The Red Shirts Always Go First, a gundam wing/ac fanfic

The Red Shirts Always Go First

And Other Short Stories

The following is a bunch of short vignettes filmed by various members of the Gundam "family." Based on the "Home Movies" fics, this story is just my way of keeping you entertained while I drag my feet in writing all of the longer fics.

Disclaimer: I own nothing right now except for two cute new bathing suits for Spring Break, a box of Crest Whitestrips, and the annoyance that I still haven't seen Quatre get stabbed in the spleen. I want some stabbing action, dammit!

Warnings: Very light (almost unnoticeable) shounen-ai (3x4x3, 1x2x1) and Wufei-baiting. Video camera hi-jinks. Language you shouldn't repeat in front of your grandma. The usual things in fanfics that we all enjoy laughing until we're red in the face over.

::The Red Shirts Always Go First::

Last week was Duo's birthday, and Hilde had bought him the entire collection of the original Star Trek series on videodisc. Now, it wasn't actually Duo's birthday, since nobody had any idea when Duo's birthday was, but it was hardly fair that everyone else had a birthday or something to celebrate, so why shouldn't he? Thus it was decided that February second (2/2) would be Duo's birthday. Anyway, ever since Duo had received the gift that's all he'd done, sit around on his ass and watch Star Trek. You couldn't get him to leave his comfortable beanbag on the floor of the living room for anything, not even for "Kink Night at Casa Yuy." And when Duo ignores his own lover, you know it isn't good. So Heero, for lack of better things to do, sat down on the couch to watch an episode or two of Captain Kirk's blasé heroics and Mister Spock's illogical logic. Trowa videotaped the encounter, just because he'd bought a new camera and wanted to play with it desperately.

"You know," Duo chattered, "whenever something bad happens on board the Enterprise, or somewhere else in space, the red shirts always go first."

Heero blinked. "What did you just say?"

"The red shirts always go first. See, you can always point out which ones are the expendable extras because they're wearing red shirts. The communication lady gets exempt from this 'cause she's wearing a red dress, but the guys in the red shirts are always the ones getting zapped by lasers or eaten by monsters or killer plants or screwed to death by alien women. Yup, you just can't be in space and wear a red shirt, it's like instant doom."

Heero blinked again, his eyes darting from the reclining form in the beanbag to the screen and back again.

"But Duo…we're in space right now and you're wearing a red shirt."

Duo went "meep."

"I think I'll go help Quatre with his office safety in-service presentation. Enjoy the rest of your movie, Duo," the Japanese ex-pilot said nonchalantly, getting up off of the couch and skulking off into the kitchen. Duo grew very quiet, whipping his head around quickly in all directions, looking for possible enemies while Trowa laughed quietly behind the camera.

::Mornings are an Injustice::

(With Special Thanks to Ponderosa, whose drawing "Mornings Suck" provided the inspiration.)

Quatre was Very Angry. Yes, not very angry, Very Angry with capital letters. Trowa promised that he'd meet Quatre at one for lunch on Thursday after his Monthly Report was given to the chiefs of staff at Winner Enterprises International. And, as the chiefs of staff are a bunch of curmudgeon-y old bastards who don't give a shit as to what a teenager thinks, it was obvious Quatre desperately needed the time away from the office. Guess who didn't show up for lunch? I'll give you a hint: He has no name, but if you must call him something, call him Dead Meat. Now, Quatre would have been perfectly understanding if something important had come up that Trowa couldn't have avoided. However, it wasn't a life-threatening emergency, he'd forgotten he'd made plans with Quatre and went to a baseball game with Wufei. Quatre didn't even think Wufei liked baseball!

And so, revenge was necessary. This was an Injustice (with a capital I) that he would not stand for. Being jilted for a bunch of sweaty men running around on an artificial field was certainly not the way to get in the good graces of He Who Went Completely Insane and Destroyed Several Colonies. Using the powers of being an adorable multibillionaire with oodles of connections, Quatre managed to sweet-talk Commander Une into giving Jerks 03 and 05 an assignment that would require an early wakeup call. How early? Oh, say, four in the morning on a Saturday. And of course, he would film this act of sheer genius.

Trowa and Wufei stumbled downstairs and fumbled their way around the kitchen, clad only in their boxer shorts (though Trowa had on a pair of very sexy white cotton socks). Wufei somehow managed to boil water for tea, but was yawning while trying to pour it into his mug and completely missed, scalding hot water splashing on the table. Trowa was standing in the refrigerator door, drinking straight from a carton of milk, his Unibang sticking up as if he'd stuck his finger in a light socket. Mm, looked like a Mohawk. Quatre laughed hysterically and waved, getting Trowa's attention. He grunted and threw the carton at his petite boyfriend, while Wufei floated facedown in a bowl of Cheerios.

"Mornings…injustice."

::Quatre's Smile::

Heero and his camcorder…well, actually Trowa's but he wasn't going to argue with Heero…wandered into the living room upon hearing an unusual noise. It sounded suspiciously like an egg timer. Upon further inspection and some stealth maneuvering, he discovered that it was, indeed, an egg timer. Quatre was sprawled across the loveseat, reading some trashy romance novel, sticking his tongue out. Now, other than the tongue and the egg timer clacking along at a steady pace, Heero might not have noticed. But the situation seemed just too weird to go unnoticed.

"Quatre, what are you doing?" he asked civilly, as if that's possible with Heero. Everything he says sounds like a death threat, even if it's asking what's for dinner.

"This stuff tastes yucky," the blonde replied, lisping slightly.

Heero shook his head. "What stuff?"

Quatre bared his teeth, a plastic film just barely visible on both his upper and lower teeth.

"Tooth-whitening strips. I'm supposed to leave them on for half an hour twice a day for two weeks," he stated, pointing to the instruction pamphlet sitting on the coffee table.

Duo sauntered in, a towel draped around his neck, the front of his tank top drenched in sweat. He'd played a two-on-one game of pickup basketball in the driveway with Wufei and Trowa and had been thoroughly slaughtered.

"What's Q doing?" he questioned.

"Whitening his teeth," Heero replied. "Though I can't understand why."

Duo nodded in agreement. "Q, you've got a smile bright enough to land planes. Why in the hell do you have the need to whiten your teeth any more?"

Quatre's shoulders slumped. "Because they don't go 'ping.' You know, like when a really handsome and debonair guy smiles and his teeth are so white they go 'ping.' Mine don't do that, and I want them to."

"Quatre, that only happens in cartoons," Duo pointed out, untying his braid and running his fingers through it. The Arabian ex-pilot shook his head vehemently. At this point, Trowa walked in.

"Trowa, smile!" Quatre commanded.

The green-eyed pilot obeyed, cracking a completely uncharacteristic but very sexy grin. His teeth most undoubtedly went 'ping.' Quatre gave everyone else a look that said, 'see? I'm not as crazy as you think I am.'

"Dammit, we're gonna need some of those whitey-strip things," Duo muttered.

::(Not So) Perfect Soldier::

It was the annual Preventers Barbeque, and Hilde was running around with her super high tech video camera, capturing the whole thing for posterity and a few good laughs. There was Heero, engaged in a shouting match with Zechs at the grill, hot dogs spontaneously combusting behind them as they went unattended. And over there was Wufei, going red in the face as Sally Po continued to prove him wrong on some point. And there went Quatre, being the ultimate in social butterflies, out-butterflying even Relena. And Duo and Trowa were doing what Duo and Trowa did best, entertaining small children. Mariemaia was especially pleased at the way Trowa had made such a neat little Duo-outline on the side of the house with all of the party utensils. Guests would be pulling their knives and forks off of the wall if they wanted them.

"Hey babe!" Duo shouted, waving at the camera. "I hear Commander Une's given you a position with us superheroes, eh?"

Hilde and the camera nodded. "I'm going to be an officer in Tech Division, mechanical work, teaching kids how to hotwire, you know. It beats the hell out of being all by my lonesome down at the scrap heap."

Just then Mariemaia strolled over, looking as though she owned the place, with Trowa in tow. It appeared that Trowa had been recruited as Little Miss Despot's official man-slave for the duration of the party. Where was Pargan when you needed him?

"Are Mister Heero and Mister Zechs ever going to be ready with dinner? Everyone is getting very upset and Mister Quatre is wondering if he should just run out to the nearest 'Pita in a Pinch' and order something for everyone," she said in the most not-nine-year-old-sounding voice ever.

"I'll go see what those two are up to," Duo sighed.

"And I'll go too because I'm Hilde Schbeiker, Intrepid Camerawoman!" Hilde chirped.

Zechs was looking mighty smug right about now, while Heero sulked on the opposite side of the grill, muttering death threats and flipping the former OZ/Sanq Kingdom/White Fang officer/diplomat/genocidal maniac off whenever he could.

"What's going on?" the braided pilot asked, practically singing.

Zechs grinned evilly. "Ask the Perfect Soldier what the problem is. I'm looking forward to hearing this."

Heero death-glared at him before mumbling, "I can't cook a hot dog to save my life."

"What's that?" Zechs taunted, milking this moment of triumph for all it was worth.

"I CAN'T COOK A HOT DOG TO SAVE MY LIFE! AND I BURNT THE HAMBURGERS!"

Duo groaned. "That's right, Perfect Soldier, not Iron Chef."

::Wufei is What?!::

(With special thanks to my daddy, who played a similar prank on one of his coworkers.)

Sally Po had had enough. Wufei had crossed the line this time. She could tolerate him for only so long before she felt the urge to reach out, grab his ponytail, whiplash him backwards and then strangle him until his eyes bugged out of his head. At least, that's what she told Noin.

"What'd he do this time?" she asked.

Sally was seething as she replied, "He told me not to pick up a microwave box that was sitting in the lobby because I was a 'weak onna' and would probably hurt myself if I tried. Lu, I can bench twice his body weight! I'm sick and tired of this 'weak onna' shit! He dies NOW."

"So you give the little shit what's coming to him. I'm sure the other pilots would like to get even with him on some front as well, see who you can recruit to assist."

Sally nodded and sauntered off, already scheming with ways to pay Wufei back for all of his 'weak onna' comments.

Well, it took the artistic genius of one Trowa Barton as well as the high-class hacking talents of the almighty compu-god Heero Yuy (not to mention Duo's brand of obnoxious distraction) before Sally's Vengeance could be enacted. Sally and her two cohorts sat in the security surveillance booth, watching things unfold from the security camera mounted in the corner of Wufei's office. It had such a nice view of the computer, too.

The Chinese Preventer stormed into the room, complaining about 'damn Maxwell' bothering him, and sat down at his computer. He flicked on the power strip and the button on the hard drive, spinning around lazily in the chair as he waited for it to boot up. As soon as the desktop appeared the computer immediately logged onto the Internet. Wufei blinked in confusion, waiting for the site to download. It was some gay website, on which was plastered a very large picture of himself engaged in a ménage-a-trois with Zechs and Treize in a hot tub no doubt reeking of rose fragrance. The caption read, "Fraternizing with the Enemy? Well, looks like all five Gundam Pilots are gay after all. Damn, and we all thought 05 was just your average misogynistic homophobe." Wufei slowly started hyperventilating, but seriously lost it when a little message box popped up, reading, "Surprise! This has been sent to everyone you know. And we mean everyone. Love, Nemesis, Goddess of Vengeance."

Wufei began screaming in true Alvin and the Chipmunks fashion. "Barton! YUY! ONNA!"

::Cecil B. DeMoron::

(Thanks to the producers of the Go For It! Domon W strips found at the back of the Gundam comics, from whom I blatantly ripped this one from.)

Duo and Heero were standing around their Hummer, trying to figure out why it was making that funny 'rattle plink rattle squeal' noise. Duo's nose had a grease spot on it, and Heero had a big ol' monkey wrench sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans. Duo wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing more grease on his face.

"Ya know Heero, I've been thinking…"

Heero smirked. "Do you want some aspirin?"

"Cute. No, seriously, I've really been thinking about this. If we'd been around back in the twenty-first century, like if we'd been…oh, I don't know, some wicked popular Japanese animation series or something, you think they would've made a Gundam movie about us?"

"Who knows? They made a movie out of just about everything else."

Duo bounced on the balls of his feet. "Yeah, I know. It'd be so cool, though! They'd call it Gundam Wing, just 'cause Wing's the most important Gundam…but I'd be played by Brad Pitt since he's like this big hot superstar that women get all googly over. And that Josh Hartnett kid could play Trowa, I guess, and maybe Chow Yun Fat could play Wufei…"

"Isn't Chow Yun Fat pretty old?" Heero asked.

Quatre walked into the garage at this point, carrying a couple of glasses of water for his housemates. "What're you guys doing?"

"What do you think, Q? If they made a Gundam movie back in the twenty-first century? I bet you'd be played by that dude who did it with a pie," Duo said with a grin.

Quatre shook his head. "Nah, with my luck I'd be played by some girl. Besides, who would want to watch us anyway? A whole movie about the five of us roaming around space blowing things up?"

"Well, there'd be intrigue and stuff like that too! Because Hollywood producers throw that kind of crap in there all the time, ya know. They'd probably throw in a whole sex scene between Heero and Miss Big Ass Pink Limo herself."

"Followed by me killing her," Heero muttered. "And then you, Cecil B. DeMoron."

::Japanese Lessons::

Duo was dancing around the house, singing a song about being the God of Death and just being annoying in general. He was in one of those moods, the kind you get when you've been cooped up in the house, running on three hours of sleep and having eaten half the contents of a Whitman's Sampler. So, as a result, he'd run up to Wufei and yelled "boo!" while the Chinese boy was sitting on the floor meditating, pestered Quatre (who was busily trying to fill out their tax returns and get them in before Tax Day) until he nearly went Zero, and tried 'helping' Trowa down in his paint studio. That is, until he stepped on a tube of yellow ochre, causing it to explode and spatter all over said ex-Heavyarms pilot.

"La-la-la, I'm Shinigami!" he sang, bouncing into the room he shared with Heero, wondering if he could burn some of his excess energy with some exercises in breath control with his favorite uber-soldier. That is, knock each other's tonsils around until one of them turns blue from not breathing.

"Shinigami! Yeah, yeah, hey, Shinigami!"

Heero glanced up from the manga he was reading (traditional right-to-left, doncha know?).

"You're saying that wrong, you know. You have been for the past couple of years now."

Duo pouted. "Whaddya mean?"

"You call yourself Shinigami, God of Death, right?" Heero asked, waiting for a nod of confirmation. "You are pronouncing it incorrectly. There is no such word as Shinigami, nor does it mean 'god of death.' To be honest, you've been running around saying what I think…mind you, my Japanese isn't as it should be, I've gotten rusty after living with you lot…'god from a rice cooker.'"

"You're just trying to shut me up, Heero. I know what I'm saying, and Shinigami is 'god of death,' so there," Duo replied peevishly, hands on his hips, braid squiggling like an angry snake.

Heero merely sighed. "No, 'god of death' is shi no kami. But I'll let it slide…for now, anyways."

Duo managed to scare up one of his usual shit-eating grins. "Hey, I can live with being the god from a rice cooker. As long as I'm a god and I still have something over you, mortal."

::Amazingly Dorothy::

Relena, Hilde, and Sylvia Noventa were sitting together at some Women of the Eve Wars tea that a bunch of the Winner sisters had thrown together (company fundraiser whipped up under Quatre's nose) and were watching as everyone walked by their table. It was kind of an odd little group, the Vice-Foreign Minister, a scrapyard owner and defected OZ officer, and the granddaughter of the accidentally assassinated Field Marshall of the Alliance. They all watched as Dorothy walked by, nodding a cool little hello to all three.

"You know what I've always wondered?" Hilde asked.

Sylvia cocked her head cutely. "How Dorothy got her eyebrows like that?"

"Yes!" Hilde cried, slamming her fist down on the table. "It's been driving me crazy since forever! I mean, eyebrows like that just aren't normal!"

Relena shook her head, chuckling. "No, they aren't. I actually think they're hereditary. Treize Khushrenada had forked eyebrows as well, and he was a cousin of Dorothy's, I believe."

"Maybe all of the Khushrenadas and the Catalonias go to the same hair salon and get 'em waxed and plucked for a big group discount," Hilde suggested.

"They could be fakes," Sylvia pointed out. "I mean, her eyebrows are a lot darker than her hair color, unless she dyes it."

The thought of Dorothy dyeing her hair brought up a whole different string of thoughts, but everything always came back to her enormous and dangerously pointy eyebrows.

"You remember when Quatre got stabbed in the spleen right before the pilots took Libra down?" Hilde asked of Relena. "Do you think she managed to get him with one of those humdingers?"

Relena's own eyebrows furrowed. "What would Dorothy be doing down near his spleen?"

Sylvia giggled. "I can think of a few things."

Just then, who should sit down at the table but Miss Catalonia herself? She said a quick hello, pulling out a compact and examining her face, smoothing down her eyebrows. They looked real enough, but then again, so did the president's toupee.

"So, my dear ladies, what stirring conversations are we having today?" she asked presently. The three young women exchanged glances quickly, wondering what to say. That was before Lady Une glided by, greeting everyone in her wake. An idea popped into Relena's head.

"I hear that's not Lady Une's original color," she informed her group of gossipers. "I've heard that she's really a blonde. And I've also heard…"

"What?" the others hissed.

"Well, I heard that when Lady Une was just a young girl, not a whole lot older than Mariemaia is now, she met our dear friend Trowa Barton and fell madly in love with him. Of course, she was working for OZ and had to betray him, but…"

"No way!"

And the gossiping continued. But every now and then, somebody would sneak a glance at Dorothy's amazing eyebrows.

::Pin-Up::

"Are you sure this is safe?" Quatre inquired.

Trowa nodded, tightening the straps just a little tighter. "Hey, I've done it for years and you've never seen me get hurt, have you?"

Quatre's aquamarine eyes narrowed. "There's that time the knife bounced. You have that little scar under your right eye from it. And that time you flinched and it…"

"Okay, so there are a few little scrapes. But I've got all my appendages, right? And you did say you always wanted to run away and join the circus, now, didn't you?"

The last strap was buckled in place, and Trowa stood back. Way back.

"If I didn't love you, I'd hate you, Trowa Barton."

Catherine stepped forward, cracking her knuckles and the joints in her shoulders and neck before picking up a handful of throwing knives. She was pleased that Quatre actually agreed to doing this, she'd always harbored a grudge against him for hurting her brother, and wanted to take a couple of shots at him.

"Ready, Quatre?"

"No!"

Trowa laughed. "Just think of it this way, you'll be my own personal pin-up!"

"Damn you, Trowa Barton! I should have never opened up that cockpit! I would've been better off!" he howled, the first knife hitting the wood behind him with a dull "thock" sound, barely a half-inch from his cheek.

Catherine threw until she ran out of knives, and even then wanted to keep going. She almost went and got a pitchfork from the barn, had Trowa not prevented her. As it was, she'd unloaded an entire silverware drawer or two, leaving a nice outline around the billionaire's body.

"Hey Trowa, you want to go out and get something to eat? I'm famished!" she called.

"Sure, let me just get my keys and we'll go," he replied.

Quatre's eyes went wide. "You're not going to leave me here, are you? Trowa? TROWA BARTON!"

And Dorothy, who'd come to see the show (and a half naked Trowa in uber-tight pants), sat and laughed while her former mortal enemy dangled from a big old chunk of wood.

I think that's all I'm going to be able to wring out. The last two were definitely a stretch, but I wanted to get this to you before I left on Spring Break. So goodbye, dear friends, I'll see you in a week or so. In the meantime, go do something constructive!