his. She is an expert at hers.//

//I am an expert at mine. //

//Duo had damn better be an expert at /his/! Hunting needles from haystacks is NOT mine!//

It was then that Heero realized that the usually-chatty Duo hadn't replied, yet was still with him. Now /that/ was a first.

//Spoke too soon. Damn it, Yuy, you /know/ better—//

//I'm really starting to hate Christmas.//

"It feels almost eerie out here," Duo'd begun saying, his voice quietly reverent. "Like walking through a graveyard… But then, it is one… Rest in peace, guys. You've earned it, bought it for us."

Heero didn't answer. Now that Duo had mentioned it, he could feel it, too. The sad silence of space. As if something was looking at humanity's worst battlefield with tears in its eyes for the lost ones, the lost dreams, the echoing pain that remained among the living… the price of peace. Peace rested here, indeed, but it was the eternal kind, and begged to finally be left alone to its eternal rest. Rest in peace, indeed. It gave him the faint sense of trespassing.

Wing Zero's pilot shoved down the urge to say "I'm sorry," and pulled his Gundam to an abrupt halt right in the center of the firestorm that had brought about Libra's end.

//"I'm sorry…"//

A frown touched Heero's face as he recalled those words suddenly. Words he'd heard right here. An apology.

An unfinished apology.

It was supposed to be, "I'm sorry… but it had to be done."

Heero's frown faded, and he sighed softly. //I'm sorry, too. We all had roles to play. We all had to finish them,// he offered in silent apology to that sad presence over space. //It's time to pick up the pieces… But with those pieces… perhaps we can re-assemble a few lives that deserve another chance?//

"The core was here." An arm of Zero moved to indicate a position to its right. "The Epyon was here."

Duo's image appeared on the screen, tongue in cheek as he punched calculations into his machine. "Okay… And?"

///And?/ What else does he want from me? I want to know where it is! That's what I dragged him out here for, after all!// Heero frowned slowly at his fellow Gundam pilot. "You were a salvager before. You can calculate roughly where it is."

And Duo laughed. To Heero's consternation, Deathscythe's pilot seemed to guess his agitation—and enjoy it. "Yeah, I can, but it'd be faster if I'd a clue how far it pushed you afterwards, too! It'd narrow our search- circle a bit, cut back on time... And /you're/ the one saying we're low on that."

Resisting the urge to grind his teeth, Heero looked about the drifting debris briefly, hunting… There, that piece was familiar. "As far as that girder sticking out, 15 degrees Earthward…" A visual check by Zero confirmed the distance, and he sent it over the com-link to Duo.

As Duo set about adding that to his calculations, Heero frowned thoughtfully into space in a literal sense as well as figuratively, gazing at the debris-laden view as thoughts turned inward… to topics Duo would have been amazed to hear.

//Hell, if this keeps up, I'm going to have to re-train myself out of more bad habits. Grinding teeth… Damn, what else will I start doing, at this rate? What will I pick up next? Chewing my fingernails? Eating my hair? Well, at least that one I needn't worry much about—my hair's too short…//

//I /think/ it's too short. Maybe I should check. Or get it trimmed?//

//You know, it /is/ getting a bit long. Better get it cut soon. Hazardous to your vision. I don't want to end up seeing through it like a blind sheepdog… Or looking like Trowa.// Zero's pilot grunted slightly to himself. //Now that's a thought. I wonder how he gets it all to stick together like that. If it works on hair, maybe it's good for gluing other things…//

"Hey, Heero, what do you want our chances of finding it to be?" a voice popped up from a grinning Cheshire-smile in front of him.

//Like gluing a certain pilot's mouths shut? He's /way/ too cheerful for staying up this late…// Heero put that tempting thought on hold. //You need him able to talk right now. And he's not /all/ bad, though you want to strangle him at times for always asking questions and being so damn obvious in a crowd. Be nice.//

//Nice. Okay. Mood accepted.// "Reasonably good. 75 percent at least," he answered stiffly.

Well, while Heero thought that was nice, Duo obviously didn't care much for the tone. The braided pilot sighed. "Hey, man, look, I know you're tired and so am I, but I wanted to know what number you had in mind—after all, going for 100 percent'd take probably too long for your liking… and our fuel. Seventy-five I can do… It'd take a good couple hours to cover that radius, though, even with these babies set on finding gundanium… Sending the data over…"

A side-monitor on Heero's left beeped softly and unscrolled lines of text and a couple nice diagrams, courtesy of Deathscythe. Inwardly, Heero made a face at the coverage area they'd have to go over. Outwardly, he gave in to his feelings and let a resigned expression slide over his features.

//I hope the odds favor us… I wish they were better.//

For once in his life, Heero crossed his fingers.

The action surprised even Heero, but he didn't show it—just looked at his own hand accusingly for taking that unfamiliar position. //Well, as habits go, could be worse. And you never know…//

A slight smile touched his lips.

"Hey, Heero, you okay?" Duo's image seemed to be regarding him with something between worry and confusion.

"Sure," Heero replied, fighting the urge to grin wildly—which would certainly have scared Duo into thinking the Zero system finally got to him.

//Be /nice/,// he reminded himself. //That salvage-plan of Duo's isn't a bad prospect for later. And he can draw all the attention away from you. And admit it—he's become a friend, even if you're not about to admit it to anyone but your inner voices…//

//Now get going! Hurry, hurry, hurry! You're wasting precious time. Sheesh, brooding… /You/ of all people!//

"You take spaceside, I'll start Earthside and go clockwise. Let's go."

As the two Gundams moved off to start searching, Heero cut off the visual to Duo, smile broadening. A quiet laugh echoed in Zero's cockpit.

//You never know…//

//Maybe I'll be lucky?//

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Trowa could stare through anything. It was a habit he'd picked up before he met Heero, and until then, he hadn't realized he'd picked it up. Sometimes he wondered where in the world—or colonies—he could have picked up such a bizarre habit. People seemed to be so disconcerted by it! It made people too uncomfortable for it to be very popular. But… he felt it fit him. So he left it alone, kept it.

Right now, he was considering the far wall as if someone had hidden a Picasso in the paint and he was trying to determine if it was real or fake.

Medical staff on this small resource satellite walked through his gaze, ignoring him. He'd been at it a while, and well, frankly you could only stay uncomfortable for so long before you learn to handle it (or destroy the problem's source, but the latter was out of the question for the medical staff).

One'd think Trowa's mind had dived into a few deep thoughts and not surfaced for air yet…

//It needs a new coat of paint…//

Or… not.

//It really needs a new coat of paint. You can see the drywall through that feeble coat. Who put it up on the walls in this place, Watercolor, Inc.? They definitely didn't get their money's worth…//

//I suppose they haven't time to notice paint, though… Too much going on. The war…//

//The war's over… There's the circus, later, perhaps. Or staying with Quatre until he's feeling better. He seems to need the company of people under the age of 35… Or maybe Noin has some ideas for cleaning things up that could use a hand.//

//Will we go after the survivors? That's a thought. Vindictive, but possible. Not a bad tactical move, to suppress further uprisings of either Earth's forces or White Fang's. Though it might be hard to pick which side to pursue… Perhaps both, if we're to keep this peace.//

//Or perhaps not.// Trowa shifted his position slightly to avoid cramping muscles. //Leaving things alone… might help the peace.//

//Peace…//

//Quatre's safe, at least. This facility's good but small. Only we know he's here… and the Maguanac Corps, of course. It was only fair for me to notify them—they did me a good turn earlier.//

Footsteps… Slowly, Trowa turned his head to look, conserving his remaining energy.

Rashid.

The man looked worn out, but calm and solemn as ever, and took a seat in the empty plastic chair beside Trowa.

The two understood each other pretty well. No words of greeting were needed, no comments on Quatre's condition. They would have said something if something needed to be said. It was a peaceful silence. Comradly.

"Wing Zero and Deathscythe have left the hangar," the older man stated after a moment.

//That's surprising, yet… it isn't. If anything's up, they would respond immediately. But I wonder what they're about.// "Do you know anything about it?" he asked softly, curious what would draw those two away so urgently.

Rashid shook his head negatively, sighing quietly and folding his arms across his chest. "I don't know where they find the energy… Nothing is moving out there, except maybe ghosts."

//Ghosts…// Trowa considered that, gaze returning to the wall in hopes of the blank surface allowing him to write his thoughts on it. //Or they're cleaning something up. I wonder, though… Is it living, or dead? They'll be back, though.//

A slight frown touched his face. //I should be ready, if they do return. One never knows what might follow them back… Like mobile dolls!//

Trowa smoothly glided to his feet, soundless, and turned to go. "They'll be back. I should be ready, just in case. I'll be at the hangar," he notified the older man.

Rashid nodded, dark eyes catching the hint, hearing words unsaid. "The rest re-loaded your Gundam, by the way, as well as our remaining suits… If you need backup, signal Abdul."

//Good man. One step ahead, and ready to guard Quatre if needed. Good man.// Trowa nodded, his green eyes thanking the man silently.

The Arabian nodded again, in acknowledgement of Trowa's unspoken thanks, and turned his gaze back towards the door to Quatre's room. "Everyone else's heading for the colony in the morning. That doctor you introduced me to—Sally—and the other, Noin, I think… And that Dorlain girl, though she says she'll be back once she's seen to a few things."

"Politics," Trowa agreed, nodding again, understanding full well what Relena might be able to do right now. //I'm not surprised Noin's going with her. As for Sally… who knows what she's up to, though I doubt she'll do any of us harm…//

//I wonder what Wufei's up to?//

//Maybe he's still in the hangar,// he decided, moving off to see.

After all, against mobile dolls, backup couldn't hurt.

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Pain. Pain. Pain… It was a vicious drumbeat shaking his subconscious, trying to wake him up, to drag him struggling back to full awareness in order to force him to fully appreciate the strength of its intensity. And so, Zechs's consciousness reluctantly surfaced from the lure of nothingness, kicking and screaming all the way. Well, screaming, anyway. Or rather, whimpering, for his voice couldn't supply any better sound at the moment.

//Please… Make it stop, Epyon… /Please?///

Kicking was not an option. Epyon had a death grip on him and simply refused to loosen it. Harness straps had survived better than the flesh and bone they were meant to protect, their fastenings currently beyond the skill of his weakened hands. Interior pieces of the cockpit that hadn't endured the blast's twisting as kindly as the exterior ones embraced or prodded Zechs mercilessly, leaving little space to squirm, let alone kick.

//I do NOT appreciate this, you bucket of bolts… There's such a thing as being too intimate with your pilot.//

Cracking gluey-feeling eyes open, he discovered that the showers of sparks had returned to add to the décor again—or, at least reveal what décor remained to his light-dependant eyes.

Zechs was in no mood to appreciate the modern art style currently surrounding him and in places engulfing him. He hurt too much to care.

Trying to assess it all was at least a way to distract his mind from the lingering death ahead. For he knew that was his future. What option remained? He hadn't died outright, he wouldn't be rescued, and Epyon's resources were dying—and perhaps his body's were, too.

Pain comes in many "shapes" and "sizes", it can be said, and Zechs had the whole collector's set. Nerve-twinging nauseating, rhythmic sharp tingling, slashing-deep sharp bursts, hollow body-vibrating throbbing, and of course consistent dull ache. Not a single part of his body existed without some urgent injury claims on file for suit against Epyon. Not a single movement could he initiate without hearing those complaints double somewhere, if not everywhere… He learned that fast by trying to shift position slightly in the abused seat.

//I knew I was destined for Hell, but did I HAVE to visit "Living Hell" first? God, either You had it in for me from the beginning… or You have one damn twisted sense of justice.//

It took a few painful breaths before /those/ repercussions faded. But by then, Zechs began focusing on just how he was bound here, to this torment. It wasn't like him to just sit and endure abuse, after all. Escape demanded to be the goal—escape from that painful, stomach-churning tingling that was foremost in keeping him aware and awake.

Identifying it wasn't hard… Low voltage is still voltage, and your nerves know it when they aren't the ones producing it! With it tingling sharply throughout his body, the only reason he wasn't jerking away from it was because he /couldn't/—Epyon wouldn't let him.

//We'll see about that…//

That resolution was more due to sheer stubbornness and boredom than logic. But then, it beat wondering what he would die of first.

//A dying man has to keep himself occupied. I want to die sane, if only to spite what the history texts will say of me...//

Tipping his head down to glance at his legs, he could feel something tugging at his long hair, something else scratching the back of his neck. Clotted blood may have turned once silvery lengths into restrictive rope—it was physically impossible for him to confirm such—or part of the cockpit could be back there, with razor-sharp edges just waiting for him to move against them. The chair behind his shoulders and back was twisted and how far the lumps jutted—whether just against skin or slicing deep into flesh and bone—he couldn't tell. Steel trapped his legs from the knee down, his contact with the metal equally difficult to pinpoint. As for his arms, he could see one lying at uncomfortable and new angles beside the throttle, pinioned at the wrist by a twist of metal that had once been part of the mechanical controls' panel. The other…

…was lying free and limp in his lap, cut by bits of glass and metal shards, with a few particularly large chunks vibrating slightly, imbedded deeply in his upper arm and shoulder. Whether they were shaking because of his heartbeat or the cold starting to get to him, he didn't bother to probe his senses. First things first.

With set teeth and icy eyes narrowed, Zechs determinedly willed his free hand to move to his belt, where the harness-straps held him.

Well, he could lift the hand a bit, at least. A few inches… then what strength he had was gone, leaving his hand mid-air in zero-G and sending tears of pain and effort escaping his eyes to orbit the cockpit.

Escape was hopeless. He couldn't even reach the gun at his belt to put himself down.

As if laughing at his efforts, Epyon rained sparks down on his head.

//Ironic… The "Lightening Count" dies of electrocution… Well all right, it's not that strong a current, but I never liked static cling and this isn't better… Couldn't You just blast me once with something bigger, once and for all?//

Dispiritedly, he carefully rested his head back again, closing his eyes and wishing he could rub the stickiness out of them. Reflexively, he sighed—though that forceful breath repaid him in the way of additional pain in his chest and fresh blood adding to the metallic tang in his mouth.

//So be it…//

//I surrender.//

Helplessly, Zechs surrendered to the long, agonizing wait for relief, his fiery spirit resignedly fading down to glowing coals…

Waiting patiently to be snuffed out completely.

As if in sympathy, Epyon's sparks, too, fizzled out again, letting Zechs sink back into the thick darkness once more. A temporary respite, but a welcome one nonetheless, and one welcomed wholeheartedly.

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To be continued…

Notes: I don't believe this whole Zechs-and-Heero interhatred thing. In my opinion, it was war, not personal. You CAN throw your emotions into your fight without throwing them at your enemy—it boosts your adrenaline and reaction-time. Sports players do it all the time. They /look/ like they hate each others' guts, but then you talk to them… and you find they respect each other, and it's all just to get that adrenaline going.

The medieval term was "berserker". The fighters who did that. They were feared for good reason.

If it was personal, I'd imagine Heero would have made certain of Zechs' death at some point or other, and that Zechs would have made his duel with Heero a top priority (after all, he put freeing Sanc ahead of pretty much everything else in his life) and not bothered heading off to space (yeah, yeah, protect Sanc from above, but hell, finding Heero wouldn't have taken more than a few days and THAT he could spare!).

Enough ranting from me on that topic. Yes, these might get reposted—I can't get the damn italics and bold to transfer from my computer to fanfic.net correctly…