That's Childish, So Childish…
Chapter Three: You Drift Into The Strangest Dreams…
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Disclaimer: Um… I own a senile, elderly, so-old-he's-ugly Siamese Fighting Fish, little else. That's about all you'll get if you sue. That is, if he doesn't die of old age first. Oh, yeah, I (and Russ, I think) /do/ own that Tuff Teddy. Found him abandoned in a parking lot as a kid, myself.
Pairings: None yet. Still possibly subject to vote…
Warnings: Any torture done here is psychological, so your eyes are safe… Sarcasm, though. Synopsis: Why bother? On to the show…
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Treize tapped the surface of the console restlessly with one finger as he sat in his personal jet, waiting, waiting. //Patience, patience… She'll answer. She has to…// he told himself quietly.
Noin's face came on the screen, as well as a glimpse of… some kind of blue uniform of sorts. //Noin changed sides…? But to whose? I know Romefeller would never put up with any female in trousers… Never mind. We have more important matters to discuss.//
"Miss Noin," he greeted with outward calm and a hint of his casual charm.
Startled eyes met his own, but Noin recovered quickly, saluting sharply. She couldn't hide the disappointment and worry in her own eyes, though. "Your Excellency…"
"No need to be so formal, Miss Noin. I see you left Oz for brighter horizons…" //Considering we're starting to gain momentum downhill, I'm not surprised. /Anything/ else has brighter horizons right now! She was never stupid or suicidal.//
Her head bobbed slightly, and a faint smile touched her lips. "Well, sir, I felt I could be more useful elsewhere… You could say I'm filling in for a friend."
That was more information than he'd been expecting her to concede. //So, you're in Sanc with young Relena? But he's not there, and you're worried… Something set you off, something made you sense the danger. But what? What did you see, Noin?//
Lowering his eyebrows, Treize nodded slightly, mouth quirking wryly. "I was wondering if you happen to know where our mutual friend is currently," he asked quietly, moving to the reason for his call.
Noin grimaced and shook her head, sending her dark bangs flopping into her eyes. "I take it he didn't send in the usual requisition for silver polish?" she answered, trying to keep her spirits up with a hint of sardonic humor.
Treize winced. //Guess she tracks him that way, too… Does that mean Lady Une tracks me by my orders for concentrated rose scent? Get your mind on more important things, Treize… before they kill your princeling. You need to be armed with /some/ information before you land…//
"That was one symptom, yes," he admitted quietly, deciding to let his own worry show. "What can you tell me, Miss Noin?" //I need everything that so much as makes you suspect foul play… I hope /you/ have some indication he's still alive somewhere… Oh, please do. Things do not look good at all from this end…//
Noin swallowed, looking away, unable to meet his eyes.
//I hope that's just your usual shyness, Miss Noin, and /not/ more bad news…// Treize prayed.
"Well, sir… Officer Meiser contacted me a couple weeks ago, right after he reached his new assignment and had a chance to do so without others observing. He hadn't much time to give me the details, but… They /did/ reach Nairobi. He'd been busy with the Gundam, so he lost track of Zechs shortly after they arrived…"
//All right, so the base commander's report is lying about that, I was right…// "So the Gundam wasn't destroyed then?" Treize sighed. //Damn… Then if Acht arrived…//
"Acht's team arrived 12 hours later, sir, while they were refueling and preparing the mobile suit carriers for the next flight… He said they seemed to idle about a while, which made him suspicious. But he and the crew didn't do anything—they didn't know what to do, and didn't want to make things worse… The next thing he knew, Acht was shoving reassignment papers in front of him and claiming that he was just delivering orders." Noin made a face at the idea.
Treize snorted indelicately. //Zechs wouldn't bother with that kind of paperwork—he was always one to give such orders in person. And for him to trust Acht, of all people? Obvious ploy…// "What then?"
"They impounded the mobile suits and had Meiser and his crew deliver them to their own transporter planes. Then they all went their separate ways—Acht's team included." Worry filled her eyes, threatening to overflow in liquid form as she waited hopefully for his thoughts.
Treize closed his eyes, bowing his head a long moment as he tried sorting all this information out. //So they took him out first… Then amid the confusion of the new orders, took him… where? If Zechs fought, the whole base would have known, so odds are they imprisoned him somewhere… Ah, but they took the Gundam as well… And… Wait, did they take the Tallgeese, too? That thing is far too hard to hide!//
Opening his eyes, he narrowed them sharply at the screen. "Miss Noin, you have helped me a great deal… What you have given me will be put to good use, I assure you. I will find them, and what they have done to him…"
Noin nodded slowly, her eyes closing as she breathed a soft sigh. "Be careful, sir… Meiser said they would likely hunt me next—which is why I'm no longer with Oz… But if they went after him, you could very well be next on their list. He wouldn't forgive you for sticking your head in a lion's mouth on his behalf, sir…"
Treize smiled slowly, slyly, eyes glinting. "But he won't mind me hauling on the lion's tail, Miss Noin. I will be careful, however. Thank you for your help. I will contact you again if I have news…"
"Thank you, sir." She saluted as he turned off the console.
//I've no intention of sticking my head in a lion's mouth, Miss Noin,// he mused slyly, gaze hardening with anger as he shifted his attention to the clouds outside the window. //I intend to slam a fist down between its ears.//
But as he watched the white waves of weather flow by, his thoughts drifted off of his anger-driven determination to his concerns…
//I hope you're all right, Zechs…//
//You'd better be. For their sakes.//
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He clawed at the bedclothes and the bed itself, trying to tear them apart so he could bury himself under them, but with little success. Fire! Fire and screaming and such horrible destruction—the sickly scent of burned flesh in the air, the crashing of stone walls, the pounding of gunfire and mobile suit feet…
Part of the screaming was his own.
Then, abruptly wrenching free of the nightmare from his past, he sat up, panting, gasping, aching dully all over and still smelling the horror… No, that was just his imagination. The air was clear… the room about him was pale white, the bed beneath him a simple cot, with a light and cabinet to one side, a pile of dingy clothes on the floor beside it. A small room, yet almost cozy… Yet he knew—something was wrong.
//I have to get out of here…// Milliardo knew, unable to banish this persistent anxiety. //Wherever 'here' is, I have to get out of here! They'll kill me…!//
His head hurt. Reaching up to rub his eyes, he caught himself staring at his hands. Only the sheets covered him—nothing else.
//My hands… they look smaller…// Something wasn't right, and it wasn't this place. It was /him/. Something about him felt very very wrong… //What happened to me? I feel… sore, but not aching like when my ribs were busted… My /head/ hurts, though.//
Shaking his head, pale bangs flopping in his eyes and long locks sweeping his bare back almost to his waist., he shoved the covers aside and got up shakily. He felt tired, a bit lightheaded, and fairly sore, but nothing worse than he had long ago, in training…
//Training, training… Focus, Miri. Sanc fell…// His eyes dampened at the mere thought, but he held the tears back, swallowing. It felt like it happened yesterday. Maybe that was because of the nightmare… Or were the other things flashing in his mind so haphazardly all part of some long horrible dream? //Wait, stop… Don't panic, don't ever panic… Take a deep breath. Facts first. What do I remember? Best start simple…//
Taking a deep breath, he padded over to the pile of dirty clothes, and frowned at them. They were his, he was certain: battered and stained black boots to the knee, a red T-shirt, pale pants that were once a pristine white… Though right now the boots were as tall as his ribs, the pants /way/ too long, and the T-shirt huge enough to be more than a gown. This wasn't /right/!
Closing his eyes, he rubbed his face agitatedly, taking another deep breath. //Facts. Start simple. Who are you?//
Opening his eyes, he gazed into space a moment. //I'm Milliardo Peacecraft… But Mother and Father call me 'Miri' because I really liked that nickname the Japanese Ambassador gave me—he said it was from the Japanese translation of my name…// Yet that felt like only half a story, as if he'd forgotten the rest. Frowning, he dug deeper into his memories, sifting the disorganized and confusing mess. //But I can't be Miri, because Sanc fell…//
He couldn't help a shudder at the memories that stirred, for all his attempts to suppress them, and he hugged his arms about himself, opening his eyes.
//Okay, so I'm… I'm Zechs Merquise, too… Something about fancy mobile suits called Gundams… Some kid blowing himself up with one—I want to avenge the deaths of friends on him? I re-made his suit… My beloved Tallgeese… Acht…// Things fell into their correct places a bit faster as he continued sorting things out past his aching head. //I'm… I'm a killer? But… I don't want to be a killer! How much of all this is a dream, and how much of it happened? Something's not right… I'm just not certain what. Like these clothes…//
Reaching into the left boot, he drew a knife out of a hidden sheath, then frowned at the blade in his hands.
//How did I know it was there?// Miri glared at the boots as if to blame them for his confusion. //But… I /know/ they're my clothes. So it makes sense… though they don't fit. Oh, something's /definitely/ wrong with me. But I'm not going to stay here in the nude.//
Taking the shirt from the top of the pile of half-rags, he slashed a rough sort of new hem before pulling it on. It didn't smell the freshest. The "short" sleeves reached his mid-forearms. The bottom still almost reached his knees. The pants were next in line for trimming—he had to cut the legs a /lot/ shorter. Pulling the adjusted pants on, he arches his brows incredulously at the excess cloth left on the floor.
//I know that after a point, people shrink with age, but I don't /feel/ that old, and this looks a bit excessive for that!// It just felt… surreal. Like he was in a sort of Twilight Zone of his own. //How old /am/ I, anyway?//
Oh, his head hurt! His headache apparently didn't like that question.
Rubbing his face—careful not to cut himself with the knife still in his hand—Milliardo decided to focus on the clothes right now. He couldn't run about barefoot, anyway. And he'd no intention of staying here!
Cutting the boots up into strips of leather, he used a large square for a sole and wove the rest of the lengths up his feet from toes to calf as if bandaging his legs—figure-8s that came easily to hand, though he couldn't recall exactly when he'd learned to bandage anything… Tying things off with strips of shirt-cloth, he stood up and walked about a little, testing his makeshift footwear.
//A bit stiff, but comfortable enough, I suppose. And quiet. Good enough. I hope it's not snowing outside.//
Reaching for the cabinet, he rummaged through the drawers. It may as well have had the name of some hospital printed on it—all he found were bedclothes and towels and some ugly things that could be called hospital gowns that made his rags look like a gift from heaven. He slammed the lowest drawer with a grunt of exasperation, looking up…
A dull silvery gleam caught his eye from the top of the cabinet, against the wall.
Frowning, he stood on tip-toes and reached up, needing to jump a little to grab it, finding something big, somewhat heavy, made of cold metal… Something familiar.
The mask.
He recognized it instantly and stared at it, emotions warring inside until he was shivering. It was cracked, the thin line tracing from the top and through one eyeglass. Dried blood caked the interior, and had trapped long silvery strands of hair that were obviously his own. Reverently, he scratched off the worst of the dried blood with his fingernails, tracing his small hands all over the surface, remembering…
//My mask… With it on, I'm Zechs Merquise, the killer, cool and dignified and all predator. But…// He had to pause.
He had to stare at his own reflection in the slightly-dulled silvery surface.
What felt so wrong, so different, hit him like a sledgehammer.
//I'm younger. I'm not only younger, I'm /damn/ young! I look like I'm barely out of preschool—or kindergarten! This… This can't be! I'm not that old—or young—or whatever! No wonder the clothes don't fit. But… how? What the heck?// Wide pale blue eyes stared into their reflection on the mask as he sat down cross-legged on the floor, mask in his lap. //What did they do to me…? I can't fight like this…! What do I do?//
His reflection offered no answers, staring back with equal surprise and dismay… before hardening. Anger sharp as a beam saber's slice found a focus, and pulled the young man along with it.
//I'm getting out of here,// Milliardo determined, getting swiftly to his feet and grabbing a couple fresh towels and a pillowcase. //I have to get out of here before they kill me… or worse. Like turn me into a toddler. They said even a kid could fly those suit transports—let's see how true that is! But I'm not staying her a minute more than it takes to get out of here!//
The mask he wrapped up in a towel and shoved into the pillowcase, along with the scraps of his clothes, in case they'd turn out useful. The knife he slid into its sheath and tied to his belt. One towel he notched the corners of, using a strip of ragged cloth to make it into a makeshift cloak in case it was cold outside. Then he slung the pillowcase-sack over one shoulder and hurried to the only door of the room, reaching up to hit the opening tab…
That alone was an indication of his altered state—one that annoyed him. His new vantage point sucked. Reaching /up/ for door-tabs that were made purposely for adult convenience…
It whooshed open, a soft breath of mechanical relief, allowing him to peek out, up and down the hallway. A pair of people were arguing just four doors down the hall to his left, too intent on their dispute to look about themselves or likely notice him, but that couldn't be for long… In fact, the shorter one, some ugly lady, looked vaguely familiar… But he didn't pause to figure her out. Speed was called for, and Miri scooted silently across the hall, dashing down a corridor on leather-padded feet even as the door gently sighed shut automatically behind him.
//I need to find… Well, I need to know what they've done to me. Maybe I can't get help here, but maybe I can find Treize, or Noin, or someone who can use it to help me. So I need their data. And I need to know where they put my Tallgeese—because I'm /not/ leaving without it! And I want that Gundam back—they don't deserve it…//
Glimpsing someone coming down the hall, he ducked into a branching corridor, back to the wall, panting for breath as quietly as he could.
//I need a computer console. It'll show me everything I want—I'm not too bad at hacking. Then I give them a sendoff present they won't forget and get out of here!//
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Too many people were about, forcing Milliardo to tab open an unused room and duck inside quickly… With his back to the wall, he gazed about the room… and blinked in surprise.
//I never knew they had daycare at the bases…//
Toys were stacked on shelves or piled neatly, and pictures of animals, letters, and numbers adorned the walls. The thin carpet here wore the colors of the rainbow, forming game-boards kids could play things like hopscotch on. A small trampoline was leaning against the wall to his left, and various child-sized furniture and large toys crowded a nearby corner, neatly stacked. In the back, a computer lay dormant on a normal-sized desk with adult furniture about it… someone's office, possibly that of the children's caretaker. But the place looked unused, abandoned—dust lay in a thin film on everything.
//Guess they only offered it long ago.//
He could hear numerous boots tramping in rhythm in the corridor outside, and shivered, hugging himself. The troops had been called out. Possibly looking for him, though no alarms had sounded.
Uncomfortable, he moved away from the door quietly, trying to distract himself. Studying the toy selection appealed right now, and he reached out to touch a couple games, smirking at those he found plain silly, arching a brow at some of the complex model kits, grinning at the remote-control toys…
And found himself staring at a small stuffed animal whose impassive button eyes stared right back. A teddy bear… but it wasn't as absurdly cheerful as most things in the room. Its expression was serious, and it bore a forlorn air about it. A toy abandoned, forgotten.
//I never had a teddy bear,// Milliardo mused sadly, feeling as if he'd lost the chance at something great. //I /did/ have that stuffed white horse a long time ago… Mr. Cloudstuff… He looked so serious, too…// He closed his eyes unhappily, mourning a childhood lost… and with it, one of the mementoes of life that nobody ever forgets and usually treasures even into old age—their favorite stuffed animal. //But Mr. Cloudstuff is gone… in the fire at Sanc… with everything and everyone else…//
Until he opened his eyes again to look back up at the lost stuffed bear, he didn't realize tears were escaping to trickle down his cheeks.
He couldn't resist.
Scooping up the stuffed teddy bear, he rubbed his fingertips against the astonishingly soft fuzzy fur, studying the small tag on it that read "Tuff Teddy"—then hugged it close.
//All I have is myself, a cracked mask, and with luck, maybe the Tallgeese here, if I can find it… I'm alone—you're alone… And I don't think you'll mind.//
Sitting with his back against the wall, still hugging the forlorn-looking toy, his pillowcase-sack flopping to the carpet beside him, Milliardo Peacecraft settled down for a few therapeutic minutes with the equally- abandoned-seeming stuffed animal, a session that was years overdue…
//I wish none of this ever happened…//
//I wish I was back home… But I can't ever go back… Not now… There's no home left for someone like me…//
But his emotions and mouth defied the logic he'd developed over the past 12 years… 12 years that had just been physically stripped from him recently.
"I want to go home," he breathed past the unstoppable trickle of tears. "I just… want to go home…"
His head began throbbing again…
//But if I can't go home… I'm going to make them pay.// Old anger flared, renewed, the same inner fires that led to the birth of the pilot called Zechs Merquise long ago and fueled that persona ever since. //They have to pay. There should be justice! And nobody's going to give justice for me, so it'll have to be revenge. I can't give justice… I'm not worthy of that… But revenge, that I /can/ do…//
Miri wiped away his tears, looking sharply into those button eyes. //These guys are just like the Alliance were—no, /worse/. The Alliance didn't torture anyone! They're going to find they crossed the wrong man… or kid.//
Opening his pillowcase sack, he placed the teddy bear into it with a determined smile, sniffling back his previous pain, wiping away the traces of tears on a flopping sleeve, and pulled out the cracked mask, placing it over his head.
Sharp pale blue eyes narrowed behind cracked glass as they surveyed his surroundings with a new kind of critical eye. For long minutes he appraised the supplies immediately on hand, face frowning with determined concentration.
Zechs smiled again slowly, with a mischievous evil that only a kid /intending/ misbehavior could wear in his eyes.
"This is going to be fun…"
//This means War!//
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To be continued…
Everyone has a favorite stuffed animal from early childhood. Well, almost. Some of us lose 'em later. I had an old rabbit that lost all its fur—my parents tried replacing it without consulting me, but it wasn't the same. Tuff Teddy is the closest to a replacement I ever found, and now a representative Keepsake of The Past.
Chapter Three: You Drift Into The Strangest Dreams…
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Disclaimer: Um… I own a senile, elderly, so-old-he's-ugly Siamese Fighting Fish, little else. That's about all you'll get if you sue. That is, if he doesn't die of old age first. Oh, yeah, I (and Russ, I think) /do/ own that Tuff Teddy. Found him abandoned in a parking lot as a kid, myself.
Pairings: None yet. Still possibly subject to vote…
Warnings: Any torture done here is psychological, so your eyes are safe… Sarcasm, though. Synopsis: Why bother? On to the show…
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Treize tapped the surface of the console restlessly with one finger as he sat in his personal jet, waiting, waiting. //Patience, patience… She'll answer. She has to…// he told himself quietly.
Noin's face came on the screen, as well as a glimpse of… some kind of blue uniform of sorts. //Noin changed sides…? But to whose? I know Romefeller would never put up with any female in trousers… Never mind. We have more important matters to discuss.//
"Miss Noin," he greeted with outward calm and a hint of his casual charm.
Startled eyes met his own, but Noin recovered quickly, saluting sharply. She couldn't hide the disappointment and worry in her own eyes, though. "Your Excellency…"
"No need to be so formal, Miss Noin. I see you left Oz for brighter horizons…" //Considering we're starting to gain momentum downhill, I'm not surprised. /Anything/ else has brighter horizons right now! She was never stupid or suicidal.//
Her head bobbed slightly, and a faint smile touched her lips. "Well, sir, I felt I could be more useful elsewhere… You could say I'm filling in for a friend."
That was more information than he'd been expecting her to concede. //So, you're in Sanc with young Relena? But he's not there, and you're worried… Something set you off, something made you sense the danger. But what? What did you see, Noin?//
Lowering his eyebrows, Treize nodded slightly, mouth quirking wryly. "I was wondering if you happen to know where our mutual friend is currently," he asked quietly, moving to the reason for his call.
Noin grimaced and shook her head, sending her dark bangs flopping into her eyes. "I take it he didn't send in the usual requisition for silver polish?" she answered, trying to keep her spirits up with a hint of sardonic humor.
Treize winced. //Guess she tracks him that way, too… Does that mean Lady Une tracks me by my orders for concentrated rose scent? Get your mind on more important things, Treize… before they kill your princeling. You need to be armed with /some/ information before you land…//
"That was one symptom, yes," he admitted quietly, deciding to let his own worry show. "What can you tell me, Miss Noin?" //I need everything that so much as makes you suspect foul play… I hope /you/ have some indication he's still alive somewhere… Oh, please do. Things do not look good at all from this end…//
Noin swallowed, looking away, unable to meet his eyes.
//I hope that's just your usual shyness, Miss Noin, and /not/ more bad news…// Treize prayed.
"Well, sir… Officer Meiser contacted me a couple weeks ago, right after he reached his new assignment and had a chance to do so without others observing. He hadn't much time to give me the details, but… They /did/ reach Nairobi. He'd been busy with the Gundam, so he lost track of Zechs shortly after they arrived…"
//All right, so the base commander's report is lying about that, I was right…// "So the Gundam wasn't destroyed then?" Treize sighed. //Damn… Then if Acht arrived…//
"Acht's team arrived 12 hours later, sir, while they were refueling and preparing the mobile suit carriers for the next flight… He said they seemed to idle about a while, which made him suspicious. But he and the crew didn't do anything—they didn't know what to do, and didn't want to make things worse… The next thing he knew, Acht was shoving reassignment papers in front of him and claiming that he was just delivering orders." Noin made a face at the idea.
Treize snorted indelicately. //Zechs wouldn't bother with that kind of paperwork—he was always one to give such orders in person. And for him to trust Acht, of all people? Obvious ploy…// "What then?"
"They impounded the mobile suits and had Meiser and his crew deliver them to their own transporter planes. Then they all went their separate ways—Acht's team included." Worry filled her eyes, threatening to overflow in liquid form as she waited hopefully for his thoughts.
Treize closed his eyes, bowing his head a long moment as he tried sorting all this information out. //So they took him out first… Then amid the confusion of the new orders, took him… where? If Zechs fought, the whole base would have known, so odds are they imprisoned him somewhere… Ah, but they took the Gundam as well… And… Wait, did they take the Tallgeese, too? That thing is far too hard to hide!//
Opening his eyes, he narrowed them sharply at the screen. "Miss Noin, you have helped me a great deal… What you have given me will be put to good use, I assure you. I will find them, and what they have done to him…"
Noin nodded slowly, her eyes closing as she breathed a soft sigh. "Be careful, sir… Meiser said they would likely hunt me next—which is why I'm no longer with Oz… But if they went after him, you could very well be next on their list. He wouldn't forgive you for sticking your head in a lion's mouth on his behalf, sir…"
Treize smiled slowly, slyly, eyes glinting. "But he won't mind me hauling on the lion's tail, Miss Noin. I will be careful, however. Thank you for your help. I will contact you again if I have news…"
"Thank you, sir." She saluted as he turned off the console.
//I've no intention of sticking my head in a lion's mouth, Miss Noin,// he mused slyly, gaze hardening with anger as he shifted his attention to the clouds outside the window. //I intend to slam a fist down between its ears.//
But as he watched the white waves of weather flow by, his thoughts drifted off of his anger-driven determination to his concerns…
//I hope you're all right, Zechs…//
//You'd better be. For their sakes.//
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He clawed at the bedclothes and the bed itself, trying to tear them apart so he could bury himself under them, but with little success. Fire! Fire and screaming and such horrible destruction—the sickly scent of burned flesh in the air, the crashing of stone walls, the pounding of gunfire and mobile suit feet…
Part of the screaming was his own.
Then, abruptly wrenching free of the nightmare from his past, he sat up, panting, gasping, aching dully all over and still smelling the horror… No, that was just his imagination. The air was clear… the room about him was pale white, the bed beneath him a simple cot, with a light and cabinet to one side, a pile of dingy clothes on the floor beside it. A small room, yet almost cozy… Yet he knew—something was wrong.
//I have to get out of here…// Milliardo knew, unable to banish this persistent anxiety. //Wherever 'here' is, I have to get out of here! They'll kill me…!//
His head hurt. Reaching up to rub his eyes, he caught himself staring at his hands. Only the sheets covered him—nothing else.
//My hands… they look smaller…// Something wasn't right, and it wasn't this place. It was /him/. Something about him felt very very wrong… //What happened to me? I feel… sore, but not aching like when my ribs were busted… My /head/ hurts, though.//
Shaking his head, pale bangs flopping in his eyes and long locks sweeping his bare back almost to his waist., he shoved the covers aside and got up shakily. He felt tired, a bit lightheaded, and fairly sore, but nothing worse than he had long ago, in training…
//Training, training… Focus, Miri. Sanc fell…// His eyes dampened at the mere thought, but he held the tears back, swallowing. It felt like it happened yesterday. Maybe that was because of the nightmare… Or were the other things flashing in his mind so haphazardly all part of some long horrible dream? //Wait, stop… Don't panic, don't ever panic… Take a deep breath. Facts first. What do I remember? Best start simple…//
Taking a deep breath, he padded over to the pile of dirty clothes, and frowned at them. They were his, he was certain: battered and stained black boots to the knee, a red T-shirt, pale pants that were once a pristine white… Though right now the boots were as tall as his ribs, the pants /way/ too long, and the T-shirt huge enough to be more than a gown. This wasn't /right/!
Closing his eyes, he rubbed his face agitatedly, taking another deep breath. //Facts. Start simple. Who are you?//
Opening his eyes, he gazed into space a moment. //I'm Milliardo Peacecraft… But Mother and Father call me 'Miri' because I really liked that nickname the Japanese Ambassador gave me—he said it was from the Japanese translation of my name…// Yet that felt like only half a story, as if he'd forgotten the rest. Frowning, he dug deeper into his memories, sifting the disorganized and confusing mess. //But I can't be Miri, because Sanc fell…//
He couldn't help a shudder at the memories that stirred, for all his attempts to suppress them, and he hugged his arms about himself, opening his eyes.
//Okay, so I'm… I'm Zechs Merquise, too… Something about fancy mobile suits called Gundams… Some kid blowing himself up with one—I want to avenge the deaths of friends on him? I re-made his suit… My beloved Tallgeese… Acht…// Things fell into their correct places a bit faster as he continued sorting things out past his aching head. //I'm… I'm a killer? But… I don't want to be a killer! How much of all this is a dream, and how much of it happened? Something's not right… I'm just not certain what. Like these clothes…//
Reaching into the left boot, he drew a knife out of a hidden sheath, then frowned at the blade in his hands.
//How did I know it was there?// Miri glared at the boots as if to blame them for his confusion. //But… I /know/ they're my clothes. So it makes sense… though they don't fit. Oh, something's /definitely/ wrong with me. But I'm not going to stay here in the nude.//
Taking the shirt from the top of the pile of half-rags, he slashed a rough sort of new hem before pulling it on. It didn't smell the freshest. The "short" sleeves reached his mid-forearms. The bottom still almost reached his knees. The pants were next in line for trimming—he had to cut the legs a /lot/ shorter. Pulling the adjusted pants on, he arches his brows incredulously at the excess cloth left on the floor.
//I know that after a point, people shrink with age, but I don't /feel/ that old, and this looks a bit excessive for that!// It just felt… surreal. Like he was in a sort of Twilight Zone of his own. //How old /am/ I, anyway?//
Oh, his head hurt! His headache apparently didn't like that question.
Rubbing his face—careful not to cut himself with the knife still in his hand—Milliardo decided to focus on the clothes right now. He couldn't run about barefoot, anyway. And he'd no intention of staying here!
Cutting the boots up into strips of leather, he used a large square for a sole and wove the rest of the lengths up his feet from toes to calf as if bandaging his legs—figure-8s that came easily to hand, though he couldn't recall exactly when he'd learned to bandage anything… Tying things off with strips of shirt-cloth, he stood up and walked about a little, testing his makeshift footwear.
//A bit stiff, but comfortable enough, I suppose. And quiet. Good enough. I hope it's not snowing outside.//
Reaching for the cabinet, he rummaged through the drawers. It may as well have had the name of some hospital printed on it—all he found were bedclothes and towels and some ugly things that could be called hospital gowns that made his rags look like a gift from heaven. He slammed the lowest drawer with a grunt of exasperation, looking up…
A dull silvery gleam caught his eye from the top of the cabinet, against the wall.
Frowning, he stood on tip-toes and reached up, needing to jump a little to grab it, finding something big, somewhat heavy, made of cold metal… Something familiar.
The mask.
He recognized it instantly and stared at it, emotions warring inside until he was shivering. It was cracked, the thin line tracing from the top and through one eyeglass. Dried blood caked the interior, and had trapped long silvery strands of hair that were obviously his own. Reverently, he scratched off the worst of the dried blood with his fingernails, tracing his small hands all over the surface, remembering…
//My mask… With it on, I'm Zechs Merquise, the killer, cool and dignified and all predator. But…// He had to pause.
He had to stare at his own reflection in the slightly-dulled silvery surface.
What felt so wrong, so different, hit him like a sledgehammer.
//I'm younger. I'm not only younger, I'm /damn/ young! I look like I'm barely out of preschool—or kindergarten! This… This can't be! I'm not that old—or young—or whatever! No wonder the clothes don't fit. But… how? What the heck?// Wide pale blue eyes stared into their reflection on the mask as he sat down cross-legged on the floor, mask in his lap. //What did they do to me…? I can't fight like this…! What do I do?//
His reflection offered no answers, staring back with equal surprise and dismay… before hardening. Anger sharp as a beam saber's slice found a focus, and pulled the young man along with it.
//I'm getting out of here,// Milliardo determined, getting swiftly to his feet and grabbing a couple fresh towels and a pillowcase. //I have to get out of here before they kill me… or worse. Like turn me into a toddler. They said even a kid could fly those suit transports—let's see how true that is! But I'm not staying her a minute more than it takes to get out of here!//
The mask he wrapped up in a towel and shoved into the pillowcase, along with the scraps of his clothes, in case they'd turn out useful. The knife he slid into its sheath and tied to his belt. One towel he notched the corners of, using a strip of ragged cloth to make it into a makeshift cloak in case it was cold outside. Then he slung the pillowcase-sack over one shoulder and hurried to the only door of the room, reaching up to hit the opening tab…
That alone was an indication of his altered state—one that annoyed him. His new vantage point sucked. Reaching /up/ for door-tabs that were made purposely for adult convenience…
It whooshed open, a soft breath of mechanical relief, allowing him to peek out, up and down the hallway. A pair of people were arguing just four doors down the hall to his left, too intent on their dispute to look about themselves or likely notice him, but that couldn't be for long… In fact, the shorter one, some ugly lady, looked vaguely familiar… But he didn't pause to figure her out. Speed was called for, and Miri scooted silently across the hall, dashing down a corridor on leather-padded feet even as the door gently sighed shut automatically behind him.
//I need to find… Well, I need to know what they've done to me. Maybe I can't get help here, but maybe I can find Treize, or Noin, or someone who can use it to help me. So I need their data. And I need to know where they put my Tallgeese—because I'm /not/ leaving without it! And I want that Gundam back—they don't deserve it…//
Glimpsing someone coming down the hall, he ducked into a branching corridor, back to the wall, panting for breath as quietly as he could.
//I need a computer console. It'll show me everything I want—I'm not too bad at hacking. Then I give them a sendoff present they won't forget and get out of here!//
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Too many people were about, forcing Milliardo to tab open an unused room and duck inside quickly… With his back to the wall, he gazed about the room… and blinked in surprise.
//I never knew they had daycare at the bases…//
Toys were stacked on shelves or piled neatly, and pictures of animals, letters, and numbers adorned the walls. The thin carpet here wore the colors of the rainbow, forming game-boards kids could play things like hopscotch on. A small trampoline was leaning against the wall to his left, and various child-sized furniture and large toys crowded a nearby corner, neatly stacked. In the back, a computer lay dormant on a normal-sized desk with adult furniture about it… someone's office, possibly that of the children's caretaker. But the place looked unused, abandoned—dust lay in a thin film on everything.
//Guess they only offered it long ago.//
He could hear numerous boots tramping in rhythm in the corridor outside, and shivered, hugging himself. The troops had been called out. Possibly looking for him, though no alarms had sounded.
Uncomfortable, he moved away from the door quietly, trying to distract himself. Studying the toy selection appealed right now, and he reached out to touch a couple games, smirking at those he found plain silly, arching a brow at some of the complex model kits, grinning at the remote-control toys…
And found himself staring at a small stuffed animal whose impassive button eyes stared right back. A teddy bear… but it wasn't as absurdly cheerful as most things in the room. Its expression was serious, and it bore a forlorn air about it. A toy abandoned, forgotten.
//I never had a teddy bear,// Milliardo mused sadly, feeling as if he'd lost the chance at something great. //I /did/ have that stuffed white horse a long time ago… Mr. Cloudstuff… He looked so serious, too…// He closed his eyes unhappily, mourning a childhood lost… and with it, one of the mementoes of life that nobody ever forgets and usually treasures even into old age—their favorite stuffed animal. //But Mr. Cloudstuff is gone… in the fire at Sanc… with everything and everyone else…//
Until he opened his eyes again to look back up at the lost stuffed bear, he didn't realize tears were escaping to trickle down his cheeks.
He couldn't resist.
Scooping up the stuffed teddy bear, he rubbed his fingertips against the astonishingly soft fuzzy fur, studying the small tag on it that read "Tuff Teddy"—then hugged it close.
//All I have is myself, a cracked mask, and with luck, maybe the Tallgeese here, if I can find it… I'm alone—you're alone… And I don't think you'll mind.//
Sitting with his back against the wall, still hugging the forlorn-looking toy, his pillowcase-sack flopping to the carpet beside him, Milliardo Peacecraft settled down for a few therapeutic minutes with the equally- abandoned-seeming stuffed animal, a session that was years overdue…
//I wish none of this ever happened…//
//I wish I was back home… But I can't ever go back… Not now… There's no home left for someone like me…//
But his emotions and mouth defied the logic he'd developed over the past 12 years… 12 years that had just been physically stripped from him recently.
"I want to go home," he breathed past the unstoppable trickle of tears. "I just… want to go home…"
His head began throbbing again…
//But if I can't go home… I'm going to make them pay.// Old anger flared, renewed, the same inner fires that led to the birth of the pilot called Zechs Merquise long ago and fueled that persona ever since. //They have to pay. There should be justice! And nobody's going to give justice for me, so it'll have to be revenge. I can't give justice… I'm not worthy of that… But revenge, that I /can/ do…//
Miri wiped away his tears, looking sharply into those button eyes. //These guys are just like the Alliance were—no, /worse/. The Alliance didn't torture anyone! They're going to find they crossed the wrong man… or kid.//
Opening his pillowcase sack, he placed the teddy bear into it with a determined smile, sniffling back his previous pain, wiping away the traces of tears on a flopping sleeve, and pulled out the cracked mask, placing it over his head.
Sharp pale blue eyes narrowed behind cracked glass as they surveyed his surroundings with a new kind of critical eye. For long minutes he appraised the supplies immediately on hand, face frowning with determined concentration.
Zechs smiled again slowly, with a mischievous evil that only a kid /intending/ misbehavior could wear in his eyes.
"This is going to be fun…"
//This means War!//
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To be continued…
Everyone has a favorite stuffed animal from early childhood. Well, almost. Some of us lose 'em later. I had an old rabbit that lost all its fur—my parents tried replacing it without consulting me, but it wasn't the same. Tuff Teddy is the closest to a replacement I ever found, and now a representative Keepsake of The Past.