Part II - Where it all begins.
Pensacola Air Station, Florida: the Base Commander's Office
A squashy, heavy-set man sat stiffly in a high-backed
leather chair in front of a gargantuan oak desk. Uniform
pressed and seamless, cigar clenched tightly between his
teeth, he was indeed what one would imagine a high ranking
navel officer would look like: large, intimidating, and
irritable. Energetic knocking sounded at the closed door. He
glared; he knew exactly who it was.
Without awaiting a 'come in,' a tall youth shoved open
the door. The base commander narrowed his eyes even more.
"Ya called me for something' chief?" the grinning boy
said.
"Maxwell," groused the colonel, eyeing the violet-eyed
private in distaste.
"Better make it quick, 'cause I got a hot date with a
pretty girl all the way from Iowa tonight. What kinda
gentleman would I be if I disappoint her?" he stated
cheekily.
"You're no gentleman, Maxwell, and you can forget your
date with that farmer's daughter. You got a date with a ship
in California leaving for Hawaii in four days. Pack your
bags, Maxwell, you're going to Pearl Harbor."
"Pearl Harbor?" he said as he toyed with the end of his
long braid.
"Yup. I don't like you Maxwell. You're disobedient, you
have no self-discipline, you're a rascal, and as cagey as
they come. But you're a damned good pilot. So I'm sending
you to Pearl Harbor, and letting them deal with you. Don't
let the door hit you on the way out," the base commander
said. He rubbed his temples tersely as he felt a migraine
coming on. "Aloha," he spat.
Duo Maxwell, naval aviator and devil incarnate, let his
face split into a grin. "Aloha, indeed."
A Ship From San Francisco Headed For Pearl Harbor
As the ship pressed on through the rolling Pacific,
while most stayed inside within the confines of the warm
main dining hall and the small bunked cabins below, a few
brave souls ventured forth into the November cold to the
fore and aft decks to stretch their legs. One of these
people was quiet noticeable; she was at least 6' and stood a
head above most. Everything about her for that matter was
large, including toned bear-claw hands and a round, weighty
cranium. Greasy short brown hair rebelled the tight pinned
braids she pulled them in. Glasses perched on her nose.
A blond man, as small as she was large, approached her
carefully. He studied her for a moment, his sea foam eyes
observing her silently before promptly striding over to the
prone figure leaning over the railing and tapping her on the
shoulder. She turned and waited expectantly.
"You must be Nurse Judy Peterson. I am Dr. Quatre
Winner. You will be serving in my ward I believe? I just
wished to introduce myself," he smiled warmly.
The nurse, slightly taken aback, answered a moment
later, after regarding the man who had broke her peace
momentarily.
"Yeah, you've got the right girl. Nice to meet you Dr.
Winner," she said politely as a small smile ghosted her
features. They shook hands and then headed inside. It had
become too cold and windy.
An Apartment in New York
"RRRiiinnngg!!! RRRiinnngg!!!"
A sleepy hand groped blindly for the phone, and after
several minutes of struggling to locate it, the headset was
retrieved from its cradle with success.
"Yeah?" a groggy voice asked, confused as to why anyone
would call so late.
"Is this Heero Yuy?" asked a voice.
"Who's calling?" Heero asked.
"This is Anthony Davenport, head of communications,
Pearl Harbor. I have been informed that you can speak
Japanese and English fluently, correct?" the recruiter asked
hopefully.
"Yes," replied a puzzled Heero.
"We need you to decode Japanese messages at Pearl
Harbor. Have you ever heard of J-N 25?" inquired Mr.
Davenport.
"Not really," remarked Heero.
Heero could feel the Naval Communications Officer grin
on the other end of the line. "You will," Anthony said.
Aboard the USS Arizona
"Name?" asked the navel transfers officer, without
looking up from his typewriter.
"Chang, Wufei."
After a few minutes of shuffling through a precariously
balanced pile of files and important looking papers, the
fidgety transfer guy pulled out a manila file with Wufei's
name typed neatly across the top. He skimmed it quickly and
finally looked up at the dark-eyed man for the first time.
"Gunner, right?" he said.
"Yes," answered Wufei.
"You'll be staying on C Deck, and you'll be assigned a
gun soon enough. Go down this hall and turn to your right at
the end of it to get your uniform and other standard issue
stuff and get your list of duties and your official bunk
assignment." He stamped the file and shuffled it into an
equally precarious stack on the floor.
Wufei headed through the door and passed the long line
of men waiting for their transfers to be ok'ed. The transfer
officer poked his head out of the door. "Welcome aboard the
USS Arizona," he said to Wufei's back.
California Air Force Base
"Damn, look at those flying skills. All the turns are
sharp and everything," one awed pilot remarked as the others
gawked at the plane in the sky. The base commander watched
with mild interest; the quietest of the naval aviator
trainees seemed to have the greatest competency when it came
to flying a plane. As the gifted pilot turned his bird
toward the runway to land, the commander briskly walked out
onto the airfield strait to the prodigy aviator. He was
quite tall, with verdant eyes and brown hair that had been
styled somehow into one bang that obscured most of his face.
"How'd you like to be stationed at Pearl?" asked the
commander. "Can't leave you here with these bums," he jerked
a thumb towards the gaggle of fellow pilots, "while your
talents go to waste here. What do you say?"
"Sure,: was all Trowa Barton said.
Washington D.C. Broadcast News Station
People bustled around quickly, all having destinations
to get to; one person was not in the news room longer than
60 seconds. This was probably the one time in his life
station manager, John Wie, ever really hated his job. He was
looking for one specific person, but he couldn't find her.
"This is the last time I ever do anyone a favor," he vowed
to himself.
Not minutes before, but after the news report, John had
received a call from some friends in Pearl Harbor. After he
hung up, John went searching through the halls of the
station. "Evelyn!" yelled John, his annoyance clearly
showing.
A Filipino girl looked up from a story splayed over he
desk. Short black hair toppled her head, and she was dressed
head to toe in periwinkle. "What?" she replied with more
than a little annoyance of her own.
"The US has a lot of its navy at Pearl Harbor; I just
got a request for a story on it. I know it's hard being a
woman journalist, so what do you say, Evi, Hawaii sound good
to you? This could be your big break. And it's a nice easy
story so you should have no problems," said John.
After two seconds of consideration, "I'm there," Evelyn
replied, gathering her papers, film, and her camera.
Pensacola Air Station, Florida: the Base Commander's Office
A squashy, heavy-set man sat stiffly in a high-backed
leather chair in front of a gargantuan oak desk. Uniform
pressed and seamless, cigar clenched tightly between his
teeth, he was indeed what one would imagine a high ranking
navel officer would look like: large, intimidating, and
irritable. Energetic knocking sounded at the closed door. He
glared; he knew exactly who it was.
Without awaiting a 'come in,' a tall youth shoved open
the door. The base commander narrowed his eyes even more.
"Ya called me for something' chief?" the grinning boy
said.
"Maxwell," groused the colonel, eyeing the violet-eyed
private in distaste.
"Better make it quick, 'cause I got a hot date with a
pretty girl all the way from Iowa tonight. What kinda
gentleman would I be if I disappoint her?" he stated
cheekily.
"You're no gentleman, Maxwell, and you can forget your
date with that farmer's daughter. You got a date with a ship
in California leaving for Hawaii in four days. Pack your
bags, Maxwell, you're going to Pearl Harbor."
"Pearl Harbor?" he said as he toyed with the end of his
long braid.
"Yup. I don't like you Maxwell. You're disobedient, you
have no self-discipline, you're a rascal, and as cagey as
they come. But you're a damned good pilot. So I'm sending
you to Pearl Harbor, and letting them deal with you. Don't
let the door hit you on the way out," the base commander
said. He rubbed his temples tersely as he felt a migraine
coming on. "Aloha," he spat.
Duo Maxwell, naval aviator and devil incarnate, let his
face split into a grin. "Aloha, indeed."
A Ship From San Francisco Headed For Pearl Harbor
As the ship pressed on through the rolling Pacific,
while most stayed inside within the confines of the warm
main dining hall and the small bunked cabins below, a few
brave souls ventured forth into the November cold to the
fore and aft decks to stretch their legs. One of these
people was quiet noticeable; she was at least 6' and stood a
head above most. Everything about her for that matter was
large, including toned bear-claw hands and a round, weighty
cranium. Greasy short brown hair rebelled the tight pinned
braids she pulled them in. Glasses perched on her nose.
A blond man, as small as she was large, approached her
carefully. He studied her for a moment, his sea foam eyes
observing her silently before promptly striding over to the
prone figure leaning over the railing and tapping her on the
shoulder. She turned and waited expectantly.
"You must be Nurse Judy Peterson. I am Dr. Quatre
Winner. You will be serving in my ward I believe? I just
wished to introduce myself," he smiled warmly.
The nurse, slightly taken aback, answered a moment
later, after regarding the man who had broke her peace
momentarily.
"Yeah, you've got the right girl. Nice to meet you Dr.
Winner," she said politely as a small smile ghosted her
features. They shook hands and then headed inside. It had
become too cold and windy.
An Apartment in New York
"RRRiiinnngg!!! RRRiinnngg!!!"
A sleepy hand groped blindly for the phone, and after
several minutes of struggling to locate it, the headset was
retrieved from its cradle with success.
"Yeah?" a groggy voice asked, confused as to why anyone
would call so late.
"Is this Heero Yuy?" asked a voice.
"Who's calling?" Heero asked.
"This is Anthony Davenport, head of communications,
Pearl Harbor. I have been informed that you can speak
Japanese and English fluently, correct?" the recruiter asked
hopefully.
"Yes," replied a puzzled Heero.
"We need you to decode Japanese messages at Pearl
Harbor. Have you ever heard of J-N 25?" inquired Mr.
Davenport.
"Not really," remarked Heero.
Heero could feel the Naval Communications Officer grin
on the other end of the line. "You will," Anthony said.
Aboard the USS Arizona
"Name?" asked the navel transfers officer, without
looking up from his typewriter.
"Chang, Wufei."
After a few minutes of shuffling through a precariously
balanced pile of files and important looking papers, the
fidgety transfer guy pulled out a manila file with Wufei's
name typed neatly across the top. He skimmed it quickly and
finally looked up at the dark-eyed man for the first time.
"Gunner, right?" he said.
"Yes," answered Wufei.
"You'll be staying on C Deck, and you'll be assigned a
gun soon enough. Go down this hall and turn to your right at
the end of it to get your uniform and other standard issue
stuff and get your list of duties and your official bunk
assignment." He stamped the file and shuffled it into an
equally precarious stack on the floor.
Wufei headed through the door and passed the long line
of men waiting for their transfers to be ok'ed. The transfer
officer poked his head out of the door. "Welcome aboard the
USS Arizona," he said to Wufei's back.
California Air Force Base
"Damn, look at those flying skills. All the turns are
sharp and everything," one awed pilot remarked as the others
gawked at the plane in the sky. The base commander watched
with mild interest; the quietest of the naval aviator
trainees seemed to have the greatest competency when it came
to flying a plane. As the gifted pilot turned his bird
toward the runway to land, the commander briskly walked out
onto the airfield strait to the prodigy aviator. He was
quite tall, with verdant eyes and brown hair that had been
styled somehow into one bang that obscured most of his face.
"How'd you like to be stationed at Pearl?" asked the
commander. "Can't leave you here with these bums," he jerked
a thumb towards the gaggle of fellow pilots, "while your
talents go to waste here. What do you say?"
"Sure,: was all Trowa Barton said.
Washington D.C. Broadcast News Station
People bustled around quickly, all having destinations
to get to; one person was not in the news room longer than
60 seconds. This was probably the one time in his life
station manager, John Wie, ever really hated his job. He was
looking for one specific person, but he couldn't find her.
"This is the last time I ever do anyone a favor," he vowed
to himself.
Not minutes before, but after the news report, John had
received a call from some friends in Pearl Harbor. After he
hung up, John went searching through the halls of the
station. "Evelyn!" yelled John, his annoyance clearly
showing.
A Filipino girl looked up from a story splayed over he
desk. Short black hair toppled her head, and she was dressed
head to toe in periwinkle. "What?" she replied with more
than a little annoyance of her own.
"The US has a lot of its navy at Pearl Harbor; I just
got a request for a story on it. I know it's hard being a
woman journalist, so what do you say, Evi, Hawaii sound good
to you? This could be your big break. And it's a nice easy
story so you should have no problems," said John.
After two seconds of consideration, "I'm there," Evelyn
replied, gathering her papers, film, and her camera.