Title: Mind Warp
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing. Don't sue.

Author: Elizabeth A. Whitney

Dedication: My friends that are exactly like the Gundam pilots, though they'd choose to argue that: Jenna (Duo Maxwell), Molly (Heero Yuy), Jeff (Quatre), and Erin (Wufei Chang). I'm not particularly a big fan of dedications, so don't expect much.

Pairings: I'm not sure of any at the moment. If you review, make a suggestion and I might take it into account. It's going to be either Duo/Heero and Wufei/Trowa, or Heero/Quatre and Duo/Trowa. I think. Not sure.

Summary: This first chapter is Heero's POV. It's just about his idea of himself, what's going on in his head, and what's happening with the five Gundam Pilots. Read and review, please. New chapter is Trowa's POV.

I see everything in numbers and geometric shapes, never for its natural beauty or true identity. Trees and streams, in my world, have devolved to little more than a complex math problem, one that can be solved and forgotten in a small amount of time. Emotions and desires are wisps of ghosts from a distant memory, something from my past that can easily be forgotten. For me, it's a waste of time to dwell on the past. I'm the Perfect Soldier, and my only worry is completing another mission and winning the war. After that, I am useless.

I've killed so many that the bloodstains are still there, no matter how many times I try unsuccessfully to scrub them away. They have sunk into my skin eternally, thick like lies and saturated with the screams of dying children, mothers, and fathers. It never stops, no matter how many missions I finish. The ghosts still find me, brushing away my cover of monotony with one easy brush stroke.

I stare into the mirror and frown, seeing nothing more than a shell of a broken, empty boy. Sallow, cold eyes stare back at me, Prussian blue and lifeless. Is this what others see? Do they see this vision of a pathetic boy, one that can easily be replaced by the next person applicable? I am nothing but a soldier…and they are expendable. People don't realize that's how I truly feel; nothing matters to me, except the solitary fact that I know if I die; there will always be someone else. There is always someone else.

I bite my lip and move away from the mirror, listening for sounds made by the other pilots. It's 5 o'clock AM, so I know for certain that Wufei is downstairs in his den, meditating and taking part in some form of yoga to relax and clear his head. He is the only other person up, I believe. Duo is in his bed across from me, sleeping now after another long night of chattering. Quatre is in his own room, two doors down, sleeping most likely. And Trowa…I don't know about Trowa. He's up usually very early, but he never makes any sound so I never know whether or not he's out in town, or eating, or something else.

You'd think that after living together for months, we'd understand and like one another. But I don't. I stay in my own bubble of safety and perfection, never wavering when it comes to missions or piloting or staying in control. I know my emotions. I know my abilities. Is that why I'm the Perfect Soldier, supposedly? Is it because I am fully aware of my own talents, and am able to keep in track of them? Who knows? Who cares? I don't. No one does.

We all wear masks, including Quatre, surprisingly enough. My problem is separating my mask from my true, real self. Maybe, in all actuality, there's no different. The outer façade may have finally melted with the hidden emptiness, filling a hole that had been saved for so long for everything I planned to regain: my ability to care, my humanity… but it's over, now, I know. I am now very little more than smoke and shadow, wearing a mask of forgotten lies and bribery. No one expects anything more of me, and yet, they expect nothing less. Perhaps that's why I am so unwilling to give in to it all. Maybe I just don't know how.

I sigh. Maxwell just woke up. No matter how many times I say, "omae o korosu," he merely shrugs it off and smiles that fake smile of his. I know that's now who really is inside; it's pretty hard to miss. When we're on missions, he changes. Duo Maxwell is not Shinigami or the joker that everyone loves to hate, he's cold and calculated, always hastily trying to cover up his tracks and move onto another attack, another fight. It'd be different if he was with anyone else because they wouldn't know how to handle it. I do.

I glance up from my laptop and set the ever-loud Duo a fine-tuned death glare, before going back to my work. Tap, tap, tap, the keys sound comfortingly, reminding me that this is something I can control and something that can end. If I want to delete something, the opportunity is always there, unwaveringly. It's my call. Nice thought, isn't it?

"GGGOOODDD MMMOORRRNNNIIINNNGGG, HE-CHAN!!!" Duo calls in his usual deafening, cheery voice from across the room; I hear a slight laugh in his voice, as if he's carrying a secret no one else will ever know. It's mocking and annoying, yet somehow pleasant. Only Duo could pull that off, I think. Then again, I've never really hard Trowa or Wufei try, so I don't really know. I glower at the screen, narrowing my eyes and setting my lips into a usual, welcoming frown. /Damn you, Maxwell,/ I think quietly to myself, contemplating whether or not I should answer him and echo my own thoughts.

"Be quiet, Maxwell," I say instead, saving my death threats and cusses for a better, more logical time…like breakfast. With a chuckle and simple shrug, Duo continues on with his daily routine, i.e. brushing his impractically long, sink-clogging hair. How any man can keep his dignity and still have a longer braid than any girls I know is something that still amazes Wufei and me. I found it amusing, though, and he is merely embarrassed for Duo.

Ugh, and now he's chattering. Wonderful.

What'cha goin' to do today, He-Chan?" I take a minute to consider ignoring him, but think better of it. He might get impatient and take my laptop in a fatal attempt to get my attention. I wouldn't put it past him, you know.

"Work, Duo," I answer quickly, but it seems to please him because the next thing I know he's gone. Maybe I can type in peace now. As if right on cue, my stomach grumbles. I scowl; maybe not.

I walk down the dusty stairs silently, and make a mental note to have something clean them up. I think Quatre's free today, so I suppose it'll be him. He's a neat freak anyway, so he shouldn't mind. As I arrive to the kitchen, the expected sight of Duo driving Wufei insane and Quatre eating quietly welcomes me, just as it does every day of my life here. Trowa's absent, apparently, but I'm sure to the idea of him seeking peaceful solitude, especially on hectic, chaotic mornings like these.

I grab something to eat (toast and a bit of butter, thank you very much) and sit silently down, surveying the comical scene before me. It's times like this that I find it in my heart to sincerely pity Wufei.

"Aw, Wu-Chan!" It's not that big of a deal!" Hm, coming from Duo, that's the biggest understatement of the year. After all, once, he jokingly referred to the Holocaust as "no big deal." I know Duo doesn't mean any of it and it's all just to keep us seeing only his mask and remain blind to what's inside, but it's still there. He's still pretending and let me tell you, Duo is an amazing actor. He fools everyone, including me, everytime.

"Maxwell, this was a white shirt, you baka! Is it white anymore?!" I have to smirk at that. Wufei and Duo's fights are legendary. Trowa should be here, he'd get a kick out of this.

"Er…to a blind man, yes, actually."

"Maxwell!"

"Sorry, Wufei, I'll wash it if you want." That was…surprising. Duo never backs down from a fight, especially one with Chang. Why start now? There's something in those violet eyes of his, something that gives away the entire truth beneath the lies his cheery front brings. I frown slowly, watching my friend subside into silence, sighing every once in a while. It must've been another nightmare—nothing else could explain what's wrong with him. And trust me, I've tried.

Wufei didn't get a chance to respond to his remark nor I to my thoughts, because at that very moment, our good friend Trowa Barton walked in silently with an black face and black eye to match.

A/N: I know it's short. Sorry. I wrote it first in my notebook, and it was longer then. But, I'll try to make it longer next time.