Late December, AC 208
Listening required concentration. A rushing flow of steam was continuously muffling the sounds of the crowded hanger, cloaking conversations as they blossomed. Not that it really mattered of course; Sebastian Lyboc was not one to pry. Still, he prided himself on his sense of awareness, including his ability to gather information from the most incidental forums. Conversations tended to offer useful tidbits, especially if those involved thought themselves to be isolated. Small facts, idle interests, or even an intimate secret or two had a tendency to slip. Often, they meant nothing, but there had been occasions where the former leader of the Grand Cross Empire had garnered something of reasonable worth. It was a motto that had been drilled into him by his late uncle; one can never know too much.
Then again, perhaps it wouldn't have mattered if he could actually hear his former subordinates. At the moment, he had far too much on his mind. As his somber sub-commander, Sydney Dominus, had said just minutes ago, his whole world was coming to an end. Even in the wake of the Leviathan's defeat, the tides of change still proved to be unavoidable. The Empire had fallen. It was time to move on.
"The Empire," never "his Empire." Though he had effectively served as the sole ruling power of humanity's realm amongst the stars, he had never claimed to be the guiding symbol of its existence: its emperor. He was merely the interim operator of complex machine, one that transcended any hollow vanities that he could have adopted. The GCE would have existed with or without him, embodying the spirit of a united colonial government.
Now, that was all gone. In the recent weeks, the continuous assaults of the Earth's United Alliance of Nations, combined with the shadowy efforts of the god-like machine Leviathan, had torn apart the military might that had preserved the GCE's stability. His strategies against the encroaching armies had failed, torn apart by the ineptitude of his supporters and the betrayal of his comrades. Many of his most trusted allies, friends who he would unquestionably entrusted his life too, had shown their true colors in the face of defeat. By now, at least half of his surviving battalions were contemplating defection, preferring to be on the "right" side once the final curtain fell.
Three days ago, Sebastian had gathered with the last of his loyal supports in the Jericho Sea, an asteroid infested sector of space that ran near the infamous Shoals of Lagrange Point 4. Hundreds of miles of debris stretched across the latter region, much of it drifting into the former. It was a silent lesson in military history, bearing the left-over scrap from generations of warfare. It was also the ideal hiding place, able to mask even the largest fleets in total obscurity.
The plan had been to strike the UA flank as it advanced into the deepest reaches of the L4 area. With luck, it would have placed the enemy formation into total disarray, baffling even the turncoats who had joined them. This saving grace for the GCE was not destined to pass, however. Without warning, chaos had erupted near the Earth itself, when a derelict colony appeared to be on a collision course with the planet. In reality, this wreck housed the massive, reconstructed body of the Leviathan, a self aware mobile weapon with an incredible intellect. Bent on exterminating the warmongering human race, it attacked both sides without mercy.
Lyboc had found himself in a tense truce with the UA fleet, moving his supporters to Earth to fight alongside them against the mechanized beast. After a long, bloody conflict, the techno-titan was obliterated, though the victory cries were short-lived. Within moments, UA ships and squadrons were demanding the surrender of the surviving colony forces, offering "fair" terms in light of their recent aide. Fair... the very notion was a mockery. Even now, Sebastian had been told that complying commanders were suddenly stripped of their positions, vanishing amidst a regime of interrogations and reallocations. Most would likely turn up in a few months, captaining garbage haulers, salvage ships, and resource transports as part of their "re-education." Others would not be so lucky.
He fell into that category. For his crimes against the UA, as well as his role in countless wartime incidents, it was likely that a mock trial and swift execution awaited Sebastian. There was no mercy for scapegoats, especially in the post-war period. He knew that they already had his closest associate, Intelligence Chief Marcus Kingsley. He would be questioned, and then paraded around before the media as a trophy before they sent him to the gas chamber. Sebastian wanted to avoid that fate, at all costs.
So, now he was here, on a crumbling mining survey site just outside the Earth's orbit. The facility would soon be under attack by the UA's cleanup battalions, who would weed out the last of his flotilla. Panning his gaze over the congested docking bay, he watched dozens of soldiers say their good-byes to one another. Most would scatter about the colony region, hoping to lose themselves. Others had planned on returning to the Earth, abandoning their former lives to make a fresh start. Sebastian envied them. For the common soldier, escape was just a name change away. Known officials like him were far less fortunate.
There was a third category of fate attached to the previous two, and that was embracing the inevitable. A handful of soldiers, distraught by the loss of the war, the knowledge of their deeds, or the fact that they would never see their families again, had decided to take the easiest way out of their suffering. Sydney Rebecca Dominus was one of those people. The death of Sebastian's predecessor, Leopold Torquemada, had shattered the young woman weeks ago. She had abandoned all traces of human emotion, becoming nothing more than a flesh and blood killing machine. Now that the war was over, her purpose for life had washed away. She was going to join her beloved.
Some would label such individuals as cowards; craven souls who could face reality. Sebastian simply pitied them.
"Sir?" The young technician's voice jarred his senses, shifting his attention away from his thoughts, and back to the real world.
"Sir?" he repeated. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, sergeant, fine," Sebastian assured the boy, a touch of authority in his tone. "How is my Garamonde?" He did not bother asking if the eager lad had indeed checked Lyboc's personal mobile suit. If he had not, then he would not deserve his current reputation for reliability. Besides, he had been ordered to, and a soldier always followed his directives.
"It's not worth saving sir, pardon my saying so," the technician returned, keeping a level tone. Sebastian was impressed. Most would be apprehensive, worried that they may insight his wrath.
"That was expected," Lyboc said, looking past his charge to the decrepit green-and-blue Vayeate Shuivan that he had flown since his enlisted days. "The Leviathan was a worthy foe to lose it to. Better that than to see it locked away in some UA warehouse."
"Sir, what should we do with it?" the technician kept his mind on his job, it seemed. No time for small talk.
"Strip it down, and distribute the parts as needed," Sebastian hid the regret in his voice, knowing that it would only weaken his position. "In the meantime, I want a maintenance crew to service Lt. Commander Dominus' mobile suit."
"The Gundam, sir?" the technician's eyes grew wide for a moment, and then he straightened his features. "Sir, yes sir." His departure was unceremonious, a testimony to the GCE's strict protocol system.
Standing within the largest of the dock's mobile suit paddocks was the burly form of the Shinka. Over twenty meters in height, with wide shoulders and sweeping thrust baffles, the mobile suit dwarfed all of those around it. As a Gundam, it bore an altered version of the trademark sensor head and crest arrangement, though lending an appearance that radiated ferocity. Its hefty beam cannon was more powerful than an arsenal, making the machine the premier assault unit of the GCE. Few things could harm Shinka, and even fewer could come close to even threatening it. During the battle with the Leviathan, the Gundam had stood its ground against the automated hordes pitched against it.
Now, it was silent, dead. Its pilot, the once fiery Lt. Commander Dominus, had slipped away into obscurity. The death of the Empire weighed heavily upon her heart, though not nearly as much as the loss of its original leader. Leopold Torquemada, a self-styled savoir, had forcibly taken control of the entire government a few short months prior. His xenophobic dedication to eradicating the Earth's "psychic threat" had been rewarded with an assassin's bullet. The lieutenant had been one of his closest aides, and supposedly his lover, if one believed the rumour mill.
Watching her retreating form vanish around a corner, sombre face and sorrowful eyes concealed as she lowered her head, Sebastian felt a small chord of sympathy. In her own extreme way, the lieutenant embodied the collective emotions of the entire Grand Cross military, her mixed sensations of frustration, sadness, and loss all converging into some unspeakable pathos. Every one of them had seen at least one comrade die before their eyes, or had heard the rumours of what grim fate awaited them at the UA's hands. Melancholy was in the air; the end was inevitable.
No, not the end, he thought, but merely a pause between acts.
Turning about, he stepped onward towards the silent form of the massive mobile suit, his gaze locking with the deep emerald of its sensor eyes. As the technician ran a priming charge through its systems, the Gundam suddenly shuddered, energy flaring into its body. A gantry ladder joined the space between the hanger floor and its cockpit, dangling along the machines form. As he climbed, Sebastian saw that Shinka's body was a landscape of scratches, bullet punctures, and dents. Still, nothing merited any serious attention; it could fly, and that was all he wanted.
Easing into the padded seat, Sebastian swept away the small trinkets that Dominus had left behind. The keepsakes, reminders, and tokens that constituted the last of her shattered life were cast outside the opening, raining to the deck with a clatter. With hesitation, he glanced at the last object left in his hand, a gold uniform patch that bore the charging silhouette of a medieval horseman. It was the insignia of the Seventh Colonial Guard, a noble unit that bore his name in its moniker. "Sebastian's Knight's;" they had been a source of great pride to him, even after he had received his abrupt "promotion." Loyal, honourable, and courageous until the end, they were now a decimated memory. Caressing the patch's surface, he allowed his stone features falter again, for a moment, before letting it slip through his fingers. It fluttered a few feet outward before disappearing amid the growing disorder below his gaze.
The cockpit clamped shut, casting him in incidental darkness before a series of instrument panels activated. Watching the Gundam awaken to its full ferocious potential, Sebastian smiled. Easing the left joystick of the command chair forward, he felt the low vibration of its rumbling hydraulics, and heard the resonating echo of its heavy footfalls. The machine was alive; battered, beaten, and clutching at its wounds, but alive. Satisfied, he proceeded to the hanger's launch catapult, taking one last moment to look over the turbulent scene.
Panic still reigned, but some semblance of dignity did shine through among a brave few. Sebastian secretly hoped that all of them, even the lowliest labourer, would escape to whatever new existence they had concocted. Still, he knew better. Before the day was done, some of them would still be dead, a few by their own hand. Resigning himself, he marched the Gundam onward, letting the catapult's life carry him to the station's surface, and to whatever destiny might lie beyond.
Nearby, a desolate corridor rang with the discharge of Sydney Dominus' service pistol.
* * * * * * *
Two hours ago, Brian Amis had awakened. One hour ago his sedatives had worn off. Fifteen minutes ago, he had been given a mirror. Now, he faintly wished that he had never regained consciousness at all.
Turning the small mirror over in his hand, Brian examined his face with a morbid fascination. After the UA recovery teams had pried open his mobile suit, he had been whisked away to the closest medical ship, and placed in intensive care. Just over a week had passed since then, though the physicians had only gotten around to his operation yesterday. The burns to his flesh had been extensive, heavily damaging portions of left cheek and arm, requiring grafts of pseudo-flesh to prevent infection. Looking at his reflection, however, he began to curse his very survival.
The cosmetic alterations to the artificial skin had not yet been added, only the initial layer of simulated tissue and veins. It resembled a clear, plastic wrap, perfectly transparent. Tracing a finger down his left cheek, he paused at the gaping hole that exposed his jaw and gum line. Small splinters of the material laced further along his features, curling up to the gnarled remains of his ear. That, he amended, explained why his hearing was garbled, as if he was underwater.
One pathway stopped short of his eye, curling about before merging with another that met the edge of his nose. Portions of his upper lip had been replaced as well, giving him the rationale for why he dribbled liquids when they were brought to him. His face felt numb, a lack of sensation that he would have to become accustomed too. Modern medicine had not yet replicated the intricacies of natural skin, not to their fullest. For now, this facsimile was as advanced a replacement as he could hope for, a mask that his doctor would soon colour to match the rest of him.
Quietly, Amis set the mirror down. He was too tired to rage, or to hurl it across the room. This was something that he would just have to accept, something that would seem normal in due time. Still, he doubted that his life would ever be quite the same. The UA had no place for maimed soldiers who had lost their command, along with their mobile suit. If he was to remain enlisted, it would be on the lowliest terms possible. For now, though, he chose not to dwell on that, and simply sought the escape that lingered in sleep.
* * * * * * *
Gabriel Sinclair sat alone in his cell, listening to the low growl of his own stomach as it voiced its discontent. Four days without a stable meal, his captors having provided only a consistent supply of water to keep him alive. He guessed that all Grand Cross prisoners of war were receiving the same reception or perhaps something even worse. He wondered what would ultimately become of him. Would the UA's intelligence officers drag him out for more questioning? Would he be left to rot here until starvation claimed him? Or would he be tossed into a war crimes trial to ease the public consciousness? Neither of these roads sounded particularly pleasant.
Horror stories about one's enemy were a hallmark of war. While he undergoing his initial training, he recalled the rumour-driven tales of his fellow cadets, speaking of the tyrannical and primitive practices of the Earth's armed forces. He imagined that the UA troopers told the same stories to their own peers, each side getting themselves into a terrified fever over the sinister cruelty that the other bred wherever they stepped.
Pretty pathetic, when one thought about it.
Sighing, Gabriel turned his attention back to the stain mottled ceiling of his five by seven foot prison. He continued to ponder the various questions that nagged at his mind. Were they going to execute him? Would he even get a trial? What had happened to Silvia? Turning on his side, he restrained a frustrated yell, giving his pillow a punch instead. The less noise he made, the more he behaved, the better they would likely treat him.
The sudden 'swish' of his cell door sliding open jarred his attention. Sitting up, Gabriel squinted towards the white light that framed his latest visitor. The uniformed intel inquisitor, a man who answered simply to the name of Welsh, stood before him, his usual Cheshire smile framing his features.
"Ah, Mr. Sinclair, good to see you in such fine health," his tone was patronizing, each word biting into Gabriel with a profound edge of arrogance.
"Thanks," Gabriel replied, trying to feign a cheerful tone. "I can't say I care for the place, though. The room's a little stuffy, the sheets are always dirty, and the food service just sucks."
"Well," Welsh returned, his bemused voice perpetual, "you're in luck. It looks like you've had the good fortune of being cleared of any war crimes charges." He paused, for effect.
"So, I'm free to go? Great!" Gabriel hopped to his feet, dusting off his flight suit coat, and proceeded for the door. "It's been real," he said, allowing a little malice to escape into his words this time.
"Not so fast," the officer's smile broadened as he blocked the younger man's path. "You still have to serve your conditional labour sentence. You were, after all, the enemy." He latched a little emphasis to this last word, poking at Gabriel's resolve.
"What?!" Gabriel exclaimed, totally caught off guard. "You're going to make me break rocks in some mining shaft for the rest of my life?"
"Nothing so crude," Welsh chuckled. "As a minimal security risk, you've been assigned to one of our new, "cooperative" battalions. We are, after all, trying to help the innocent soldiers of the late Grand Cross continue their duties as protectors."
"Drafted slavery is more like it..." Gabriel muttered, affixing a scowl to his face.
"Call it what you will, Mr. Sinclair," Welsh shrugged, still very enthusiastic in his demeanor. "Or, should I say, Corporal Sinclair? In any event, the point is moot. You are to be assigned already, to serve a minimum of three years tending to duties aboard a vessel in our illustrious space fleet. Try to make the best of it; it beats a firing squad." Departing with a polite wave, Welsh walked on down the hall, a slight spring in his step.
Behind him, the reeling Gabriel was left with a sense of muted hatred. Lashing out at Welsh would surely have won him more time in the stockade, along with a quick re-evaluation of his "threat" status. All he could do was make the best of this terrible situation, and ride it out. Besides, it couldn't be that bad, could it?
Listening required concentration. A rushing flow of steam was continuously muffling the sounds of the crowded hanger, cloaking conversations as they blossomed. Not that it really mattered of course; Sebastian Lyboc was not one to pry. Still, he prided himself on his sense of awareness, including his ability to gather information from the most incidental forums. Conversations tended to offer useful tidbits, especially if those involved thought themselves to be isolated. Small facts, idle interests, or even an intimate secret or two had a tendency to slip. Often, they meant nothing, but there had been occasions where the former leader of the Grand Cross Empire had garnered something of reasonable worth. It was a motto that had been drilled into him by his late uncle; one can never know too much.
Then again, perhaps it wouldn't have mattered if he could actually hear his former subordinates. At the moment, he had far too much on his mind. As his somber sub-commander, Sydney Dominus, had said just minutes ago, his whole world was coming to an end. Even in the wake of the Leviathan's defeat, the tides of change still proved to be unavoidable. The Empire had fallen. It was time to move on.
"The Empire," never "his Empire." Though he had effectively served as the sole ruling power of humanity's realm amongst the stars, he had never claimed to be the guiding symbol of its existence: its emperor. He was merely the interim operator of complex machine, one that transcended any hollow vanities that he could have adopted. The GCE would have existed with or without him, embodying the spirit of a united colonial government.
Now, that was all gone. In the recent weeks, the continuous assaults of the Earth's United Alliance of Nations, combined with the shadowy efforts of the god-like machine Leviathan, had torn apart the military might that had preserved the GCE's stability. His strategies against the encroaching armies had failed, torn apart by the ineptitude of his supporters and the betrayal of his comrades. Many of his most trusted allies, friends who he would unquestionably entrusted his life too, had shown their true colors in the face of defeat. By now, at least half of his surviving battalions were contemplating defection, preferring to be on the "right" side once the final curtain fell.
Three days ago, Sebastian had gathered with the last of his loyal supports in the Jericho Sea, an asteroid infested sector of space that ran near the infamous Shoals of Lagrange Point 4. Hundreds of miles of debris stretched across the latter region, much of it drifting into the former. It was a silent lesson in military history, bearing the left-over scrap from generations of warfare. It was also the ideal hiding place, able to mask even the largest fleets in total obscurity.
The plan had been to strike the UA flank as it advanced into the deepest reaches of the L4 area. With luck, it would have placed the enemy formation into total disarray, baffling even the turncoats who had joined them. This saving grace for the GCE was not destined to pass, however. Without warning, chaos had erupted near the Earth itself, when a derelict colony appeared to be on a collision course with the planet. In reality, this wreck housed the massive, reconstructed body of the Leviathan, a self aware mobile weapon with an incredible intellect. Bent on exterminating the warmongering human race, it attacked both sides without mercy.
Lyboc had found himself in a tense truce with the UA fleet, moving his supporters to Earth to fight alongside them against the mechanized beast. After a long, bloody conflict, the techno-titan was obliterated, though the victory cries were short-lived. Within moments, UA ships and squadrons were demanding the surrender of the surviving colony forces, offering "fair" terms in light of their recent aide. Fair... the very notion was a mockery. Even now, Sebastian had been told that complying commanders were suddenly stripped of their positions, vanishing amidst a regime of interrogations and reallocations. Most would likely turn up in a few months, captaining garbage haulers, salvage ships, and resource transports as part of their "re-education." Others would not be so lucky.
He fell into that category. For his crimes against the UA, as well as his role in countless wartime incidents, it was likely that a mock trial and swift execution awaited Sebastian. There was no mercy for scapegoats, especially in the post-war period. He knew that they already had his closest associate, Intelligence Chief Marcus Kingsley. He would be questioned, and then paraded around before the media as a trophy before they sent him to the gas chamber. Sebastian wanted to avoid that fate, at all costs.
So, now he was here, on a crumbling mining survey site just outside the Earth's orbit. The facility would soon be under attack by the UA's cleanup battalions, who would weed out the last of his flotilla. Panning his gaze over the congested docking bay, he watched dozens of soldiers say their good-byes to one another. Most would scatter about the colony region, hoping to lose themselves. Others had planned on returning to the Earth, abandoning their former lives to make a fresh start. Sebastian envied them. For the common soldier, escape was just a name change away. Known officials like him were far less fortunate.
There was a third category of fate attached to the previous two, and that was embracing the inevitable. A handful of soldiers, distraught by the loss of the war, the knowledge of their deeds, or the fact that they would never see their families again, had decided to take the easiest way out of their suffering. Sydney Rebecca Dominus was one of those people. The death of Sebastian's predecessor, Leopold Torquemada, had shattered the young woman weeks ago. She had abandoned all traces of human emotion, becoming nothing more than a flesh and blood killing machine. Now that the war was over, her purpose for life had washed away. She was going to join her beloved.
Some would label such individuals as cowards; craven souls who could face reality. Sebastian simply pitied them.
"Sir?" The young technician's voice jarred his senses, shifting his attention away from his thoughts, and back to the real world.
"Sir?" he repeated. "Are you okay?"
"Fine, sergeant, fine," Sebastian assured the boy, a touch of authority in his tone. "How is my Garamonde?" He did not bother asking if the eager lad had indeed checked Lyboc's personal mobile suit. If he had not, then he would not deserve his current reputation for reliability. Besides, he had been ordered to, and a soldier always followed his directives.
"It's not worth saving sir, pardon my saying so," the technician returned, keeping a level tone. Sebastian was impressed. Most would be apprehensive, worried that they may insight his wrath.
"That was expected," Lyboc said, looking past his charge to the decrepit green-and-blue Vayeate Shuivan that he had flown since his enlisted days. "The Leviathan was a worthy foe to lose it to. Better that than to see it locked away in some UA warehouse."
"Sir, what should we do with it?" the technician kept his mind on his job, it seemed. No time for small talk.
"Strip it down, and distribute the parts as needed," Sebastian hid the regret in his voice, knowing that it would only weaken his position. "In the meantime, I want a maintenance crew to service Lt. Commander Dominus' mobile suit."
"The Gundam, sir?" the technician's eyes grew wide for a moment, and then he straightened his features. "Sir, yes sir." His departure was unceremonious, a testimony to the GCE's strict protocol system.
Standing within the largest of the dock's mobile suit paddocks was the burly form of the Shinka. Over twenty meters in height, with wide shoulders and sweeping thrust baffles, the mobile suit dwarfed all of those around it. As a Gundam, it bore an altered version of the trademark sensor head and crest arrangement, though lending an appearance that radiated ferocity. Its hefty beam cannon was more powerful than an arsenal, making the machine the premier assault unit of the GCE. Few things could harm Shinka, and even fewer could come close to even threatening it. During the battle with the Leviathan, the Gundam had stood its ground against the automated hordes pitched against it.
Now, it was silent, dead. Its pilot, the once fiery Lt. Commander Dominus, had slipped away into obscurity. The death of the Empire weighed heavily upon her heart, though not nearly as much as the loss of its original leader. Leopold Torquemada, a self-styled savoir, had forcibly taken control of the entire government a few short months prior. His xenophobic dedication to eradicating the Earth's "psychic threat" had been rewarded with an assassin's bullet. The lieutenant had been one of his closest aides, and supposedly his lover, if one believed the rumour mill.
Watching her retreating form vanish around a corner, sombre face and sorrowful eyes concealed as she lowered her head, Sebastian felt a small chord of sympathy. In her own extreme way, the lieutenant embodied the collective emotions of the entire Grand Cross military, her mixed sensations of frustration, sadness, and loss all converging into some unspeakable pathos. Every one of them had seen at least one comrade die before their eyes, or had heard the rumours of what grim fate awaited them at the UA's hands. Melancholy was in the air; the end was inevitable.
No, not the end, he thought, but merely a pause between acts.
Turning about, he stepped onward towards the silent form of the massive mobile suit, his gaze locking with the deep emerald of its sensor eyes. As the technician ran a priming charge through its systems, the Gundam suddenly shuddered, energy flaring into its body. A gantry ladder joined the space between the hanger floor and its cockpit, dangling along the machines form. As he climbed, Sebastian saw that Shinka's body was a landscape of scratches, bullet punctures, and dents. Still, nothing merited any serious attention; it could fly, and that was all he wanted.
Easing into the padded seat, Sebastian swept away the small trinkets that Dominus had left behind. The keepsakes, reminders, and tokens that constituted the last of her shattered life were cast outside the opening, raining to the deck with a clatter. With hesitation, he glanced at the last object left in his hand, a gold uniform patch that bore the charging silhouette of a medieval horseman. It was the insignia of the Seventh Colonial Guard, a noble unit that bore his name in its moniker. "Sebastian's Knight's;" they had been a source of great pride to him, even after he had received his abrupt "promotion." Loyal, honourable, and courageous until the end, they were now a decimated memory. Caressing the patch's surface, he allowed his stone features falter again, for a moment, before letting it slip through his fingers. It fluttered a few feet outward before disappearing amid the growing disorder below his gaze.
The cockpit clamped shut, casting him in incidental darkness before a series of instrument panels activated. Watching the Gundam awaken to its full ferocious potential, Sebastian smiled. Easing the left joystick of the command chair forward, he felt the low vibration of its rumbling hydraulics, and heard the resonating echo of its heavy footfalls. The machine was alive; battered, beaten, and clutching at its wounds, but alive. Satisfied, he proceeded to the hanger's launch catapult, taking one last moment to look over the turbulent scene.
Panic still reigned, but some semblance of dignity did shine through among a brave few. Sebastian secretly hoped that all of them, even the lowliest labourer, would escape to whatever new existence they had concocted. Still, he knew better. Before the day was done, some of them would still be dead, a few by their own hand. Resigning himself, he marched the Gundam onward, letting the catapult's life carry him to the station's surface, and to whatever destiny might lie beyond.
Nearby, a desolate corridor rang with the discharge of Sydney Dominus' service pistol.
* * * * * * *
Two hours ago, Brian Amis had awakened. One hour ago his sedatives had worn off. Fifteen minutes ago, he had been given a mirror. Now, he faintly wished that he had never regained consciousness at all.
Turning the small mirror over in his hand, Brian examined his face with a morbid fascination. After the UA recovery teams had pried open his mobile suit, he had been whisked away to the closest medical ship, and placed in intensive care. Just over a week had passed since then, though the physicians had only gotten around to his operation yesterday. The burns to his flesh had been extensive, heavily damaging portions of left cheek and arm, requiring grafts of pseudo-flesh to prevent infection. Looking at his reflection, however, he began to curse his very survival.
The cosmetic alterations to the artificial skin had not yet been added, only the initial layer of simulated tissue and veins. It resembled a clear, plastic wrap, perfectly transparent. Tracing a finger down his left cheek, he paused at the gaping hole that exposed his jaw and gum line. Small splinters of the material laced further along his features, curling up to the gnarled remains of his ear. That, he amended, explained why his hearing was garbled, as if he was underwater.
One pathway stopped short of his eye, curling about before merging with another that met the edge of his nose. Portions of his upper lip had been replaced as well, giving him the rationale for why he dribbled liquids when they were brought to him. His face felt numb, a lack of sensation that he would have to become accustomed too. Modern medicine had not yet replicated the intricacies of natural skin, not to their fullest. For now, this facsimile was as advanced a replacement as he could hope for, a mask that his doctor would soon colour to match the rest of him.
Quietly, Amis set the mirror down. He was too tired to rage, or to hurl it across the room. This was something that he would just have to accept, something that would seem normal in due time. Still, he doubted that his life would ever be quite the same. The UA had no place for maimed soldiers who had lost their command, along with their mobile suit. If he was to remain enlisted, it would be on the lowliest terms possible. For now, though, he chose not to dwell on that, and simply sought the escape that lingered in sleep.
* * * * * * *
Gabriel Sinclair sat alone in his cell, listening to the low growl of his own stomach as it voiced its discontent. Four days without a stable meal, his captors having provided only a consistent supply of water to keep him alive. He guessed that all Grand Cross prisoners of war were receiving the same reception or perhaps something even worse. He wondered what would ultimately become of him. Would the UA's intelligence officers drag him out for more questioning? Would he be left to rot here until starvation claimed him? Or would he be tossed into a war crimes trial to ease the public consciousness? Neither of these roads sounded particularly pleasant.
Horror stories about one's enemy were a hallmark of war. While he undergoing his initial training, he recalled the rumour-driven tales of his fellow cadets, speaking of the tyrannical and primitive practices of the Earth's armed forces. He imagined that the UA troopers told the same stories to their own peers, each side getting themselves into a terrified fever over the sinister cruelty that the other bred wherever they stepped.
Pretty pathetic, when one thought about it.
Sighing, Gabriel turned his attention back to the stain mottled ceiling of his five by seven foot prison. He continued to ponder the various questions that nagged at his mind. Were they going to execute him? Would he even get a trial? What had happened to Silvia? Turning on his side, he restrained a frustrated yell, giving his pillow a punch instead. The less noise he made, the more he behaved, the better they would likely treat him.
The sudden 'swish' of his cell door sliding open jarred his attention. Sitting up, Gabriel squinted towards the white light that framed his latest visitor. The uniformed intel inquisitor, a man who answered simply to the name of Welsh, stood before him, his usual Cheshire smile framing his features.
"Ah, Mr. Sinclair, good to see you in such fine health," his tone was patronizing, each word biting into Gabriel with a profound edge of arrogance.
"Thanks," Gabriel replied, trying to feign a cheerful tone. "I can't say I care for the place, though. The room's a little stuffy, the sheets are always dirty, and the food service just sucks."
"Well," Welsh returned, his bemused voice perpetual, "you're in luck. It looks like you've had the good fortune of being cleared of any war crimes charges." He paused, for effect.
"So, I'm free to go? Great!" Gabriel hopped to his feet, dusting off his flight suit coat, and proceeded for the door. "It's been real," he said, allowing a little malice to escape into his words this time.
"Not so fast," the officer's smile broadened as he blocked the younger man's path. "You still have to serve your conditional labour sentence. You were, after all, the enemy." He latched a little emphasis to this last word, poking at Gabriel's resolve.
"What?!" Gabriel exclaimed, totally caught off guard. "You're going to make me break rocks in some mining shaft for the rest of my life?"
"Nothing so crude," Welsh chuckled. "As a minimal security risk, you've been assigned to one of our new, "cooperative" battalions. We are, after all, trying to help the innocent soldiers of the late Grand Cross continue their duties as protectors."
"Drafted slavery is more like it..." Gabriel muttered, affixing a scowl to his face.
"Call it what you will, Mr. Sinclair," Welsh shrugged, still very enthusiastic in his demeanor. "Or, should I say, Corporal Sinclair? In any event, the point is moot. You are to be assigned already, to serve a minimum of three years tending to duties aboard a vessel in our illustrious space fleet. Try to make the best of it; it beats a firing squad." Departing with a polite wave, Welsh walked on down the hall, a slight spring in his step.
Behind him, the reeling Gabriel was left with a sense of muted hatred. Lashing out at Welsh would surely have won him more time in the stockade, along with a quick re-evaluation of his "threat" status. All he could do was make the best of this terrible situation, and ride it out. Besides, it couldn't be that bad, could it?