Foreword: Soundtrack below, you know the drill by now.

Trigun - Scattered Rain
Episode I - Duel of the Fates(4:09 Remix)
G Gundam - Evolve
Better Than Ezra - One More Murder
Creed - Inside Us All(or something similar to it)

And this is where some of the dates get switched around.
Sidetracked
Prologue: Past Dealings III

"We have unconfirmed reports that casualties are now reaching into the low hundreds, with hundreds of others still missing... We also have news that Jean-Pierre Mirabeua has managed to elu-" Off with it.

The screen went blank, the room was briefly darkened before the lamp was flipped back on, a long, pained sigh emitting from the lone man within. At nineteen, he was a prodigy of every European sword style still in existence, he was a master of the Knightly martial arts and had lived by the Code of Chivalry - bar one or two special circumstances - ever since he had been old enough to read.

With his orange hair, violet eyes and soft complexion, he had the face and smile that had won the hearts of countless members of his country, most of them understandably women, and with his skills and strength, he had fairly, valiantly and honorably won the tournament that would qualify him to become the first member of the Sand family to ever earn a place in the Gundam Fight.

For all of the strength he took pride in, for all of the chivalric dignity that was his birthright, for all of his pop star looks, he still felt as if the world had just stripped him of his uniform and broken his sword in front of his own mother. Disgrace didnt even come close to measuring his feelings.

The room was lit only dimly, occupied by half-opened, mostly-read books and a television as wide as most peoples bedroom walls, probably twice as tall. There were three couches, a loveseat, several chairs and a railed ladder that ran along a library-sized series of shelves holding everything from books to compact discs, along with a gigantic desk sitting at the middle of it all. It had only one occupant though, and he was the one currently staring off into space, orange bangs hanging out sloppier than usual, several empty bottles on the desktop in front of him.

George de Sand had every right in the universe to feel like a million bucks. He had become a national icon during the tournament, and now?

Now there were probably a thousand or more dead because he had taken a simple action to save Neo-Frances royal family. He hadnt even succeeded in that, either, since Queen Clairiese Louise had died in the process. The private stands she had been sitting in had been too close to the main explosions and the following collapse of thousands upon thousands of tons of debris was beyond even royaltys ability to survive.

"Some Knight," he muttered at last, leaning back in the chair in what was probably the most uncharacteristic fashion ever for him. Even in private, he upheld the code. His outfit was stained with the stench of soot and smoke, his hair was still dirty and his boots were lying somewhere else in the room, though his feet were soon slapped across the top of the desk. An empty bottle clattered to the floor, he didnt notice.

Instead, he tightened his grip on the half-full bottle that he had in hand and took a swig. It tasted about as bitter as reality.

"I couldnt even stop him..."

A morbidly amused chuckle.

Another swig.

Finally, he set the bottle down and pushed back from the desk, giving the chair a spin before looking down at his clothes. The uniform was stained with black spots from where he had dropped out of his Gundam and run into the flames to try and help the rescue efforts. George de Sand may have been horrified, but he hadnt been paralyzed. He still had bandages on his palms from where he had literally ripped a several hundred pound, scorching hot piece of concrete out of the way to allow the people behind it to escape. His hair had been singed black at the tips.

"Master George?" Asked an older voice from the doorway. Raymond Bishop was the only other person in the entire mansion right now. The rest of the Sand familys weekend homes caretakers had been given the night off. Along with the day after it. George didnt want to see any of them.

Raymond was just too stubborn for his own good.

"I thought I told you to go take the night off?" The de Sand heir asked with a slightly drunken smirk. Raymond was completely impassive.

"You did, but your mother asked me to stay. As a family friend, rather than a servant," he answered, craftily dodging through Georges threatening tone as if the words had never even been spoken. "And, as a family friend, I must say that this is most unbecoming of you," he added, taking several groomed steps beyond the doorway and continuing towards the desk. The chair whirled back around though, and the older gent was almost halted instantly.

Having known George de Sand since he was in diapers, Raymond Bishop had seen the full range of the young mans emotions, both negative and positive. From crying when he had lost one too many fencing bouts as a child to grinning ear to ear upon receiving praise for his masterful handling of the Rose Gundam just before the tournament, but in all of those nineteen years, Raymond had never seen the sour expression of defeat that George had on his face right now.

"Perhaps... Its time for you to go to sleep?" He suggested hopefully, taken somewhat aback. George only chuckled dimly, and if it were at all possible, he probably wouldve sunken even further into the chair than he already was.

"And do what, dear Raymond? Have nightmares about thousands of people dying because of my patriotism? It isnt like I can sleep anyway," he shot back at the older gentleman with all of the lackluster sophistication of a drunkard in a back alley.

"... Master George," the older of the two sighed out a bit testily.

"If I had wanted a lecture, Idve put in a call to Mother," the younger grit out, alchohol numbing his ability to rationalize.

"I didnt come here to lecture you, dear sir. In hindsight, I did, but now... I have a bit of a suggestion."

"And that would be?" He asked with less patience than he usually did.

"Well... To be quite blunt," Raymond began before taking a deep breath and continuing. "Stop moping around like a fool and do something about it. Mirabeau is still at large after murdering hundreds. You have as much, if not more of a responsibility to get out there and do something about him," he said with a pause, only to continue before George could try and speak up. "In short: Get off your ass and stop pitying yourself."

With that, the elder man gave a short bow, straightened up, turned around and rigidly walked out of the room without so much as a good-bye, leaving George de Sand to sit there and stare blankly after him. Raymond never used foul language. The last time he had even used a curse had been when George was a toddler, and his words carried weight.

"... Nnnmm..." He voiced out, unsteadily getting out of his chair with a dizzied wobble or two, only to steady himself up on the edge of the desk. The look of self-pity was gradually replaced, narrowed lips curling up at one side, glazed eyes opening wide for a moment before narrowing back down, attentive, if not hazed from alchohol.

Slowly, with growing determination, he started staggering drunkenly towards the doorway, intent on getting to his bedroom and then going to sleep. Tomorrow would be a busy day, to say the least...
Being French meant several things to George de Sand. For starters, it meant having to pre-empt insults by making it perfectly clear that he bathed twice daily with soap that was more expensive than the average middle-class households food costs for a year. In addition, it meant having a certain sense of national pride. Sure, he had been called a cheese eating surrender monkey more times than he could count by everyone from foriegners vacationing on the Neo-France space colony to foriegn opponents in fencing tournaments, but heck...

He still had his pride. That pride was amplified by the fact that he had the distinction of being the youngest Knight in Europe - Neo or otherwise. He was also among the best, in upholding the Code of Chivalry, swordsmanship, dagger fighting, fighting without a weapon, even when it came to his appearance.

What he didnt take pride in was the fact that he had cut his long orange hair to the style of a lower class peasant. His lengthy bangs, sideburns, even the hair on the back of his neck. He had gone so far as to change his clothes as well, switching from the regal uniform of a French nobleman to the underclass wear of a commoner.

A dark green jacket worn over a long sleeved red shirt and a pair of brown pants. His shoes were borrowed from Raymond for the proper look of wear and tear, and about the only familiar features that one could use to identify him as Neo-Frances next Gundam Fighter were his violet tinted eyes and the dagger sheathed beneath his jacket.

Duelling with swords was out of style in both Neo and Earthly France, but that didnt mean knives and daggers werent trendy. Even George, with his stately manner, had to admit that a knife or dagger fight had a noticably grittier, personal feel than the romanticized, stylized and refined arts of swordsmanship. It also had the advantage of not being anywhere near as glamorous as a sword fight, meaning that if someone drew a dagger or knife, they meant business.

Another thing he had to admit was that, for a young man who had spent his life being pampered and looked after in the grips of nobility, with the slight changes he had made to his appearance, he blended in far better than he would have thought.

The added effect of a still-strong hangover didnt exactly diminish that fact.

"Thats the last time Im going to spend a night drinking anything but French wine," he affirmed to himself for the umpteenth time of the morning, even through the dizzied pain that still pressed against his senses. French wine was one thing, but American moonshine? The kind that had been outlawed in Neo-France, available to the Sand family as a matter of the Counts experimental tastes?

No. That was the last time that George was ever going to intentionally get himself drunk on anything that wasnt French. Fatalities be damned, the hangover alone made it above and beyond the call of duty.

"This looks like as good a place as any," he reasoned, coming to a stop and straightening himself up a bit tiredly in front of the place.

All things considered, it was probably one of the seediest dumps in the city of Paris, which was where both George had felt would be as good a starting place as any. Considering Mirabeaus downright stupidly dramatic and attention grabbing style lent itself to hiding in plain sight, it was probably better than spending days or weeks working around the newly re-established Interpol and however many national policing agencies had taken up the chase, or trying to work through the entire countryside.

One considerable edge was that Mirabeau didnt speak anything other than French. That limited his hiding places considerably, to the extent that he wouldve only been able to find a proper hiding place in France and its former colonies, most of which spoke variants of French that wouldve been exceedingly difficult for a near thug like Jean-Pierre to adapt to.

As such, it was only partially shocking when George forced the cranky old door open and found himself greeted by the sight of a single figure standing out amidst the crowds of derelicits that tended to infest the bar he had chosen to start with. Not to say he didnt have to clench his jaw and force his lips shut so tightly that he almost went fish-faced at the sight before him, but still.

"Mirabeau," he spat in his thoughts, forcing on a calmer face than before. It wasnt an easy task, but he managed.

The disgraced Gundam Fighter, a former special forces soldier in the military, sat within a few paces, dressed shaggily in a long, brown trench coat and a matching hat. Considering how careful he was to avoid speaking, to look dirty and to make sure that the coat wasnt top of the line, Mirabeau had hidden himself reasonably well.

But his hair stood out like a sore, bloody thumb. The idiot hadnt even gotten it cut.

It was like fate had intervened on Georges behalf, bringing him so close to his target that he could almost smell Mirabeaus scent as if it were his own, without even forcing him to spend days or weeks on a drawn out search for the mass murderer. It was so convenient, how things had practically fallen into place on the first try. The urge to make it pay off as quickly as the chance had been given to him rose like bile in the back of his throat, coaxing him to make the strike now, while Jean-Pierres back was turned.

"Wait for it..." He kept telling himself though, closing in almost rigidly for what promised to be the kill at a slow pace, in spite of his desire to end it now. At this point, George de Sand genuinely didnt care too much for bringing his target in alive either way, he was out to dispense justice. At knifes edge, if need-be.

He had appointed himself Judge, Jury, Witness, Prosecution and Executioner. Pierres trial had ended before hed ever even been arrested.

And that was when the blue haired villain went and virtually threw a monkey wrench into all of Georges grand schemes of justice and revenge, if only because he slowly, somewhat drunkenly began to stand up and turn around.

Even after changing his appearance as he did, George de Sand had come to the conclusion that when dealing with his prey in this particular hunt, it was really only good for fooling everyone but Jean-Pierre. As such, he decided, for the sake of his own emotions, however twisted that they were at the moment, to drop his act and draw his dagger instead.

"Hello, Jean-Pierre," he greeted with a razor calm, his slender yet strong fingers already clasping onto the grip of the weapon he had hidden away in his jacket, his entire hand having vanished from sight to make the grab.

At the sound of his voice, the blue haired fugitive tensed up reflexively. George didnt have to see Pierres face to know that his expression was as mortified as his own had been when the missiles started flying into the stands.

"Its nice to see you remember me. Tell me though," he began, feeling every single bit of activity in the bar grind to a painful halt, and then also feeling his own smile at the psychological effect of hearing the click and slide of the daggers blade exiting the small scabbard it was kept in.

"Do you remember how many missiles you fired into the stands? Do you remember hearing the screams of countless people running for their lives?" He asked with an uncharacteristic lack of regard for the rules of chivalry. Justice was one thing, but knowingly taking pleasure in the knowledge that he was about to murder someone in cold blood?

The darkness that would one day come to haunt him was truly born in the seconds that it took for him to slowly but lethally finish drawing his weapon, the finely polished metal shining a hellstruck reflection into Mirabeaus eyes as he turned around to face his would-be executioner with a look that could only be described in one word.

Fear.

"... You..."

Absolute, undeniable, inescapable fear.

The kind that terrorists of ages past had killed themselves to try and inspire, the kind that countless totalitarian dictatorships had crushed their people to try and create, the kind that turned the most wanted man in Neo-France into little more than a cornered deer caught in the sights of a sniper rifle.

"Die," George said with a maliciousness that wouldve sent his own mother running, whipping the dagger back and making ready for the killing blow.

His intent was to ram the tip of the dagger right through the side of Mirabeaus neck, nearer the back. Sever the spinal cord, cut any veins in the process and then watch the other bleed to death in paralyzed helplessness.

That was his intent, but the survival instincts of a fugitive far outweighed the killer instincts of the man hunting him.

In a flash, the two had made their moves. George and Jean-Pierre both acted like men possessed - one seeking to kill the other, and his prey knowingly allowing himself to be stabbed right through the palm to block it.

Blood sprayed like a miniature fountain around the daggers blade as it pierced Pierres skin, slipping between bones and then tearing through everything in its path before erupting back out, sending a larger spurt right into one of Mirabeaus eyes. He winced and bit back a scream, but with the last impulses he could manage in his newly injured hand, his fingers coiled into a vice-like grip around the handguard of the weapon, while his numbing arm gave a hard yank away.

George fought to maintain his balance, but soon ceded against the slightly larger, more muscular mans strength, going to one foot and then finding the butt of his own weapon slammed into the side of his head like a small sledge hammer.

The blow left him dizzy, and it left Mirabeau in agony, though that pain didnt stop him from pulling the dagger back out and dropping it to the floor as he made a run for the door. By the time that Georges vision cleared, his query was gone, but the emotions that the encounter had stirred remained the same.

With a dignity and pride that offset what he had just tried to do, he bent down and picked his dagger back up, violet eyes narrowing with a glance around the bar. Almost instantly, activity picked back up.

Wiping the blade off with an already dirtied napkin from the counter, George re-sheathed the weapon in his jacket and then took off again, speed walking to the door and almost ripping it from the hinges as he made his way back into the street. A bit of blood trailed down from a major bruise on the side of his head, but he was as impervious to it as he was to the seeming betrayal he was making to the Code with every thought that passed through his orange haired head.

"The hunt is on, Mirabeau," he thought, disregarding almost everything that Raymond had ever taught him. If the old butler had known, he probably wouldve suffered a heart attack at the thought.

"Im going to find you, and when I do..."

Thoughts trailed to the view of the dagger slipping through Jean-Pierres flesh, the blood squirting out like a geyser from the sheer force of the attack.

"The wound I gave to your hand will feel like a pleasant memory," he vowed beneath his breath, passing by the alleyway that his query had hidden himself in without ever even knowing it.
"I take it that your first hunt was... Unsuccessful?" Raymond asked with as soothing a tone as he could manage, setting down a tray with two cups of English tea on it. It had been a favorite drink of Georges ever since he had become a fan of Neo-Englands Gentle Chapman, he often had a habit of drinking it whenever he was stressed or thoughtful.

Right now, he was both.

"I gained a bruise and managed to stab him through the hand, but that was it," George replied glumly, holding a small ice pack to where the hilt of his own dagger had been used against him. "I could have ended it - I could have ended his life without him ever even realizing my presence. Instead I chose to stop short and move in slowly, then when he tried to get up..."

He paused, in the manner that Raymond could easily tell was to avoid slapping himself for feeling foolish. The elder of the two finally seated himself at the other side of the table, thoughtfully regarding his younger charge and then waiting for him to continue.

"I gave away the element of surprise in favor of trying to strike fear into him. I dont know why, but I do know that... I enjoyed it. I enjoyed seeing the terror in his eyes. I enjoyed seeing the hope wash right out of him and I enjoyed feeling the dagger stabbing through his hand. Im not sure if its just the thrill of the hunt or something else, but it scares me," he admitted dimly, sighing right after and then taking a sip of his tea.

Raymond was unenthused. His graying mustache twitched with the motions of his lips, but without even needing to think to find the words, he said them. He was like that when it came to giving George guidance, after all, he was probably closer to the de Sand family heir than his own father was.

"A slip along the path youve chosen in life isnt going to be an easy thing to recover from, my boy. I fear that there may be something dark awakened within you by the recent events that weve seen, but I am confident that you can find your way past it. Remember the Code that you follow," he began, knowing that it had taken those first words just to grab Georges attention.

"Justice. Loyalty. Faith. Humility. Mercy. Nobility. Remember those, my boy, and youll come through this all the better. Otherwise, I fear that Ill have to re-school you in them..."

A pause.

"Again," Raymond said with a slight frown. It wasnt like George de Sand had learned the modern day ideals of chivalry overnight, after all.

"Ill try," the younger of the two shrugged with a fading chuckle, taking another sip of his tea and then pausing for a moment.

"Where do you think Jean-Pierre is heading next? He probably knows that hiding out in the seediest of places will only halt the authorities, not me..."

"To be quite honest, George," Raymond began, finally grabbing his own cup from the tray on the table between them. "I believe that Jean-Pierre is going to Hell, next. It may take a little while, but Im quite sure of it," he finished, promptly taking a sip of his drink like a proper gentleman. George frowned dully.

"I meant in this lifetime," he clarified.

"Whoever said that Hell could only exist in the afterlife most certainly hadnt counted on the existence of the French prison system," Raymond replied with an honest, assertive tone to his voice, pausing again to try and think of a way to put it better.

"I believe the phrase is something like... Dropping the soap in the prison showers?" He asked, glancing to George, who was just staring at him with one of the most vacant looks that the older gent had ever seen.

"And I thought I was vindictive..."
"Keep running," he thought, his hand tucked limply into his jacket. The blood had caked the wound shut at some point, and combined with a makeshift bandage made out of a strip from the lining of his coat, Jean-Pierre had at least the vaguest of hopes that it would heal properly, though that was only a guess. He knew, at least, that he could still move all of his fingers to some degree or other, and that he could make a fist so long as he avoided the very center of his palm with it.

It would have to be his dominant hand to take the injury. In hindsight, he could think of at least six different ways to have parried or blocked the attack, but none of that mattered anymore. He had to keep moving, because in addition to the authorities, he now had Neo-Frances next Gundam Fighter on his tail.

George de Sand.

He almost spat in contempt at the mere thought of the orange haired noblemans son who had unjustly defeated him and then cost him his rightful revenge.

So what if he had situated himself in front of the stands? The government had been stupid enough to put them there in the first place! An advantage was an advantage, hed just been the only one smart enough to use it.

And it had gotten him disqualified by a pompous, fat prick who hadnt even had the intelligence to see how clever Mirabeau had been in using the crowds to gain an advantage. Gundam fights were things that were done to gain control of the planet and its outlying colonies, trying to have them carried out with petty concepts like sportsmanship and fairness was like playing Russian roulette with a plasma cannon, in Jean-Pierres eyes, anyway.

A crack of thunder issued overhead, instinctively he stopped running down the sidewalk and dove into another alleyway. He had been fortunate enough to make it into the single most unlawful part of the city right off the bat. It was an area of Paris that could be considered downright anarchistic. The police were practically afraid to try coming in, the people kept to themselves and illegal activities were so common that they werent even noticed.

Even murder was so common that it could be done and gotten away with in the open, in broad daylight no less. The only people who would care were the street rats who made a living off of picking dead bodies clean of any remaining valuables, or the organ and corpse thieves who made their living selling those same bodies for whatever cash they could get.

As seedy and brutal as the area was, the Neo-French government wouldnt do anything about it. It was a lost cause, everytime they had tried, it had gotten numerous federal officials killed and only caused the area to grow - at best, it could only be contained. The local government, Pierre felt, probably figured that the entire local structuring would fully collapse someday, and then they could move in and clean things out with the military or something.

Thankfully, that wouldnt be happening anytime soon. At least, he hoped it wouldnt be happening anytime soon.

Rain began to pour from above, Mirabeau growled to himself and looked around. There were only two or three others in the alley. He could see one of them crawling under a worn cardboard box, and another was sitting there with a bottle in a paper bag, completely oblivious to the storm overhead.

Jean-Pierre grit his teeth and set his sights on an old dumpster. The sides were worn away with rust, the roof sported several holes, but it was empty and he was desperate.

Wishing against all odds, the fugitive wondered how he wouldve been fairing if hed been able to keep his hold on the Mirage Gundam, but after a few seconds, that thought became little more than a faded, upsetting memory. He had positioned himself inside of the dumpster, on the side with the least holes, and then promptly slammed the lid shut.

It never occurred to him that the people in the alleyway looked a bit too cleancut to be ordinary members of the anarchistic society he had sought to hide himself in, nor did it occur to him that the one with the bottle had been watching him with the eyes of a hawk.
Glass shattered in the early morning quiet of the de Sand familys weekend home.

George stared at the television with a shellshocked expression. He was still dressed in the robe he had thrown over himself after climbing out of bed, his surprisingly unkempt hair sticking out in every way since it was now too short to weight down and cover half of his face like it usually did, and his eyes were still slightly encrusted from sleep. His mouth hung open, blood trickled slowly down his palm from where he had shattered the glass cup in his hand.

The maid nearby paused in what she was doing, sparing a glance his way before her eyes instantly went down to his bleeding, clenched fist, which was also dripping with the orange juice he had been intent on drinking.

"We repeat, for those just tuning in, Jean-Pierre Mirabeau has been captured as of late last night by the Neo-French authorities..."

For precious moments, the maid watched as her violet eyed employer stared blankly at the screen, slowly mouthing out words that didnt even exist. Raymond, who sat at the table behind her, wore a grim look upon his face, viewing the scene of his former protege through the corner of his eye and doing his absolute best to maintain as silently neutral as possible.

"Were receiving word that he is being treated for a stabbing wound to his left hand, however, before hes to be brought to trial for the Tragedy at Versailles. More on this story, as it arrives."

Tick.

"I hereby award victory of the Neo-France Gundam Tournament to George de Sand!"

Twitch.

"Wait for it..."

Inhale.

He had changed his entire appearance, lowered himself down to a mere commoner for the exclusive purpose of hunting down Jean-Pierre Mirabeau like an animal.

Wood splintered beneath the butt of an already bleeding, juice covered fist before George bluntly, angrily stormed out of the kitchen, the door slamming shut behind him with enough force that the entire room seemed to darken a second or so later, even if it was only passing cloud cover.

The maid stared on, mortified, but Raymond only shook his head with a deep breath before speaking up again.

"Dont worry about the damage to the countertop," he ordered. "Just contact one of the handymen and have them fix it. Clean up the juice and the glass though," he added, receiving an eerily calm nod as he stood up. Considering that he had always been quite the early shiner to begin with, Raymond had already gotten dressed, wearing one of his usual business suits.

Tiredly, he straightened up his tie and walked off to where he felt that George would go next.
Sidestep forward to the right, thrust forward to the left, recover. Six thrusts, hop back, slice down and to the right, follow through with a kick towards the inner thigh. Halt.

"As predictable as you were when you were a sullen child after losing too many rounds."

Twist, parry.

They stood across from each other, Raymond Bishops own foil having been batted aside by the cross guard of the weapon that George held in his hand. The older gent had already finished recovering by the time that the younger fencer had recognized him.

"As I recall though, the last time you did this, you were actually keen on having a sparring partner."

"What do you want, Raymond?" George asked hotly, straightening up out of his fighting stance and lowering his sword. He was still dressed in his blue robe and white pajamas, right down to the fuzzy orange slippers on his feet.

"For you to calm down," the older of the two replied about as bluntly as the business end of a baseball bat. "Mercy and loyalty before prowess and justice."

"It was your idea to hunt down Mirabeau, not mine," George growled.

"Then it was I who made the mistake," Raymond shrugged calmly. "Thus its not your place to drive yourself to the breaking point over it," he concluded. The other regarded him with palpable annoyance.

"Give me one excuse why I shouldnt fire you then," he ordered. Raymond paused thoughtfully, knowing that he was about to gamble with what amounted to his entire life in the process.

"Because, I will resign first, and spare you the trouble," he said, quietly muttering a prayer in his thoughts as the words hit the air like ice water, pouring into Georges ears in a similar fashion. He even held an expression as if someone had just woken him up from a nap by dumping cold water on his face.

"No," he grumbled, regaining a small inkling of his composure. "Ill calm down, but only on one condition," he began with a slowly forming smile.

"And that would be?" Raymond asked, though he already knew what it was well enough that he tightened his grip on the fencing tool he held, lowered at his side.

"Stop fighting so damned unfairly," George cracked with the same smile that had been twitching onto his face a few seconds earlier.

"What do you mean?" The older of the two asked, raising his weapon in a classical stance that was almost mirrored by his former student and current superior.

"When I fight," George began, pausing to make a half cut into a thrust, one which Raymond smoothly ducked under, sidestepping around his younger protege and straightening back up, his foil coming down with a whistle for the back of de Sands orange haired head.

"I do so with only my hands, my sword and my pride," he continued, half-turning and bringing his sword back up. The foil stopped hard against its smoothed side, and almost instantly, George punched the lower side of the rapier and forced Raymond back, giving himself just enough time to recover and make another thrust. Thankfully, it was ceremonial and dulled on all edges, even if it had hit, it wouldntve done much more than to bruise the older man and maybe knock the wind out of him.

"When you do it, you fight with your heart," George finished, drawing back as Raymond turned out of the way and masterfully held his balance, taking up another classical stance with a soft smile causing his mustache to tilt up at once side.

"How can a mere Knight hope to defeat that?" The younger competitor asked his old teacher. Raymonds reply was as honest as he almost always tried to be, finding itself spoken at the exact moment that he chose to make his attack.

"Simply fight with your heart, George," he said, thrusting once and then swivelling his wrist, bringing the foil under Georges attempted parry and striking him with the balled tip, right into the stomach. The foil bent upward, Raymond advanced with a step and then yanked the foil back.

The duel paused briefly, each of the participants waiting for a moment where they could both strike out.

"Fight with your heart," Raymond repeated once more, just as the two began to make their attacks once again.

It would only be a matter of months before the old butlers age would finally start catching up to him, but as the two carried out one of their last spars on even terms, neither really noticed the eyes of the eleven year old princess focusing in on them, settling closely upon the orange haired Gundam Fighter.

She had come for a simple visit with her father, both had been accompanied by Count de Sand and his wife. It had been intended to give them the chance to get away from the media attention that had been hounding them both for two days now, a nice chance to gather their wits and grieve together in privacy.

Her name was Princess Maria Louise. What she said to herself was a single word, spoken at a tone that was barely above a whisper.

"George..."

End Prologue III


Authors Note: Yet MORE! minor edits!

Kudos to SporkGoddess for giving me(what I hope) is the right age for Maria Louise. Since this takes place three or so years before the Gundam Fight, Marias only eleven when her crush on George kicks into high gear(you know, outright fangirl levels and such).

That said, this is one of the parts where the dates have been switched around a bit. Originally it was just because I had forgotten when the Versailles Tragedy had taken place, now its just because Georges hair probably needed that long to grow back out.

And before you complain about George going psycho - that 'darkness in his heart' had to have some initial trigger event after it the seeds for it were planted with Mirabeaus massacre, and I intend on getting way more mileage out of it than a one-episode 'Domon, be friends! ;.;!' type of thing.

Also, any help on how many deaths there were at Versailles would be appreciated(I cant remember if it was 999 or 1500 or more... Bah).

Sh33p out. Next update is when/if I ever get off my lazy ass and write the Chibodee prologue.