Hey-o, and welcome to my Lil' World of Weirdness!!
I state for the record that I don't own Gundam Wing, or the wonderful characters that will be gracing this story. This story is dedicated to my ever wonderful Beta-reader, the Bluegoo, my new beta reader, Clow'd9, and to everyone who helped me out, or wrote to me, reviewed me to tell me to come back during my various stages of depression!
Okay, that's the legal stuff out the way!!
//Thinking//
"Speaking"
*Stress/Emphasis*
~*~
**PlayTime**
By Doctor Megalomania
Okay, so this is a series of little ficlets, there's no time line, no real point, nothing that links them, except for the fact they all came to me during various times when I was messing about with my mates . . . yes, I do still like to play with my friends, I am a child at heart and hope to forever remain so! Please R&R!! Oh, and you have to guess which point of view it's from, since it's one pilot's POV about another!
Zero Two: Model Behaviour
"Neeeeeeeooooooooooowwwwwwwwww!! Booooom! Oh no! What?! The mobile suit is going to hit the power lines! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!"
I blinked as I glanced up from my task. The voice pitched from high to low as the 'conversation' continued. I sighed and returned to my self-appointed task; ridding us of the blasted labels Yuy had so childishly stuck everywhere! No one else was going to do it; Barton was watching TV while Yuy was off in the hanger, probably using the label gun again. Meanwhile, Winner was off on the fifth floor . . . yes, our safe house has a fifth floor . . . it also comes with five hundred channels of cable TV, seven secret passages, three BMWs, two Yamazaki motorbikes and one Ferrari. I shook my head as I continued to scrape off the irritating label. Winner was just not your model warrior.
Talking about models . . .
Maxwell, in case you were wondering, is in the living room. Playing with his models. His hobby is to make models, whether it's with his own hands or with the aid of model kits. For weeks on end, it's not unusual to find the boy busily fixing something together. I can't tell you how often I get a message in my mobile suit with a picture attachment. 'Look,' he says, 'I made its little leg! Aaww!'
And sure enough there's a small picture of this model's leg, with his grimy, sometimes blood stained hands. If I didn't know him, I'd probably be scared of pictures like that. Actually. . . I'm still scared of pictures like that. . . Sometimes it seems that Maxwell just doesn't remember that just moments before he had put together the model's little leg he was sneaking over barbed wire and blowing bases sky high.
"Duh-duh-duh-duh!!!"
The imitated sound of machine fire floats from him as he plays with these models. Maxwell doesn't often play with his models; he's too fiercely protective of them. But sometimes . . . I put down the scraping tool I was using and walk over to the door between the kitchen and the living room. Maxwell is lying in front of the fireplace, with the television on some random news channel. He's lord and general over his little toy army, mobile suit models at his complete command and rather chillingly, the papier-mâché model of the Grim Reaper lies on its side on top of the TV. A closed tub of black paint and a paintbrush sitting in a water jar, all on top of old newspaper tell me he's finally repaired the damage caused by having to rip one of Yuy's labels off the bottom.
He's supposed to be watching the news for any mention of us or what OZ have got to say about us.
His notebook has some scrawls in it, and he's at least facing the news, but other than that, it's providing white noise for him. Maxwell doesn't do well with complete silence. Its always bugged him so somewhere, wherever Maxwell is there is something providing some sort of distraction, some sort of white noise.
"You can't do that! It's too powerful! I can! I must! We've gotta save the planet! NEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOWWW!!! Twenty, nineteen . . . Christ! The countdown's started! Get out of there!"
I rolled my eyes; he's such a child! Can't he act grown up for a while? I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe as he brings out his favourite models. The Real War models. There from some forgotten war a few years back, before us, they're old style mobile suits, clunky, colourless. Nataku knows how they told the difference between their own suits and the enemy forces! After a few moments of watching Maxwell mindlessly play, moving the little army back and force, throwing them in the air as 'mines' apparently explode, I gleaned something resembling a plot from his utterances. Apparently the 'good' side are trying to protect their small country from being over taken by a huge evil organisation from another country. The small country doesn't have much money, they're fairly poor and they need some serious help, it would benefit them to accept the money from the overbearing organisation. However they'd have to give up their traditions, have to give up everything that they were in order to be part of this organisation. I smirked; Maxwell's country had a small band of fighters who were the best in their fields. They could only call each other by their numbers, interestingly there were only five of them . . .
"Three! Don't do it!" He picked up a small tank and raced it toward a small group of toy soldiers who were no doubt cowering as this tank came careening toward them. "Don't do it!" Maxwell's imaginary fourth fighter called out, "We're supposed to be fighting for freedom, not settling old vendettas!"
The tank showed no sign of slowing down, and Maxwell helpfully provided some screams, protests.
"Noooooo!!" Cried the toy soldiers, helpless as they were trapped inside their imaginary base.
Just as it seemed too late, the tank swerved and veered away. "You're right . . ." Three growled gutturally, "Damnit . . . I . . . I can't let him get to me like this . . ."
Him, by the way, was the evil master of the big organisation. Him was evil, so evil in fact; he sacrificed one of his daughters to save himself. The evil baron of the organisation was too dishonourable for words and the small band of fighters made it their mission to kill him at all costs. Three's problem with him was, that once a very long time ago, Three had come across Him and – not knowing whom he was – let him escape.
The first of the fighters landed in his mobile suit and blasted into the hanger where all the organisation kept their weapons, aiming his weapons at the storage containers. He was about to destroy the organisation's main cache of weapons. Without organisation's cache of weapons, their war would turn and the small country would be winning for once. Just as he was about to take those weapons out, an enemy mobile tackled him!
"No!" Cried the first, "I've got to complete my mission!"
The two mobile suits roiled around the deep shag carpet, battling for life and death. Various cries and grunts were issued as the fighter's mobile suit took heavy damage from the superior mobile suit of the enemy. The enemy raised his foot, about to deliver the final crushing blow to the fighter's head when Maxwell suddenly dropped both models and sat up attentively. I blinked, not realising how deeply I'd allowed myself to be drawn into the story.
I glanced at Maxwell as he quickly scribbled, the screen showing images of his own Gundam battling forces near Old Cuba. I glanced back into the darkened kitchen, and realised I'd been watching Maxwell for three hours. The sun was beginning to set, filling the kitchen with a dark amber haze. The garden door swung back and forth lazily, the bowl of water and the wallpaper scrapper I'd been using lying where I'd left them.
"Wufei?"
I turned back to Maxwell as he continued to take notes, "Yes?"
He jerked and glanced over, "Whoa . . . how long you been standing there?" He spoke with genuine surprise, I wasn't the only one completely drawn into his narrative. He shrugged, "Anyway . . . Coulda ya make me a cold drink please? I'm kinda thirsty. . ."
I nodded, "What do you want?" I pulled open the fridge and stared at the various cans and bottles, each still bearing a few Marks of Yuy. "Beer? Cola?"
"Any OJ?"
"No, but we have apple . . ."
"I'll take that!" His cheerful voice bounced back, "Hey Wufei!"
"Yes?" I took out two glasses, dropped a few cubes of ice into them and poured the apple juice into them. I glanced over at the door when Maxwell didn't answer, but thought very little of it. It wasn't unusual for Maxwell to start talking and then just forget to continue. I pick up the glasses and walk through to the living room to find Maxwell missing. I shake my head; no doubt he's rushed off to get something to show me. He likes showing me his models, never to anyone else . . . not even Yuy. I don't quite understand why . . .
I sit the glasses down, sip at mine and sink into the beanbag Maxwell had been sitting on before his war began on the rug. The news is now talking about how Relena is doing in her new job as Vice Foreign Minister. I glanced away; I'm not too keen on the girl. Heero protects her and she does seem to do something good for the war effort but the girl herself? I just can't seem to stand her. I sigh and look down at a model by my feet. It's a little F-17 type mobile suit. I smile, my colony used to have these. I remember watching them rumble and rattle around the place. As a child, I knew very little about war . . . my parents were highly respected by the local military and therefore they went out of their way to make sure our small settlement of Changs were undisturbed by the motions of war. When I was five, the old general of the L5 military decided to have a show of might. Perhaps he was intimidated by the encroaching influence of the Federation.
I picked up the small model and twisted it in my hands.
Anyway, I was five years old peering through the bars of the boundaries as these massive machines rumbled by. It was the first time I saw my wife as well, she was another one of the children from the class of students who attended lessons in my family's halls. She was on the other side of the street, peering through the window. I remember her because she had red, white and blue ribbons in her hair. Unheard of in a society which considers red to be the colour of life, white to be the colour of death and blue to be the emperor's personal colour!
As I moved the small leg, I remembered the sound of the hydraulics, the way the large foot seemed to make the whole colony shake under my feet. My hair was loose and whipping about my face as the massive foot clicked, groaned and lifted off again.
I slid off the beanbag to be closer to the floor as I walked the funny little machine.
My mother came screaming out of the complex behind me, grabbing me, hauling me off my feet. She screamed up at the massive machines, furious apparently that I'd been exposed to them. I don't remember much of the encounter, aside from the fact that it left me with a love of old mobile suits. Nobody else knows about them, but whenever the chance comes up to survey a battlefield after we've fought I always take it. Some of the mobile suits we fight are old than I am!
Feeling a little spiteful, I make the little model kick over a group of toy soldiers. I chuckle quietly to myself and sit the model on the edge of the table as I reach up and sip my drink.
Maxwell is standing just behind me holding a box. He smiled; we both know he saw me. He doesn't say much, just puts the big box down and picked up his drink. He quickly gulped down half of it and pressed the cold glass against his forehead. "Aahhh . . ." he sighed, "Thanks Wufei!"
"Don't mention it . . ." I murmured. I glance at the box, innocuously marked, '02's', in his large scrawl. "What's that?"
"This, my friend . . ." he positively beamed as he drags the box toward him, "Is my box of my best models! I thought you might wanna have a gander!"
I sighed; it wasn't like I had anything better to do. "So, what kind of models are they?"
He opened the box; carefully lifting out some padding he put on top. Normally, such a box wouldn't need such heavy-duty padding but Maxwell knows just as well as I do we could be attacked at any moment. We might live a hectic life style, and many of our possessions will probably be lost before the month is out, but some how that doesn't stop Yuy from buying Japanese manga, or Barton and Winner from buying sheet music. It certainly doesn't stop me from collecting Chinese styled things, like my masks and my paper dragons so why should Maxwell stop collecting his models?
Anyway, after the padding, Maxwell pulled a small box out. He opened with great relish. "I just finished making it!" He glanced up at me, "It took me ages, but I finally wheedled the design specs from the Doctors and scrounged the materials from Howard . . ." he reached into the box and gingerly pulls a very familiar mobile suit model from it. He set it on the table between us and pulled away the last bits of paper padding. Maxwell chuckled as he attached the double-barrelled gun, and pushed the model into a pose.
A tiny, thirty-centimetre high copy of Heavyarms glowered at us, looking completely ready to jump into the air, do seven spins and fire all his bullets at us.
I leant closer to get a better look, it was made of plastic and there were teeth marks where Maxwell had pressed parts together with his mouth.
"The eyes are done with this gel paint, so it gets this kinda like our Gundams' eye look. 'Course a model this big; I couldn't really put much circuitry into it." Maxwell leans over with me as he stares at the miniature Heavyarms with complete adoring.
"Why Heavyarms?" I ask, it's only one of the millions of questions I want to ask, but it's the first one that springs out of my mouth. He chuckled again, and reached into the box. He pulled out four more boxes. Soon, Heavyarms was surrounded with the other Gundams. Each with their own unique features. Each had a little battle damage; a smudge of black burn marks around the Gundams, a little wear and tear on the feet. Nataku even had the little, yet long scratch in its arm from where I'd once dragged my sword in anger.
I smiled, "Maxwell . . . these are . . ." I picked up Sandrock and pushed the head back, "These are incredible!"
"I know! I just got all the specs and tried to stay true, but Howard wouldn't let me make 'em outta metal . . . wouldn't it be so unbelievably cool if I made these outta real stuff! HA!" He clapped and rocked slightly, picking up Nataku. "We could send this little guy into Treize's study . . . or maybe, maybe . . ."
"We could send Mini-Wing Gundam after Zechs and program it to yell 'Omae O Kurosu!' and then it could self-destruct!" I laughed, tossing my head as I picked up Wing and shook it gently toward him, yelling in a chirping Heero-like voice, "I will kill you!"
Duo giggled as he picked up Heavyarms. He marched it forward, toward the other mobile suit models, "Whirrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmm!!" He growled lowly, sounding not unlike the gattling gun's rapid fire. "Boom! Kah-boom!! We've got to take out their base of operations!"
I picked up Sandrock and placed him next to Heavyarms in a strategic position to not only protect Heavyarms from enemy fire, but to make sure Heavyarms could cover his back.
Oh, I don't know . . . we must have played with the Gundams for an hour.
We just . . . messed about on the rug, we re-enacted a war or two, one that ended with the five Gundams winning the war and became great heroes, there was so much happiness and the Gundams were giant memorials, forever reminding humans about the great war. One ended terribly, all the Gundams were destroyed, it was so sad I almost cried. They'd gotten so close to the end, almost winning the war but somehow they just missed it.
We were half way through the third war when Duo snapped out of it again, and began taking notes.
Relena was on the TV talking about the brave efforts made by the Gundam Pilots, I put Deathscythe on the table carefully and downed the last of my apple juice.
Duo sighed as he put down the pad of paper and leant back.
"How do you think this war will end?" He picked up Wing and stared at it, "Like the first one? With the heroes? Or the one where they all died?"
I shrugged and stared at Heavyarms crouched over Sandrock protectively.
"I don't know . . ." I turned Nataku in my hands, the last war was undecided and now that the mood had been broken it seemed silly to go back to it. I took Nataku's small staff from his hands and clipped it to its back. I stared at it, I'd love to have one of theses after the war. We had to destroy our Gundams, but a model like this would be nice to keep as a reminder.
"Why do you make these?"
"The models?" Duo hummed for a moment, 'flying' Wing around. "I never really had any toys as a child. Anything I wanted, I had to make anyway . . . so . . . y'know . . ."
I nodded. "What are you going to do with these?"
"Now?" He chuckled, "Now I'm gonna play with 'em because I'm still a big kid . . ."
After a few more miniature battles, we started to pack them away again. The Gundams we left until last, Heavyarms, Sandrock, Wing and lastly Deathscythe. I handed him Nataku reluctantly, I still wanted to play with it.
He smiled fondly, "You don't know how much trouble I went through to get everything perfect for Nataku."
"Why?"
"Because . . ." he grinned at me as he packed it into the box again, "Outta all the guys, you're the one who'd notice . . . when I give 'em away to youse guys, I think you, *you* are the one who'd really notice if Nataku had the sword mark on the wrong arm . . ."
I blinked as he handed over the box to me.
Looking up, I saw Duo grin at me. "Here . . ." he said, "You keep this one." He leant forward and pointed at the box's inscription. 05, Nataku/Shenlong Gundam Type one. Design: Master O. War begin: A.C – 195 ~ War End: A.C.
"See, I dunno when the war will end, or how . . . but, you know, it will be nice to have these, huh?" He nudged me with his elbow, "Anyway, keep it 'kay? Just in case you feel like being a kid with me, 'kay?"
I opened the box and stared at Nataku as it lay nestled soft curls of tissue paper.
"You know . . ." Duo continued, "I wonder how that war would have ended?"
I touched Nataku's head, the first war ended with us as heroes. The second ended with all of us dead. The third was undecided.
He leant back and stared at the TV. Images of Heavyarms and Wing laying siege to some bases flittered over the screen. "Guess we'll keep on playing until we find out, eh?"
I took Nataku out again, pushing it into a sitting pose on my lap.
"Promise to keep on playing with me?" Duo asked quietly, he glanced at Nataku fondly, "Don't let Nataku get broken?"
I've never really had my own toy before, I nodded to him. We both know we weren't talking about a couple of boys with their toys, we were talking about those five fighters who fought against the largest organisation, those five brave boys who would either come out of it as heroes or die trying. I smiled slightly as I raised my Nataku model and raised an arm, shaking at him as I squeaked quietly.
"Kisama! I am Gundam! We are Gundam! Nobody dies until justice has been won!"
---------
And Now It's Time To LEAVE IT TO DOCTOR MEGALOMANIA!!!
DrM: ah, it's been a while... and for that i am sincerely sorry, since this is actually a fic I am really kinda fond of! Expect the next three parts soon, since Wufei's just being a bit of a pain... he doesn't want to co-operate because his story involves Relena...
