She woke up at six am, her customary time while under Preventer paramilitary discipline. The curtains weren't pulled shut, as she'd prefer. The reason probably lies in their settings, which were set under guidelines Zechs set while making reservations.
This she planned to change, before going through it again the next night. As a young woman in a largely male environment, Noin, always addressed by her family name, valued her privacy dearly.
This doesn't need to be tolerated right now. Her bed feels to be made of feathers and air, something to sink into, and maybe never reemerge. Her hand blindly groped the phone, a retro unit cradled in antiquity.
"Hello, room service," she called, dangling the receiver near her ear, buttressing her chin on her collarbone, "this is Noin, calling from her room. Could you wake me up using the lights next time? I prefer my privacy, thanks." She let the phone fall by her side, and stretched out some rigid spots. She concealed herself in the bed's gauzy sheets, and modestly shirked from the window, carefully clamping the cloth over the convex portions of her front and back.

In some of her well-contrasted concavities, light successfully clawed through her flimsy shroud, gift-wrapping her waiflike aura for voyeurs to salivate over. She curtained the fantasy away in rapid order, then found the lighting, letting an invited light stroke over her most fair skin.

Privacy restored, Noin extracted some items from the closet, and set them for her future disposal.

I shouldn't have left myself in such a stark position in the first place, her musing counseled her, but I guess a suspension of normal inhibitions is sometimes in order.

She entered the chrome shower, and reaffirmed her self-image as a waif.

Being from an Italian household, that had always been her family's mantra. You're so thin. You should better enjoy our cooking, and try being more ladylike. Thinness is for boys, and tomboys afraid to develop.

But the exercise felt great, and my menstrual complaints don't amount to monthly torture for it, you estrogen tankers!

In the current period of social conservatism, Noin considered one of her primary duties in Sanc to be encouraging Ms. Relena to walk at least. Once those steps were taken, she'd gently recommended more...

"What am I holding these for?" Relena regarded the two peculiar ceramic objects hanging in her hands. They were heavy shafts with flattened bulbous ends attached.

"Relena, could you just try walking with them until you feel some real fatigue?"

Relena eyed her prospective sister-in-law crossly.

"I have a busy day ahead of me, and you want to tire me out?"

Exhale, inhale.

"Please, this is for your own benefit. Just walk with the hand weights for a while, it will firm up your arms, never mind the heart and breathing workout."

Pressed on a few paces in the Newport City mall, a distance equaling perhaps the fountain to the exit, when Relena turned in.

"Well I'm sorry, but my stamina just isn't a match for my brother's. Are you absolutely sure we're related?"

So much for that...

She dressed into her cotton tracksuit after drying, fell into some deeper stretches than she'd done waking up and in the shower. Never the trendsetter, she didn't notice her dark Nike sports bra bled through her white Adidas suit.

Running before breakfast is another holdover from her military life, something that stayed ingrained even on Peacemillian and Mars.

She passed Zechs' door without thought of intruding, though why she thought of entering his space in those terms, she didn't know.

We're still two people.

She merged into the early bird crowd of runners, people that looked much in the same shape as her. They could very well be jelled from the same mold, many of them. Military professionals are cast by the best, to be the best, and if such feathers flock together, then here they are!

She quickly established her pace to be toward the top of the local pyramid, and within minutes she found herself at the top, with one other jogger. He wore gym shorts and an expensive stopwatch, and shaved his hair close to his skull.

She noticed scars all over him, many like those Heero or Zechs sport. Noin regulated her breathing well enough to grunt some phrases at him.

"Buenos Diaz, Senor."

He worked out his own breathing, until ready to reply.

"Hello, Instructor."

They ran parallel a few seconds, then Noin found her voice.

"You look too old."

He grunted as eloquently as possible.

"Si, Lieutenant, you were indeed not yet running Victoria, but you did offer me instructions in the Aries suit... when... my unit appropriated some early models."

Those suits trickled down to the Alliance very slowly, to the point that Aries-related friendly fire incidents didn't occur during Daybreak.

"I see, you were an Alliance pilot, where?"

"South PAC/ Indian Theater, so the coup didn't endanger me," he puffed, adding voce sotto, "nor did the whole war."

"Blue water navy, not core to Oz battle strategy. Sally told me this made her Gundam snatching a cinch."

"Major Sally Poe, from Alliance Intelligence?"

Noin arched an eyebrow.

"You knew Sally?"

He nodded, eyes fixed on his path.

"She barrowed me to test enzymes and amino acids taken from the Gundam pilot 01, in Singapore's test facility."

That piqued a reaction.

"Are you serious?"

"Sure am. I never discovered if I was a real recipient, or a placebo control. The project was scraped before those psychologists told me."

"Interesting. I'm Lucrezia Noin. What's your name?"

"Ricardo Roman. Nice to meet you again."

They clumsily gave their hands a shake, then went about running.

Noin slowly resumed pulling ahead of him, in her final stretch before cool-down.

She slowed her stride at the boardwalk she'd labeled her finish line, and spied her favorite acquaintance...fishing.

I thought he'd still be sleeping. Oh boy, I know what that means. The old pang of pity felt a little more tinged of derision every time. At least he seems to cycle out of it quicker now. She felt a little tentative about stepping out to the boardwalk with him, but thought it best to shepherd him from his pensiveness, or at least shift him to a lighter shade of darkness.

She set a light citrus lawn chair beside him, grazed his backhand, enticing it to have enough appreciation to reciprocate.

It did, by enfolding her fingers with its moist palm.

Zechs kept his eyes shut as he described his experiences.

"The fish are wise enough not to bite. I've sat here for ages, and nothing tugs my line. This sport, as some generously call it, is too... passive. I'm convinced old men do it just to have the tedium suck the marrow from their bones. Why would Hemmingway romanticize this?"

I think this is a time to give you a fair warning that Viscount and I nearly have a new Gundam Wing work ready for ff publication. Is it all right if I pull you out of the story for that tidbit?

Anyway, that story is unusual, but if appreciated the right way, it's hilarious. It's kind of like Seinen no Kekka's April Fools chapter, which is appropriate, since I started freelancing on April Fools. It has a lot of preternatural recasting, making several characters vampires, one a prehistoric beast, and others in a diverse flood of crazy roles.

The story's focus is on one side Quatre, and on the other, Zechs. This will take a few days before publication. I'm doing a load of offline work on the website, and I've uploaded my link page to Angelfire, and have more coming soon.

Okay, intermission is over.

Columbia

Heero Yuy toured a mapped out route of gardens, parks, vacant lots with overgrowth, and deep drainage ditches in the pitch black of a city without power. What he'd done earlier had caused to minor civil disaster, taking out all light in a city of unsuppressed licentiousness. He felt sure pillaging would follow, until Bartista's authorities compensated their token presence with a tyrant's rod of iron.

The rattles and hums of the mob had already begun in the distance, reminding Heero of some more of Dr. J's teachings.

"Once there was The People- terror gave it birth; once there was The People and it made hell on Earth. Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, oh yea slain! Once there was The People- it shall never be again!" Dr. J had been fond of Kipling, and could find something in the Indian's work that held relevance for his protégé's training. In Heero's case, he'd been the champion for those people, a savior in the time of none, but when they didn't even want one, he'd been a child of the gun. One he hoped they'd never need again.

The utilities people were doubtlessly scratching their heads over how that chaff had ended up in the wires, without Bartista's fighters first intercepting whatever had put it their, but that's above their pay grade, so they'd quickly finish that task, and allow the Don's guns and minds to figure out the root cause. The root cause, however, refused to be outfoxed tonight, taking himself far wide of any street patrol.

This was just like survival and evasion training: stay far from the roads, stay from streams, from light, from signs of camps. Nothing to it really, just follow those simple steps, and a single individual should be safe from sentry patrols. He found a nice place to bury the STRELA missile's grip stock and other reusable components. His entrenching tool struck the earth, pitted it. Rinse, lather, repeat, one could say, until the hole deepened enough to host the components- and the shovel.

He kicked the large pile over the parts, packed it nicely. Phase two in the night's operation was finished.

He proceeded to his town loft, where he entered via the apartment complex's fire exit in the pitch black. The window wasn't secured, after all his earlier work, so passing through the window wasn't a problem.

He set up his bipod binocular scope, a big 70x8 type for astronomy purposes, and laid eyes on his informant's workplace. Someone had swept away all the rubble, allowing entrance for all the Johns to cruise by in their flashy European and North American cars.

Guards were more present than before, a clear indication they believed whoever had killed their boss will return to shut them down. They shuffled around in tuxes, letting their Ingram and Sterling submachine guns dangle in Fast-Action-Gun [FAG (always accompanied by a homophobic snicker)] bags.

The Dorothy and Une clones greeted the Johns at the sidewalks, trying their best to bring them in. One made conversation with the Une, probably asking her what exactly she'd be willing to do. Apparently, she could stomach whatever he'd requested, but the price must have given the man a pause- a brief one, because he left the car, and walked the Une clone in on his arm.

Seconds later, a Noin clone relieved her shift at hooking drivers, and so it goes on.

The valet moved the John's car from traffic, and other customers sought service. Heero watched the security detail long enough to determine he'd be safe venturing over.

"Hi, when will Relena be in?" He spoke with the Dorothy, a girl that looked so much like the genuine being, one would think the surgeon would need to sculpt her out of wax.

"Relena is with a client this moment, but if you don't mind me saying, with the john she's with, you can see her soon." Heero didn't know whether to laugh or not, but decided to closely mimic the Dorothy's giggle.

"If you're in a hurry, I could help you out," she batted her eyelashes, working to make a sale. Heero scoped the security guards, mulled over the best route.

"She's worth a few minutes, if you meant she'd be ready that fast. I was planning on keeping her all morning." That earned a manufactured smile from the blond lady, and a word of understanding.

"Oh, I understand we have a new high-roller at the establishment," she cheered a little to loudly, "please, come in and sit with me, until Relena's all ready." She clutched his hand, and led him through the brothel's doors, where she found an unoccupied seat.

A jazz band, fronted by a trumpet player and a lounge singer at the piano, trickled brass and ivory. Dorothy ordered two drinks to her table, to be rewarded with two martinis that resembled lava lamps.

"These are just the best," she shared, sipping beguilingly from a straw, "our barmaid graduated from a school that taught good mixing, and it shows."

"Would it be a culinary school?" Heero asked.

Dorothy shrugged the question away.

"I think she was in a sorority that placed special emphasis on gastronomy, but I think that's just me extrapolating from her saucy behavior." Heero sampled the brew, spilled a drip at a jolt. His eyes flashed with accusation. His mouth parted with hilarity.

Her foot reached out and strolled under the table's concealment, scribbling a tactile message.

The names of contents rolled off her tongue, but the real content of conversation matched the intent of the corporeal correspondence.

The trumpet player switched into a Miles Davis rendition of a nineteen-eighties Cindy Lauper ballad. Men and their escorts gently swayed with the music. Heero appraised his drink, approved the flavor, and explored the subtleties aficionados debate over. Heero diverted his eyes from the distended hem of Dorothy's corset. The band's new tone matched Heero's tensing dissonance, as the Dorothy's cosseting drove him to distraction. He had nothing to do, except satiate the raging conflict, and so far, only Dorothy had an offer on the table.

Heero commenced rationalizing, his patience seemed too deep for the Dorothy clone's belief, and he seriously considered taking the easiest safety measure. Dorothy, viewing him as a regular john, perceived his reserve slacken, and bent across the table.

Heero didn't check himself, and freely luxuriated in her kiss. His mouth thrills to be servile to the coquette's sinuous, and accommodates it without resistance.

The protracted exercise singes his mission focus, but Heero courageously grapples hold of his will, and rides out the heated tempest until his savior/informant grants clemency.

He removes himself from the girl, and lets her taste recede from his senses.

The mission is far from compromised, he willed the brain to register, as he refocused on the core portion of his sortie.

"Hey, I know a great place to eat, so let's drop by."

"Sure thing, mister."

On the Columbian Frontline

The Ejercito de la Reublica de Columbia, formerly the security arm of the CVA, committed to more long-range reconnaissance patrols (lurps) that morning, at around four, local time. These were light infantry patrols broken down into companies, led by junior officers barely older than the boys they worked for. Most carried the generic light assault rifles most jungle and wooded professional troops fielded, weapons based on the old Armalite AR-15 design. The Republican government outfitted these "grunts" in dirt-cheap surplus webbing and tac suits. Boots usually came from North American recycle actions, a second-hand outlet browsed by skilled cobblers, who mended the leather foot gear, and resold them at far less than retail.

Equatorial governments just ate them up. The famed Armalite rifles usually roughed out a little service in the armies caught in the world arms race, and often arrived like new, or actually as completely virgin rifles, a casualty of mad "progress" in the developed world.

Juan Caballero, General of the Army, left his office to trample over everything the shelling had flattened, making the necessary photos for the demanding news markets worldwide. His beret rested cocked to one side while he gradually fell behind the advancing patrol. He didn't wear the sunglasses, because daylight hadn't arrived, and a corncob pipe would have been a dead giveaway, but his swagger mimicked that of someone else, a someone faded into history.

He genuinely appraised the discipline of his men, while striking the pose his image consultant said was necessary, if he planned on making this look good for the world. He knew and appreciated the need for good shoots like this, the need for recognition as a wise and powerful alternative to Bartista's Columbian government.

Currently world diplomats view both versions of Columbia as possible long-term members in ESUN, but views are shifting in opposition of the Narcotic State, a condition that may automatically mean support for the Republic, but that's not written in stone. Try seeking the spirits out, test them till they bleed, then divine a concrete promise, or just a nod, if that's all they're willing.

The Lightning Count's visit, so says the old CVA director, means Sanc is already giving an unofficial, and confidential, nod of approval. These days, he usually adds, Darlian's stamp usually begets the UN's consensus.

Caballero shared his people's optimism. He watched on as his boys skillfully used maneuver-and-fire tactics to outfox a ragtag pile of fraught opposing infantrymen. A born leader, a skinny kid crawling on his back, arced a pineapple hand grenade into the open slit of a concrete and sandbag concealed pillbox. A poorly survived veteran of the pummeling, that cracked and disjointed battlement.

Disjointed, that word sums up the narcotics trade about now.

Foundation HQ Bremen, Germany

German duels are traditionally considered the most lethal, violent personal matches seen within the European Aristocracy, so naturally, everyone of any standing dropped affairs of state to fly in and see "Duchess" Une take on Duke Wilhelm Hapsburg in a shooting match from thirty paces.

It was generally accepted that the distance was chosen so both contestants could survive the dispute, but all also accepted the lore behind Une's paranormal marksmanship.

The Germanic contestants dressed nearly identical under their capes, though, many murmured, Une's cape looked suspiciously shaped in the Andrew Jackson style.

Hapsburg's second, the Duchess of Wellington, rudely quipped something to that effect. Hapsburg, in turn, looked affected.

Both shooters pointed their right feet and shoulders at each other, their bodies positioned left of the pool. They stared one another down. The breeze hovered between nil and slight. They held the dueling pieces at arms length, just above the shoulder, let it down until the sights were lined up. Careful not to jerk, they both gently squeezed the trigger.

Both shooters groaned, but held their footing. Both held the pistols to the facing hip. Hapsburg, the challenged, waited to see if Une declared she'd had satisfaction.

"Reload my pistol, Mr. President," she instructed her second.

"Sure thing, Director Une."

He opened the chamber, and inserted another 70mm shell.

"If you don't mind my inquiry, where were you shot?"

She clutched an area beneath one breast.

"I have a lung wound, just like his. Now tell him we're going again."

He relayed the message, and Duchess Wellington rearmed Hapsburg.

"Wilhelm Hapsburg, do you wish to apologize at this time for your offense? We have both drawn blood, so honor is no longer a question between us!"

Both shooters began turning blue at the lips, a sign the seconds will need to interfere soon.

"I," he breathed, spitting out some pink froth, "will take aim if you need satisfaction... but yes, I'm sorry for the blow to your honor." He temporarily fell to one knee, accepted Wellington's support, and regained his feet. From thirty paces away, Une measured the duelist's words.

"I accept your apology, if you issue a formal apology in the London Times later."

Hapsburg visibly grimaced, but realized his panting wasn't supplying enough air.

"Can't you just drop this?"

Une raised her pistol.

"Please raise your pistol, Hapsburg."

Wilhelm noted the cruel smile lining her face. He squinted, aiming for the center, in his sole hope for a wound.

Une lined her pistol, sights lined up at her opponent's upper chest. Wilhelm tried preempting her shot, triggered the charge.

Une jerked, people saw fabric fly and rip. Wilhelm, fatigued, fell as Une shot for the upper chest.

Une turned her eyes away in a mix of remorse and disgust. Wellington sobbed violently, and President Murphy ran over to see what the paramedics could salvage.

Murphy clutched his own face in sympathy, hailed the crowd.

"He still has life. All y'all around the ambulance, clear out."

Another crew put Une on a gurney, wheeled her out the same way. Photographers everywhere snapped off whole memory cards of images, sounding like cicada mating calls.

Murphy shook Wellington's hand, assured her the medical team had things under control. She nodded, as the President peeled some gray matter from her face.

Microphones besieged them, but no questions were uttered. Sounds of grief entered households around the Earth Sphere.

To be concluded.

I've been thinking about how I can let my imagination run wild and still let the 56K crowd enjoy my site. I realize the current page of links may be a little hard on the impatient, and that's why I didn't include great links to non-gundam sites on board.

I do plan to add links to miscellaneous places of interest, like different fan fiction sites and web rings, great information archives, I want a Google News link, and perhaps some things so miscellaneous, I can't really categorize it.

I think I'll use the Duo picture for the "Welcome" page, and reinvent the home page. That image is kind of big, but I like it, so the best thing to do is let it stand alone.

I just fleshed out a media page, complete with media inside, and will have that up soon. I could make a blog, if anyone wants that feature. Is anyone out there? This site is still under construction, but soon it should begin growing in earnest. Viscount did some cool work, which operated just fine offline, that he tried like mad to fix on site.

You know what? I think these little updates could be the material for a blog! I'll just pick up all the old ones, stick them in, and I'll have the history of the last few months! I'll call those "the lost entries," and continue from there.

From that point on, the energy I put into a column "The Author's Note" will be a routinely updated piece of the site.

As they say in Paris, "Ciao!"