The End of a Mystery
Chapter Six
All right, all you lucky people, on to some action. The last two chapters I realize were a little empty, but now that everyone is set up, it's time to get things goin'.
I don't own Gundam Wing no matter how much I wish I did. I don't own any of the characters although I thank Chibi Asia for trying to help me out, and now, I hope someone is reading this, on to the next action filled chapter!
Chapter Six----------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------
Treize Kushrenada watched the screen in his office, a blend of irritation and grimness painting his elegant features. Heero Yuy was trying to escape. Of course. What did he expect? Heero Yuy was a Gundam Pilot-the most dangerous by his estimation-and yet the one he'd come to understand better than any of the others. Not tactical understanding; that was way beyond him at times. Not really emotional either-that would be difficult considering they both had killed such inconveniences off as much as possible; whatever they showed was staged, planned for the exact effect that they wanted from their audiences.
But he had come to understand him; his determination, his resignation, the way he saw the world and his place in it. They were different certainly; Heero fought for his Doctor and the People, Treize fought for the People and himself. Their objectives were near enough the same, but different enough to make things difficult. Treize chose to serve in the spotlight, bending the public's opinions and emotions to fit his plans-for their own good eventually. Heero hid in the shadows, using violence and a nondescript mindset to accomplish his objectives, his bloody actions making him and the other Gundam Pilots very unpopular and eventually making them hated by the very people they'd been protecting. Now that he thought about it, the Gundam Pilots were probably feeling quite a strain by this time.
Treize turned the volume to mute, not wanting to be disturbed by the disquieting sounds of medical equipment. It was a terrible tragedy-such a strong person being reduced to depending on life support. He just didn't like seeing it. He turned away from the screen, studying his hands as he tried to comprehend recent developments.
Or was this just a ploy? It was certainly possible-make that probable. Heero had been sent to distract Treize by attacking him, taking his full attention-or near-as he tried to discover the reason. A good plan, but then, the wound? The bullet was from a .6 magnum (I have no idea), a very popular weapon but difficult to come by for anyone with average means. But of course the shooter would not be normal, would he? Heero Yuy had been shot at point blank range from in a point in front of him; the angle and force had indicated that much, so he had either been shot by someone he trusted, or during a hand to hand fight. That anyone but another Gundam Pilot could get the better of him-or perhaps Zechs-surprised Treize, but then, what other explanation was there? Heero and Zechs were enemies, thus Heero would not have allowed him so close, and it would be ridiculous to assume he'd been attacked by another Gundam Pilot; their tactics were too tight for inner tension. So who had it been? The question was not why; the Gundam Pilots were now universally hated-but who?
Treize felt like grinding his teeth but resisted the urge firmly. It wasn't good for them. It harmed the enamel, thus harmed his perfect smile, which he needed to bend the masses to his whim-for their own good of course. What to do, what to do? Heero Yuy was dangerous even bound to a table-consciousness would bring with it ideas that would very likely end in his escape. So, the problem was, how to question Heero Yuy while he was unconscious. Treize quirked an eyebrow as he watched the screen, the Gundam Pilot's even breathing not nearly so comforting as the glistening drugs in the IV bag. Sadly, that wouldn't work. It wasn't possible to question someone while they were asleep, and despite all the science fiction movies, there was yet to be discovered an actual "truth serum". That really was kind of sad-such a thing would have been quite useful. Oh well.
There was nothing for it. If he wanted to get the answers he needed to make an intelligent counterattack, he was going to have to find out the details. He was going to have to find out Heero's motive in attacking him, and he was going to have to do it in such a way that Heero Yuy, trained to kill for who knows how long, trained to withstand tactics or torture rather than fail a mission, would feel justified, and more than justified, in telling Treize Kushrenada, his most influential enemy and rival, who he had moreover just attacked, the logistics and supposed benefits of such an action.
Impossible.
Nope. It just wasn't possible. There was no way that he could see to accomplish such a task. How do you persuade an enemy to tell you what he knows, when telling is exactly what he knows he shouldn't do?! And not just any enemy either! A child enemy-the coldest, most heartless, most serious and most devoted of a group of elite soldiers-each of whom had tried to kill him on a number of occasions. Treize groaned out loud, bringing his finely manicured hand to his eyes and to his temples where he felt a headache coming on. With anyone else-yes, anyone!-he could have found a way easily, off the top of his head. He knew their pressure points, knew their personalities and what they felt most strongly about-and he knew Heero Yuy's as well. Which is where the problem was. This was it.
Heero Yuy had no life whatever outside his missions. He was not friendly with anyone-not even the other pilots as Treize's contacts and spies had been happy to relay to him. He didn't care for people, had no moral fixations or emotional obsessions, was practically bored by pain and had absolutely no sense of self-preservation. It was his missions he cared about-if you could call cold determination caring-and if his mission was to distract Treize from what was actually going on then he had both failed and accomplished that mission. Treize was now more curious about the Gundam Pilot's activities than he'd been in months and yet, no matter how urgent other matters were, he could not stop wondering-"why?". It was a nuisance and made him want to ignore Heero just to spite him, just to show him how insignificant he was to His Excellency Treize Kushrenada. Yet even that was foolish and would lead him to ignore or completely miss some important development, and he could not afford that no matter how much of a nuisance it was.
Why did life have to be so difficult? Why couldn't he just continue on with his projects? Why did he have to be bothered and confused by kids half his age? And why didn't he just kill them already and get it over with? It would be so easy, after all. They risked their lives with such reckless abandon that it would perhaps take a month to kill all five of the little pests-maybe a month and a half if they made things difficult. He could do it; he knew that. He'd done it before after all, and without nearly half so much provocation.
But the truth was, he liked them. The thought was bitter, grudging, and he turned away again, arranging papers absentmindedly. It was hardly a very militaristic thought. They were a pain, always in the way, always blowing up his nicely furnished offices and attacking him at the most inconvenient hours. They were asking for it, asking to be obliterated. If he wanted them dead he could kill them in a month-he knew their pressure points and if he squeezed they would break, one by one. Even Heero. Especially Heero. It would be difficult of course; their tactics were superb-but easy nonetheless. It was a charming contradiction and he let it be. He really didn't want to kill them though. They were so young, so bold in their attacks-they appealed to his half buried sense of romance as figures of wind and fire, like titans with their halos of passion and glory.
Foolish. He was so utterly foolish he shocked himself. Before the Gundam Pilots-and how long ago it seemed now!-he had felt himself drowning in cynicism. Which he should be, as a responsible and gentlemanly warlord. But now he felt renewed, revitalized, as though those long cold years of death and polls had been washed away like so much bug slime on a windshield. And now he fought again with all his enormous energy and political cunning. He owed the Gundam Pilots for that, if for nothing else, and as payment he would let them live a little longer.
He'd question Heero. In the normal way, since that was the only way there was. He would not torture him because doing so would be disrespectful to Heero's obvious immunity to such weak tactics. He'd just ask. And lie if he had to. He sighed as he stood, adjusting his tie and straitening his jacket-you can't look sloppy when you question skilled enemies; it's just not done. He checked out his reflection in the glass of a painting and was about to open the door when someone knocked.
Curious, he finished making himself look impressive before he opened the door. It didn't hurt to make people wait when they so impudently knocked on his door. Hadn't they ever heard of the intercom? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he found out what they needed and did it in the most aloof and charming manner possible. Easy.
He pulled the door open smoothly and found there an arrogant looking young man in an Oz uniform. Who abruptly pulled out a gun and pointed it directly between His Excellency's aloof and perfectly charming eyes.
Treize's voice was calm and only mildly surprised when he lips opened of their own accord and spoke a word.
"Heero."
The young man grinned.
* * * * *
Zechs Marquise, the Lightning Count watched the RADAR screen with flat, dead eyes. He'd been known for his ferocity, for his composure, for his devotion. He'd been known for many things, by many names, but what would he be known for now? He would soon destroy the thing, that evil evil thing, from where man with all his wicked deeds had come. Where the serpent had first tempted Eve in the garden. Where for thousands of years man had wrought little but destruction and hate, for the sake of minor disagreements and all consuming greed that was his most defining trait. It was a pity. More. They could have been great. They could have built something over all those years more lasting than buildings and walls; they could have created a society where happiness and consideration were the law, where there wouldn't have been a need for mobile suits and Gundams.
But he was tired of dying, every day he opened his eyes. He was tired of searching for something that didn't exist, that had died so long ago, for feeling nostalgia for something he had never been alive to see. It was madness, pure madness, and instinct told him that this was the only way to put an end to it.
He had to put an end to it.
Merciful. He was merciful. Relena's arguments had washed over him like a gentle sea wave as she screamed at him about the children, about the innocents. She didn't understand it now but she would with time-he was doing this for them. It was not madness, not in the least. It was mercy. They would not be locked in a world that didn't deserve them, wouldn't be forced to go to war with a draft when they became teenagers. They would never be taught to hate as he was, and that was what he called mercy. They would never hate.
Some would call him cruel, would call his motivations selfish. They would say, those ignorant fools, that he was denying the children a chance to live, to love, to reach their fulfillment as adults. But he saw it differently. Children loved-they did!-it came as naturally to them as breathing, as laughing or crying. He would deny them nothing on that count. But if he ended their lives now, they may never reach adulthood, but they would never have to go through the disillusionment that such a journey inevitably led to. No child born, no child "lucky" enough to become who they were destined to be with the fullness of time, could reach that point whole. They would be bombarded every inch of the way with new and terrible realizations, those innocents, and by the time they were grown they would have become someone else entirely, someone tired and cynical and no longer that innocent babe that had been brought into such a deceptive world.
The cycle was a tragedy, the greatest tragedy that man would ever know, this loss of innocence. Death of the body was nothing to the death of dreams, of love, of hope. Nothing. Those things could not be regrown, could not be replaced-ever. They were fragile and soft and when they died then all that was left was heartbreak.
He knew heartbreak. He'd known love once, not so long ago. He'd known what it was to belong somewhere, to have a purpose. His purpose had been to avenge his family.
But the murderers were all dead now by his hands and others and all that was left was nostalgia. He would never be innocent again. He would never get the blood off his hands. Even now he could see it there, thick with crust and gore. He tried to wipe it off on his pants but it wouldn't. There were smears of blood on his pants, on his face, but he couldn't get it off his hands. He raced out of the room, down the hall to the sterile white bathroom, tearing his jacket off as he ran. Shouldering through the door, he made sure it was empty and turned the lock, throwing his jacket into the sink and turned the water on cold. the only way to remove blood..
He scrubbed his hands and his jacket and rinsed them both in the water. But the water turned red with the blood. He scrubbed harder, feeling panic rise in his throat, making him sob with terror and grief. He could never get it out. It wouldn't come out. But the water turned red and then he realized that all the blood he'd ever spilled was coming out of the shiny brass faucet, and he threw his jacket into a different sink and started again but all that came out was blood. He screamed. This was a nightmare. The blood..
It wouldn't come off his hands! He tried to scrape it off and was rewarded with a gory crust under his fingernails. But there was more blood. And more blood. All the faucets were on, pouring out their ghastly fluid and in no time the sinks were full and it was running over. Zechs backed up to the stalls, trying to escape, but he should have known better. Guilt would follow him wherever he went for all his life and the blood covered the floor in a glistening, sliding layer, seemingly chasing him with his deeds. Helpless, he was surrounded by it, trapped. He slid to the floor, sobbing brokenly in fear, in pain and hopelessness.
He'd save them from this.
He'd save them from. blood..
The door burst open but he was too broken to scream, to lift his head out of his hands to look up and continued to sob weakly. He felt himself held, felt his hands being pushed away as his face was lifted up, pale white hair falling in his eyes, the tips of it stained red with his nightmares. Dorothy stared into his eyes, pity in her strange, pale face and glistening eyes. She murmured soothing words to him, meaningless words, but his sobbing slowed and became soft unsteady breathing.
Dorothy wanted to weep for her idol. His hair was wet and spots of water made dark patches on all his fine clothing. A puddle of water was on the floor under his dripping jacket, lying like a broken bird half out of the sink. The faucet still ran, wasting precious water that would be recycled as soon as it reached the purifying system, making soft noises as it rushed down the drain. She held him close, feeling more connected to Relena's brother than anyone else she'd ever known. They could be friends, but neither of them had friends. Oh, how she admired him!
She'd been called the minute he'd run out of the RADAR room. It had taken her a while to break down the door, and all the while she'd heard him screaming, and she'd been shouting and the men were running. She felt like sobbing with him, felt like giving vent to her panic, her terror at his terror. Looking into his exhaustion dulled eyes she tried to lift him up and her eyes suddenly spotted red. She let him back down again as she examined his beautiful white hands; they were bleeding, in four ugly gashes down the backs of each, and gore clung under his fingernails. Poor man.
Unaffected by blood so much as by his condition, she raised him like a child and led him to the sink, washing the blood off the back of his hands with soothing cool water and dabbing at his face with a paper towel. She would be content if she could be like him, she thought, looking up at his noble profile with nothing but admiration in her bizarre pupilless eyes. He was so fierce and so contained, but not without emotion. Everything he did was candid, and so elegant. There were no hidden meanings in his words, no subtle changes in his character. He did what he needed to do, and that was war.
Wrapping his hands gently in paper towels, she covered all in the wet jacket and led him out into the deserted hallway. The men all thought he'd gone into a rage-which was what she'd told them to save his reputation. It was better that way.
She led him to his room and shut the door, using bandages from the First Aid kit in his small bathroom to cover them-thank God he wouldn't need stitches! No one could know about his recent mental attacks and stitches would be a pain to explain to the crew. He sat on his bed the entire time, staring at his lap, not even fully aware that she was there. And she was grateful; she didn't think she could handle explaining that she knew First Aid; it would spoil her reputation.
She gave him a strong sedative and a glass of water before she left, locking the door behind her so that no one would be able to get in until he woke up. It would be about a day, maybe a day and a half until he was fully conscious again, which would give his wounds some time before he aggravated them.
He lay on his bed, fully dressed, with one knee up and an arm across his half-open eyes, too tired to move, and too depressed to welcome sleep. As he slipped into unconsciousness, Zechs remembered. He'd been in love once. She had such beautiful brown eyes. But she'd never known; he should have told her. More regrets. Maybe they could have gone somewhere far away, together. They really didn't need to kill, did they? He fell asleep and dreamed peaceful dreams of a different time with a brown-eyed girl.
* * * * *
Duo's gun pressed the skin between Treize Kushrenada's bizarre eyebrows as he shoved him backwards into his own rooms. Keeping his aim and his eyes on the general, he backed up to a window, yanking the tasseled curtain ropes (thinking, "what sort of a sissy needs curtains in a space fortress?") out of their loops and motioning for Treize to turn around.
Duo was skilled. He had developed a certain talent out of necessity for tying knots with one hand, which talent he now used fully as he tied His Excellency's delicate hands behind his back, not saying a word during the whole process. While he was considered the talkative one among the Gundam pilots, when it came to the business of rescuing his best friend he could be very serious. And with good reason. Treize was almost as dangerous as he was. Reason enough to be wary.
Shoving him against the wall, Duo searched his captive, quickly retrieving two hidden pistols and a sword-the very sword that had beaten Wufei, how long ago? He left that on the floor and then emptied the pistols of their ammunition and tossed them distastefully into the paper filled wastebasket. Now would be a great time for seizing any useful documents Treize might have at hand, but he had more important business to take care of. Namely one with a hole through the middle and one hell of a death glare.
* * * * *
So? What do you think? You gotta review now. Time, you see, is running out. You can feel it can't you? Can you feel the pressure mounting? Can you feel your heartbeat racing? Can you hear Mik screaming? I can. I don't think she'll ever stop either. Tell me what you think or risk my heart-rending disappointment. I'm going to get this idiotic fic done and right before I go insane and if someone doesn't review me I'm going to have to do it myself! So beware.
Be happy. StarChild.
Chapter Six
All right, all you lucky people, on to some action. The last two chapters I realize were a little empty, but now that everyone is set up, it's time to get things goin'.
I don't own Gundam Wing no matter how much I wish I did. I don't own any of the characters although I thank Chibi Asia for trying to help me out, and now, I hope someone is reading this, on to the next action filled chapter!
Chapter Six----------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------
Treize Kushrenada watched the screen in his office, a blend of irritation and grimness painting his elegant features. Heero Yuy was trying to escape. Of course. What did he expect? Heero Yuy was a Gundam Pilot-the most dangerous by his estimation-and yet the one he'd come to understand better than any of the others. Not tactical understanding; that was way beyond him at times. Not really emotional either-that would be difficult considering they both had killed such inconveniences off as much as possible; whatever they showed was staged, planned for the exact effect that they wanted from their audiences.
But he had come to understand him; his determination, his resignation, the way he saw the world and his place in it. They were different certainly; Heero fought for his Doctor and the People, Treize fought for the People and himself. Their objectives were near enough the same, but different enough to make things difficult. Treize chose to serve in the spotlight, bending the public's opinions and emotions to fit his plans-for their own good eventually. Heero hid in the shadows, using violence and a nondescript mindset to accomplish his objectives, his bloody actions making him and the other Gundam Pilots very unpopular and eventually making them hated by the very people they'd been protecting. Now that he thought about it, the Gundam Pilots were probably feeling quite a strain by this time.
Treize turned the volume to mute, not wanting to be disturbed by the disquieting sounds of medical equipment. It was a terrible tragedy-such a strong person being reduced to depending on life support. He just didn't like seeing it. He turned away from the screen, studying his hands as he tried to comprehend recent developments.
Or was this just a ploy? It was certainly possible-make that probable. Heero had been sent to distract Treize by attacking him, taking his full attention-or near-as he tried to discover the reason. A good plan, but then, the wound? The bullet was from a .6 magnum (I have no idea), a very popular weapon but difficult to come by for anyone with average means. But of course the shooter would not be normal, would he? Heero Yuy had been shot at point blank range from in a point in front of him; the angle and force had indicated that much, so he had either been shot by someone he trusted, or during a hand to hand fight. That anyone but another Gundam Pilot could get the better of him-or perhaps Zechs-surprised Treize, but then, what other explanation was there? Heero and Zechs were enemies, thus Heero would not have allowed him so close, and it would be ridiculous to assume he'd been attacked by another Gundam Pilot; their tactics were too tight for inner tension. So who had it been? The question was not why; the Gundam Pilots were now universally hated-but who?
Treize felt like grinding his teeth but resisted the urge firmly. It wasn't good for them. It harmed the enamel, thus harmed his perfect smile, which he needed to bend the masses to his whim-for their own good of course. What to do, what to do? Heero Yuy was dangerous even bound to a table-consciousness would bring with it ideas that would very likely end in his escape. So, the problem was, how to question Heero Yuy while he was unconscious. Treize quirked an eyebrow as he watched the screen, the Gundam Pilot's even breathing not nearly so comforting as the glistening drugs in the IV bag. Sadly, that wouldn't work. It wasn't possible to question someone while they were asleep, and despite all the science fiction movies, there was yet to be discovered an actual "truth serum". That really was kind of sad-such a thing would have been quite useful. Oh well.
There was nothing for it. If he wanted to get the answers he needed to make an intelligent counterattack, he was going to have to find out the details. He was going to have to find out Heero's motive in attacking him, and he was going to have to do it in such a way that Heero Yuy, trained to kill for who knows how long, trained to withstand tactics or torture rather than fail a mission, would feel justified, and more than justified, in telling Treize Kushrenada, his most influential enemy and rival, who he had moreover just attacked, the logistics and supposed benefits of such an action.
Impossible.
Nope. It just wasn't possible. There was no way that he could see to accomplish such a task. How do you persuade an enemy to tell you what he knows, when telling is exactly what he knows he shouldn't do?! And not just any enemy either! A child enemy-the coldest, most heartless, most serious and most devoted of a group of elite soldiers-each of whom had tried to kill him on a number of occasions. Treize groaned out loud, bringing his finely manicured hand to his eyes and to his temples where he felt a headache coming on. With anyone else-yes, anyone!-he could have found a way easily, off the top of his head. He knew their pressure points, knew their personalities and what they felt most strongly about-and he knew Heero Yuy's as well. Which is where the problem was. This was it.
Heero Yuy had no life whatever outside his missions. He was not friendly with anyone-not even the other pilots as Treize's contacts and spies had been happy to relay to him. He didn't care for people, had no moral fixations or emotional obsessions, was practically bored by pain and had absolutely no sense of self-preservation. It was his missions he cared about-if you could call cold determination caring-and if his mission was to distract Treize from what was actually going on then he had both failed and accomplished that mission. Treize was now more curious about the Gundam Pilot's activities than he'd been in months and yet, no matter how urgent other matters were, he could not stop wondering-"why?". It was a nuisance and made him want to ignore Heero just to spite him, just to show him how insignificant he was to His Excellency Treize Kushrenada. Yet even that was foolish and would lead him to ignore or completely miss some important development, and he could not afford that no matter how much of a nuisance it was.
Why did life have to be so difficult? Why couldn't he just continue on with his projects? Why did he have to be bothered and confused by kids half his age? And why didn't he just kill them already and get it over with? It would be so easy, after all. They risked their lives with such reckless abandon that it would perhaps take a month to kill all five of the little pests-maybe a month and a half if they made things difficult. He could do it; he knew that. He'd done it before after all, and without nearly half so much provocation.
But the truth was, he liked them. The thought was bitter, grudging, and he turned away again, arranging papers absentmindedly. It was hardly a very militaristic thought. They were a pain, always in the way, always blowing up his nicely furnished offices and attacking him at the most inconvenient hours. They were asking for it, asking to be obliterated. If he wanted them dead he could kill them in a month-he knew their pressure points and if he squeezed they would break, one by one. Even Heero. Especially Heero. It would be difficult of course; their tactics were superb-but easy nonetheless. It was a charming contradiction and he let it be. He really didn't want to kill them though. They were so young, so bold in their attacks-they appealed to his half buried sense of romance as figures of wind and fire, like titans with their halos of passion and glory.
Foolish. He was so utterly foolish he shocked himself. Before the Gundam Pilots-and how long ago it seemed now!-he had felt himself drowning in cynicism. Which he should be, as a responsible and gentlemanly warlord. But now he felt renewed, revitalized, as though those long cold years of death and polls had been washed away like so much bug slime on a windshield. And now he fought again with all his enormous energy and political cunning. He owed the Gundam Pilots for that, if for nothing else, and as payment he would let them live a little longer.
He'd question Heero. In the normal way, since that was the only way there was. He would not torture him because doing so would be disrespectful to Heero's obvious immunity to such weak tactics. He'd just ask. And lie if he had to. He sighed as he stood, adjusting his tie and straitening his jacket-you can't look sloppy when you question skilled enemies; it's just not done. He checked out his reflection in the glass of a painting and was about to open the door when someone knocked.
Curious, he finished making himself look impressive before he opened the door. It didn't hurt to make people wait when they so impudently knocked on his door. Hadn't they ever heard of the intercom? It didn't matter. All that mattered was that he found out what they needed and did it in the most aloof and charming manner possible. Easy.
He pulled the door open smoothly and found there an arrogant looking young man in an Oz uniform. Who abruptly pulled out a gun and pointed it directly between His Excellency's aloof and perfectly charming eyes.
Treize's voice was calm and only mildly surprised when he lips opened of their own accord and spoke a word.
"Heero."
The young man grinned.
* * * * *
Zechs Marquise, the Lightning Count watched the RADAR screen with flat, dead eyes. He'd been known for his ferocity, for his composure, for his devotion. He'd been known for many things, by many names, but what would he be known for now? He would soon destroy the thing, that evil evil thing, from where man with all his wicked deeds had come. Where the serpent had first tempted Eve in the garden. Where for thousands of years man had wrought little but destruction and hate, for the sake of minor disagreements and all consuming greed that was his most defining trait. It was a pity. More. They could have been great. They could have built something over all those years more lasting than buildings and walls; they could have created a society where happiness and consideration were the law, where there wouldn't have been a need for mobile suits and Gundams.
But he was tired of dying, every day he opened his eyes. He was tired of searching for something that didn't exist, that had died so long ago, for feeling nostalgia for something he had never been alive to see. It was madness, pure madness, and instinct told him that this was the only way to put an end to it.
He had to put an end to it.
Merciful. He was merciful. Relena's arguments had washed over him like a gentle sea wave as she screamed at him about the children, about the innocents. She didn't understand it now but she would with time-he was doing this for them. It was not madness, not in the least. It was mercy. They would not be locked in a world that didn't deserve them, wouldn't be forced to go to war with a draft when they became teenagers. They would never be taught to hate as he was, and that was what he called mercy. They would never hate.
Some would call him cruel, would call his motivations selfish. They would say, those ignorant fools, that he was denying the children a chance to live, to love, to reach their fulfillment as adults. But he saw it differently. Children loved-they did!-it came as naturally to them as breathing, as laughing or crying. He would deny them nothing on that count. But if he ended their lives now, they may never reach adulthood, but they would never have to go through the disillusionment that such a journey inevitably led to. No child born, no child "lucky" enough to become who they were destined to be with the fullness of time, could reach that point whole. They would be bombarded every inch of the way with new and terrible realizations, those innocents, and by the time they were grown they would have become someone else entirely, someone tired and cynical and no longer that innocent babe that had been brought into such a deceptive world.
The cycle was a tragedy, the greatest tragedy that man would ever know, this loss of innocence. Death of the body was nothing to the death of dreams, of love, of hope. Nothing. Those things could not be regrown, could not be replaced-ever. They were fragile and soft and when they died then all that was left was heartbreak.
He knew heartbreak. He'd known love once, not so long ago. He'd known what it was to belong somewhere, to have a purpose. His purpose had been to avenge his family.
But the murderers were all dead now by his hands and others and all that was left was nostalgia. He would never be innocent again. He would never get the blood off his hands. Even now he could see it there, thick with crust and gore. He tried to wipe it off on his pants but it wouldn't. There were smears of blood on his pants, on his face, but he couldn't get it off his hands. He raced out of the room, down the hall to the sterile white bathroom, tearing his jacket off as he ran. Shouldering through the door, he made sure it was empty and turned the lock, throwing his jacket into the sink and turned the water on cold. the only way to remove blood..
He scrubbed his hands and his jacket and rinsed them both in the water. But the water turned red with the blood. He scrubbed harder, feeling panic rise in his throat, making him sob with terror and grief. He could never get it out. It wouldn't come out. But the water turned red and then he realized that all the blood he'd ever spilled was coming out of the shiny brass faucet, and he threw his jacket into a different sink and started again but all that came out was blood. He screamed. This was a nightmare. The blood..
It wouldn't come off his hands! He tried to scrape it off and was rewarded with a gory crust under his fingernails. But there was more blood. And more blood. All the faucets were on, pouring out their ghastly fluid and in no time the sinks were full and it was running over. Zechs backed up to the stalls, trying to escape, but he should have known better. Guilt would follow him wherever he went for all his life and the blood covered the floor in a glistening, sliding layer, seemingly chasing him with his deeds. Helpless, he was surrounded by it, trapped. He slid to the floor, sobbing brokenly in fear, in pain and hopelessness.
He'd save them from this.
He'd save them from. blood..
The door burst open but he was too broken to scream, to lift his head out of his hands to look up and continued to sob weakly. He felt himself held, felt his hands being pushed away as his face was lifted up, pale white hair falling in his eyes, the tips of it stained red with his nightmares. Dorothy stared into his eyes, pity in her strange, pale face and glistening eyes. She murmured soothing words to him, meaningless words, but his sobbing slowed and became soft unsteady breathing.
Dorothy wanted to weep for her idol. His hair was wet and spots of water made dark patches on all his fine clothing. A puddle of water was on the floor under his dripping jacket, lying like a broken bird half out of the sink. The faucet still ran, wasting precious water that would be recycled as soon as it reached the purifying system, making soft noises as it rushed down the drain. She held him close, feeling more connected to Relena's brother than anyone else she'd ever known. They could be friends, but neither of them had friends. Oh, how she admired him!
She'd been called the minute he'd run out of the RADAR room. It had taken her a while to break down the door, and all the while she'd heard him screaming, and she'd been shouting and the men were running. She felt like sobbing with him, felt like giving vent to her panic, her terror at his terror. Looking into his exhaustion dulled eyes she tried to lift him up and her eyes suddenly spotted red. She let him back down again as she examined his beautiful white hands; they were bleeding, in four ugly gashes down the backs of each, and gore clung under his fingernails. Poor man.
Unaffected by blood so much as by his condition, she raised him like a child and led him to the sink, washing the blood off the back of his hands with soothing cool water and dabbing at his face with a paper towel. She would be content if she could be like him, she thought, looking up at his noble profile with nothing but admiration in her bizarre pupilless eyes. He was so fierce and so contained, but not without emotion. Everything he did was candid, and so elegant. There were no hidden meanings in his words, no subtle changes in his character. He did what he needed to do, and that was war.
Wrapping his hands gently in paper towels, she covered all in the wet jacket and led him out into the deserted hallway. The men all thought he'd gone into a rage-which was what she'd told them to save his reputation. It was better that way.
She led him to his room and shut the door, using bandages from the First Aid kit in his small bathroom to cover them-thank God he wouldn't need stitches! No one could know about his recent mental attacks and stitches would be a pain to explain to the crew. He sat on his bed the entire time, staring at his lap, not even fully aware that she was there. And she was grateful; she didn't think she could handle explaining that she knew First Aid; it would spoil her reputation.
She gave him a strong sedative and a glass of water before she left, locking the door behind her so that no one would be able to get in until he woke up. It would be about a day, maybe a day and a half until he was fully conscious again, which would give his wounds some time before he aggravated them.
He lay on his bed, fully dressed, with one knee up and an arm across his half-open eyes, too tired to move, and too depressed to welcome sleep. As he slipped into unconsciousness, Zechs remembered. He'd been in love once. She had such beautiful brown eyes. But she'd never known; he should have told her. More regrets. Maybe they could have gone somewhere far away, together. They really didn't need to kill, did they? He fell asleep and dreamed peaceful dreams of a different time with a brown-eyed girl.
* * * * *
Duo's gun pressed the skin between Treize Kushrenada's bizarre eyebrows as he shoved him backwards into his own rooms. Keeping his aim and his eyes on the general, he backed up to a window, yanking the tasseled curtain ropes (thinking, "what sort of a sissy needs curtains in a space fortress?") out of their loops and motioning for Treize to turn around.
Duo was skilled. He had developed a certain talent out of necessity for tying knots with one hand, which talent he now used fully as he tied His Excellency's delicate hands behind his back, not saying a word during the whole process. While he was considered the talkative one among the Gundam pilots, when it came to the business of rescuing his best friend he could be very serious. And with good reason. Treize was almost as dangerous as he was. Reason enough to be wary.
Shoving him against the wall, Duo searched his captive, quickly retrieving two hidden pistols and a sword-the very sword that had beaten Wufei, how long ago? He left that on the floor and then emptied the pistols of their ammunition and tossed them distastefully into the paper filled wastebasket. Now would be a great time for seizing any useful documents Treize might have at hand, but he had more important business to take care of. Namely one with a hole through the middle and one hell of a death glare.
* * * * *
So? What do you think? You gotta review now. Time, you see, is running out. You can feel it can't you? Can you feel the pressure mounting? Can you feel your heartbeat racing? Can you hear Mik screaming? I can. I don't think she'll ever stop either. Tell me what you think or risk my heart-rending disappointment. I'm going to get this idiotic fic done and right before I go insane and if someone doesn't review me I'm going to have to do it myself! So beware.
Be happy. StarChild.