The End of a Mystery
Chapter Nine
Maybe this will be the last chapter. Who knows?
Apologies if the people are out of character or if I happen to kill your favorite one off. I don't mean to be morbid but that's the way this thing seems to be going. You never know, though; it could change its direction pretty quick.
Howdy Non. I wonder, will you ever read this? Or will your computer continue to "malfunction?" We shall see..
Note: When I do this-- it means that there's a pause or hesitation. I don't know if other people use it that way, but it's my habit.
Chapter Nine---------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------
Relena padded down the silent corridors, wondering. She didn't know where she was going, or how many men were on the ship. All she knew was that she wanted to get to the controls and destroy the cannon, or at least it's abilities to function, before she was either killed or caught again. Already she had killed three men, not to mention Dorothy, and had taken their weapons as added protection-she didn't know how to load a gun. Her hand still throbbed with the backlash and she relished the pain, the only thing she could feel. They had been too surprised seeing Relena Peacecraft walking down the hall to do anything more than watch stupidly as she pulled out her gun and fired. And still she couldn't bring herself to feel-bad. It shocked her. She should be feeling guilt, should be suffocating from anxiety-but the fact was that she saw them as accomplices-which they were- and each time an overwhelming urge took her to kill them. So she did.
The halls were so empty, and she wondered why. Where were all the people, where was all the danger? White Fang was a threat to the whole world, to all the people everywhere, and yet she couldn't find the people responsible. How strange.. And then, what about her brother? She didn't want to kill him really; she had tried so hard to love him. It could never happen now; her soul felt dead. But she had tried, and for that she would spare him. If he would do as she wanted him to. If he would disable the cannon and promise her that he would never again attempt something so selfish.
Her bare feet felt cold on the impersonal tile floors and her soul felt numbed-chilled beyond death. Looking around her she saw nothing to remind her of happier times, nothing to recall to her the kind, happy girl she had been less than a week prior. She remembered that girl, remembered her mind, her soft heart; and she remembered with aching jealousy what it felt like to be content, even in the midst of war. But much time had passed since she knew that girl and she felt herself a stranger in her own mind. A chasm separated them, deep and dark-full of bitterness and suffering-and looking from one to the other-one kind and sweet and full of faith in human goodness, idealistic to the extreme; and the other cold and dead, brokenhearted, bitter, cynical, and disillusioned-and she could find nothing to reconcile the two.
Seeing a figure up ahead in the dress of the White Fang, she aimed her gun without slowing and fired; and the figure uttered a small cry, stumbled and fell, boneless. She didn't pause to look at the fallen man but walked over him carelessly, stepping in the warm blood that crept like misfortune from the ugly wound in his chest. And in her mind she was death, walking the halls of the guilty, and all she touched fell to dust beneath her fingers, surrendering their souls to whomever was there to take them, and she passed on, leaving prints of blood in her wake.
* * * * * *
The control room was in chaos.
All the men on the ship were in a panic. The White Fang was being attacked on three sides by mobile suits and several larger mecha's that had the entire crew sweating feverishly. Could they be.? The ship was large, but none-the-less, one could feel the vibrations of the attacks through the floor, could feel it rumble slightly against their eardrums, just beyond hearing. And once in a while, one would hit nearer and the crew would cling to chairs and walls and ledges. Mobile suits were being sent out sporadically, and the crew watched in grim suspense as, on the screens, they were cut down one by one by a large mecha with red and green coloring and a blurring beam of light held in its monstrous fist.
The Lightning Count was nowhere to be found. The crew was without direction, without organized tactics and it was telling. They missed the harsh directions of Cains (Kanz) and the soft gravelly voice of Zechs Marquise. They missed the cool aristocratic air of the girl who had sat by him during these battles and the decisions and brilliant battle tactics that came from her curved lips like prophesies of glory. And they knew they were going to die.
They heard the rumble before they felt it, and all clung to their supports before the panicked voice of a nameless soldier rang out over them all, "A Mobile Suit has boarded the ship!" There was an instant of silence and then frenzied activity as everyone realized what this new threat meant.
A lieutenant decided to take over, shouting badly organized plans over the noise. He ordered men deployed immediately to the vicinity of the ship in which the mecha-Gundam, but that was unspoken, as though were it not said, it would become less true-had landed, and they would track down the pilot and destroy him. But just in case that wasn't so easy, he sent twenty men to finish the job; they couldn't spare any more than that.
How many of the men bowed their heads in farewell as they looked on comrades for the last time? How many listened bemusedly to the pounding of the blood in their skulls? How many looked at the gray, mechanical room with new wonder, with a new vivacity-the wonder of him who suspects his waiting doom? And the colors, those colors that had been so suicidally boring before; grays and whites and every shade of dullness known to man's ever-active imagination, were now as bright and sparkling in their eyes as every rainbow that ever hung draped over the earth!
The lieutenant continued to bark orders and suits continued to leave the ship to be hacked down like so many practice dummies. The men at the controls continued to type, to no evident relief, and transmissions shot in various directions.
But there was no one to hear them. There was no one to come and destroy these common enemies. They were alone.
Space was cold. The stars laughed at their plight, mocking their fears of death. Soon the last and final wilderness would take new victims and she took pleasure in the fact, like a cat playing with a mouse. The stars laughed.
* * * * * * *
He was a wraith, a ghost, a shadow. Parting his lips slightly, he tasted the air. It was bitter, old. The White Fang had not landed anywhere for a long time, and there weren't enough plants around the ship to give off enough fresh, sweet, oxygen for his taste, meaning the White Fang grew little or none of its own food but required regular stops to keep it's crew fed. Potentially useful information stored itself in his mind without his conscious thought, and dispassionate blue eyes roved restless from one side to the other, finding no place to rest.
He'd shed his Oz uniform a while back, aware of the obnoxious swishing that the highly starched uniform was capable of, and now padded along in a pair of old cloth shorts and a t-shirt. The shoes had been too small and uncomfortable anyway, so he ditched them and went barefoot. The ship was cool and Goosebumps rose on his skin of their own accord, but he did not notice them. He was far above Goosebumps.
Already he had killed two men who had had the audacity to try to shoot him as he was climbing out of Wing. The second had run-but not far. No one could outrun Heero Yuy. It had been a short chase.
He had three objectives: 1) to find and destroy the cannon. 2) To find and destroy Zechs Marquise, a.k.a. the Lightning Count a.k.a. Milliardo Peacecraft. And 3) to find and destroy Dorothy Catalonia. He hated her, yes. He hated everyone. But she was a tool. First he would destroy Zechs and watch as the whole operation fell apart-all the time prepared for the possibility that that didn't happen-and then he would destroy her, and then the rest of the ship. A simple plan. Simple plans were always best, but he could pull off complicated just as easily.
Running now, he headed for the center of the ship, aware of the sounds that were becoming clearer to his ears; explosions, yelling, the buzz of machinery. He was getting near. And then voices, just around the next corner. He stopped dead and flung himself against the wall, his gun ready in his hand. Several men were coming, and by the sounds of their footsteps and mutterings, most likely more than ten-perhaps even fifteen. More. They turned the corner and he fired four shots in quick succession, and four men fell down in silence. And he was confronted with the panicked faces-and guns-of not ten but 16 men.
"Oh shit! The lieutenant's down! The lieutenant's down! Oh shit!" The litany rattled on and Heero stared coldly at the men who held him at gunpoint, who he had held at gunpoint. Would it be an impasse? Would they stand like this all day?
No!
He pulled the trigger and the pale man fell without even a groan, and Heero's gun roved to the next. There was iron at his temple, at both, but he could feel the vibrations of their owners shaking. His face showed no contempt but a mad urge to laugh struggled to take control and was suppressed. The man now under his gun stood stock-still, as though waiting for the child to spill his blood, end his life.
"Drop the weapon or I'll shoot." The man to Heero's left was speaking, and shook so hard that he may have shot anyway.
So he had a choice. He would willingly let himself be shot-he really didn't care much for life. But his mission was too important. And they, they would most likely allow their comrade to die, and then would kill him, because they considered that their most important priority. If he died, he would take only one of them with him unless he spent far more energy than he had-he could feel his wound seeping sluggish blood into the thick knot of bandages. But his mission was too important.
He stared at the man under his gun with a frightening intensity and the man shivered. He lowered his arm, allowing his gun to fall to the floor with a metallic crack, the first time in his long career.
One of the men in the back of the crowd laughed hysterically, breathlessly. And then the nameless soldier of Gundam 01 felt himself shoved roughly against the wall, the thin layer of flesh on his carven cheek smeared against the wall. He didn't fight as his arms were wrenched behind his back, near breaking. With dull eyes, he submitted to the pawing and unnecessary talk of the guards, and then his eyes flashed and opened once again as he felt the gun removed. He waited.
One of the guards let out a startled sound and out of the corner of his eye, he saw them jerk around to see-
He leapt backwards, between the men holding his arms, and with a swimming gesture threw them headfirst into the wall. Like a wolf among the sheep he decimated their numbers quickly until he faced one single man at the end of his gun. He was pale and his lips bled from biting them. He stood still, quaking, watching his life flash before his eyes no doubt. Heero didn't hesitate; he pulled the trigger. So quickly had he moved; he felt his wound open even as the last man fell beside him.
He now turned towards what had distracted them at the end of the hall; there was no one there. He went nearer and stood staring for a moment. There on the white wholesome tiles was a path of footprints. Kneeling close, he smelled them and recognized the sharp metallic scent of blood. Conveniently, they led in exactly the direction he desired to go.
And so he followed the bloody footprints, until the blood wore off and he made his way on his own.
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~ :~:
Just to let everyone know, if you like this, I have another fic. And a lot of poetry, if you're into that sort of thing. So don't hesitate to check it out. I could use the reviews.
Chapter Nine
Maybe this will be the last chapter. Who knows?
Apologies if the people are out of character or if I happen to kill your favorite one off. I don't mean to be morbid but that's the way this thing seems to be going. You never know, though; it could change its direction pretty quick.
Howdy Non. I wonder, will you ever read this? Or will your computer continue to "malfunction?" We shall see..
Note: When I do this-- it means that there's a pause or hesitation. I don't know if other people use it that way, but it's my habit.
Chapter Nine---------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------
Relena padded down the silent corridors, wondering. She didn't know where she was going, or how many men were on the ship. All she knew was that she wanted to get to the controls and destroy the cannon, or at least it's abilities to function, before she was either killed or caught again. Already she had killed three men, not to mention Dorothy, and had taken their weapons as added protection-she didn't know how to load a gun. Her hand still throbbed with the backlash and she relished the pain, the only thing she could feel. They had been too surprised seeing Relena Peacecraft walking down the hall to do anything more than watch stupidly as she pulled out her gun and fired. And still she couldn't bring herself to feel-bad. It shocked her. She should be feeling guilt, should be suffocating from anxiety-but the fact was that she saw them as accomplices-which they were- and each time an overwhelming urge took her to kill them. So she did.
The halls were so empty, and she wondered why. Where were all the people, where was all the danger? White Fang was a threat to the whole world, to all the people everywhere, and yet she couldn't find the people responsible. How strange.. And then, what about her brother? She didn't want to kill him really; she had tried so hard to love him. It could never happen now; her soul felt dead. But she had tried, and for that she would spare him. If he would do as she wanted him to. If he would disable the cannon and promise her that he would never again attempt something so selfish.
Her bare feet felt cold on the impersonal tile floors and her soul felt numbed-chilled beyond death. Looking around her she saw nothing to remind her of happier times, nothing to recall to her the kind, happy girl she had been less than a week prior. She remembered that girl, remembered her mind, her soft heart; and she remembered with aching jealousy what it felt like to be content, even in the midst of war. But much time had passed since she knew that girl and she felt herself a stranger in her own mind. A chasm separated them, deep and dark-full of bitterness and suffering-and looking from one to the other-one kind and sweet and full of faith in human goodness, idealistic to the extreme; and the other cold and dead, brokenhearted, bitter, cynical, and disillusioned-and she could find nothing to reconcile the two.
Seeing a figure up ahead in the dress of the White Fang, she aimed her gun without slowing and fired; and the figure uttered a small cry, stumbled and fell, boneless. She didn't pause to look at the fallen man but walked over him carelessly, stepping in the warm blood that crept like misfortune from the ugly wound in his chest. And in her mind she was death, walking the halls of the guilty, and all she touched fell to dust beneath her fingers, surrendering their souls to whomever was there to take them, and she passed on, leaving prints of blood in her wake.
* * * * * *
The control room was in chaos.
All the men on the ship were in a panic. The White Fang was being attacked on three sides by mobile suits and several larger mecha's that had the entire crew sweating feverishly. Could they be.? The ship was large, but none-the-less, one could feel the vibrations of the attacks through the floor, could feel it rumble slightly against their eardrums, just beyond hearing. And once in a while, one would hit nearer and the crew would cling to chairs and walls and ledges. Mobile suits were being sent out sporadically, and the crew watched in grim suspense as, on the screens, they were cut down one by one by a large mecha with red and green coloring and a blurring beam of light held in its monstrous fist.
The Lightning Count was nowhere to be found. The crew was without direction, without organized tactics and it was telling. They missed the harsh directions of Cains (Kanz) and the soft gravelly voice of Zechs Marquise. They missed the cool aristocratic air of the girl who had sat by him during these battles and the decisions and brilliant battle tactics that came from her curved lips like prophesies of glory. And they knew they were going to die.
They heard the rumble before they felt it, and all clung to their supports before the panicked voice of a nameless soldier rang out over them all, "A Mobile Suit has boarded the ship!" There was an instant of silence and then frenzied activity as everyone realized what this new threat meant.
A lieutenant decided to take over, shouting badly organized plans over the noise. He ordered men deployed immediately to the vicinity of the ship in which the mecha-Gundam, but that was unspoken, as though were it not said, it would become less true-had landed, and they would track down the pilot and destroy him. But just in case that wasn't so easy, he sent twenty men to finish the job; they couldn't spare any more than that.
How many of the men bowed their heads in farewell as they looked on comrades for the last time? How many listened bemusedly to the pounding of the blood in their skulls? How many looked at the gray, mechanical room with new wonder, with a new vivacity-the wonder of him who suspects his waiting doom? And the colors, those colors that had been so suicidally boring before; grays and whites and every shade of dullness known to man's ever-active imagination, were now as bright and sparkling in their eyes as every rainbow that ever hung draped over the earth!
The lieutenant continued to bark orders and suits continued to leave the ship to be hacked down like so many practice dummies. The men at the controls continued to type, to no evident relief, and transmissions shot in various directions.
But there was no one to hear them. There was no one to come and destroy these common enemies. They were alone.
Space was cold. The stars laughed at their plight, mocking their fears of death. Soon the last and final wilderness would take new victims and she took pleasure in the fact, like a cat playing with a mouse. The stars laughed.
* * * * * * *
He was a wraith, a ghost, a shadow. Parting his lips slightly, he tasted the air. It was bitter, old. The White Fang had not landed anywhere for a long time, and there weren't enough plants around the ship to give off enough fresh, sweet, oxygen for his taste, meaning the White Fang grew little or none of its own food but required regular stops to keep it's crew fed. Potentially useful information stored itself in his mind without his conscious thought, and dispassionate blue eyes roved restless from one side to the other, finding no place to rest.
He'd shed his Oz uniform a while back, aware of the obnoxious swishing that the highly starched uniform was capable of, and now padded along in a pair of old cloth shorts and a t-shirt. The shoes had been too small and uncomfortable anyway, so he ditched them and went barefoot. The ship was cool and Goosebumps rose on his skin of their own accord, but he did not notice them. He was far above Goosebumps.
Already he had killed two men who had had the audacity to try to shoot him as he was climbing out of Wing. The second had run-but not far. No one could outrun Heero Yuy. It had been a short chase.
He had three objectives: 1) to find and destroy the cannon. 2) To find and destroy Zechs Marquise, a.k.a. the Lightning Count a.k.a. Milliardo Peacecraft. And 3) to find and destroy Dorothy Catalonia. He hated her, yes. He hated everyone. But she was a tool. First he would destroy Zechs and watch as the whole operation fell apart-all the time prepared for the possibility that that didn't happen-and then he would destroy her, and then the rest of the ship. A simple plan. Simple plans were always best, but he could pull off complicated just as easily.
Running now, he headed for the center of the ship, aware of the sounds that were becoming clearer to his ears; explosions, yelling, the buzz of machinery. He was getting near. And then voices, just around the next corner. He stopped dead and flung himself against the wall, his gun ready in his hand. Several men were coming, and by the sounds of their footsteps and mutterings, most likely more than ten-perhaps even fifteen. More. They turned the corner and he fired four shots in quick succession, and four men fell down in silence. And he was confronted with the panicked faces-and guns-of not ten but 16 men.
"Oh shit! The lieutenant's down! The lieutenant's down! Oh shit!" The litany rattled on and Heero stared coldly at the men who held him at gunpoint, who he had held at gunpoint. Would it be an impasse? Would they stand like this all day?
No!
He pulled the trigger and the pale man fell without even a groan, and Heero's gun roved to the next. There was iron at his temple, at both, but he could feel the vibrations of their owners shaking. His face showed no contempt but a mad urge to laugh struggled to take control and was suppressed. The man now under his gun stood stock-still, as though waiting for the child to spill his blood, end his life.
"Drop the weapon or I'll shoot." The man to Heero's left was speaking, and shook so hard that he may have shot anyway.
So he had a choice. He would willingly let himself be shot-he really didn't care much for life. But his mission was too important. And they, they would most likely allow their comrade to die, and then would kill him, because they considered that their most important priority. If he died, he would take only one of them with him unless he spent far more energy than he had-he could feel his wound seeping sluggish blood into the thick knot of bandages. But his mission was too important.
He stared at the man under his gun with a frightening intensity and the man shivered. He lowered his arm, allowing his gun to fall to the floor with a metallic crack, the first time in his long career.
One of the men in the back of the crowd laughed hysterically, breathlessly. And then the nameless soldier of Gundam 01 felt himself shoved roughly against the wall, the thin layer of flesh on his carven cheek smeared against the wall. He didn't fight as his arms were wrenched behind his back, near breaking. With dull eyes, he submitted to the pawing and unnecessary talk of the guards, and then his eyes flashed and opened once again as he felt the gun removed. He waited.
One of the guards let out a startled sound and out of the corner of his eye, he saw them jerk around to see-
He leapt backwards, between the men holding his arms, and with a swimming gesture threw them headfirst into the wall. Like a wolf among the sheep he decimated their numbers quickly until he faced one single man at the end of his gun. He was pale and his lips bled from biting them. He stood still, quaking, watching his life flash before his eyes no doubt. Heero didn't hesitate; he pulled the trigger. So quickly had he moved; he felt his wound open even as the last man fell beside him.
He now turned towards what had distracted them at the end of the hall; there was no one there. He went nearer and stood staring for a moment. There on the white wholesome tiles was a path of footprints. Kneeling close, he smelled them and recognized the sharp metallic scent of blood. Conveniently, they led in exactly the direction he desired to go.
And so he followed the bloody footprints, until the blood wore off and he made his way on his own.
:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~ :~:
Just to let everyone know, if you like this, I have another fic. And a lot of poetry, if you're into that sort of thing. So don't hesitate to check it out. I could use the reviews.