Heero dragged himself after the strange woman. She had scooped the red-haired girl up and taken off across the rocks as if the girl weighed nothing at all. His head throbbed and his body was utterly drained from the effort of saving both the girl and himself.

The Aries had sunk straight to the bottom of the lake, warning lights turning lurid in the dark water. The cockpit was compromised—the lake began gushing in almost immediately. The motors that operated the hatch were broken—he would have to open it manually, and he couldn't do that until the pressure difference between the inside and the outside of the mobile suit equalized. To do that, the cockpit would have to completely fill with water. First, though, he had to get out from underneath the red head. She was unconscious, slumped forward on his lap, blood dripping down from the cuts on her face.

By the time he squirmed around her—pressing his back up against the hatch, facing her—the water was up to his waist. He tried again to open the hatch or move the suit with no results. Gravity and water pressure were the only forces at work in this situation, and they were ganging up to kill Heero and the girl dubbed "Red".

Then, it became an agonizing wait for the water to fill up the cockpit. The air was too warm, the water around his lower body too icy. Stuck in the middle, he had to fight not to gasp or shiver. There wasn't enough oxygen left in the air for either of those actions. He pulled Red's body up, tilting her head back so her face was above the water. Blood ran down her face in wet streaks, staining his arms and chest as he held her to him.

The water inched higher.

And then, there was no more air. The liquid ice crept up his nose and into his ears. He could no longer feel his feet inside his boots. His cheeks puffy with one last desperate gulp of oxygen, Heero clapped a hand over the girl's mouth and nose to keep try and keep her from inhaling too much water. With his other hand, he undid the manual lock and pushed against the hatch. Slowly, it lowered. Wrapping an arm around Red's waist, he pushed off, shooting out of the cockpit and into the open lake.

He kicked, propelling them upwards. His lungs burned as his body converted precious oxygen to carbon dioxide. The girl was a dead weight in his arms, threatening to drag them both down into the lake's murky depths. For a moment, as desperation born of oxygen-starvation grew loud in his mind, he thought about letting her go, relieving the ache in his arms. She was already unconscious…she would just drift slowly down to a quiet death. He had no idea how deep the lake was or how far the mobile suit had sunk. She could drown them both easily if he didn't let her go. His vision began to swim. No…he would not let her go. He kicked harder.

Finally, they broke free of the lake's watery grip. He gasped madly, filling his lungs again and again with sweet air. A storm had begun while they were underwater, he realized with surprise as lightning streaked across the sky overhead. An angry wind teased the surface of the lake into violent, rolling waves. Raindrops pelted down, beating a tattoo on his head and shoulders. He floated for a moment on his back, one arm looped under the girl's armpits to hold her head above the water and to keep her from slipping back under. Which way was the shore? The wind was blowing from the west, and he let the waves carry them along for a while until the burning in his muscles started to dull. Then, he began to swim—an awkward sidestroke—towing Red along with him.

By the time they reached a little sandy strip of beach, he was faint from cold and exhaustion. He let the waves dumped them rudely on the sand, then crawled on hand and knees, pulling the girl above the waterline. There, he collapsed, his face turned towards her. Her chest did not rise and fall like it should, so he mustered enough strength to hold his frozen fingers over her slightly parted lips. The faintest puff of air escaped them…and then another. He let his arm flop down, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. The lake water had been freezing—they were both still at risk for hypothermia—but he was too tired…

The church Roberta led them to was not so much a church but a cathedral, Heero noted when a bolt of lightning lit up the sky for a brief moment. She took them not through the large double doors at the front but rather through a small side door leading to a tiny apartment attached to the back of the church proper. The caretaker's apartment had been constructed at a much later date than the church itself or even the large north wing and was comfortably furnished with salvaged and out-dated pieces. Heero stood shivering uncontrollably, just inside the door, his mind too numb to think. Roberta carried the girl into the bedroom. She returned a minute later with a fluffy brown towel. "Get out of those clothes before you freeze to death," she ordered as she tossed the towel to him.

He caught it—barely—with shaking fingers and set it on an avocado green couch with a threadbare patchwork quilt tossed over the back. He pulled off the jacket of the Preventer uniform and let it fall to the floor. The clip-on green tie followed. He then tried to unbutton the shirt, but his fingertips were too numb to grasp the smooth olive green buttons.

"Here," Roberta said, standing up from where she had been fiddling with a space heater and coming over to him, "Let me do that." With astounding efficiency, she had the buttons down the front of his shirt as well as the ones at his cuffs and the fly of his pants undone and his boots unlaced. "There," she said as she stepped back. "There're dry clothes in the armoire behind you. We're about the same size, so there should be something to fit you. Don't have any of your kind of underwear though. Guess you'll have to go commando."

Heero blinked dumbly as she turned on her heel and went back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. He freed himself from the remainder of his sopping clothes then toweled off as best he could with shaking hands. The armoire, as promised, was filled with neatly folded clothes. He found a baggy gray sweat suit and a pair of thick white tube socks and put them on before collapsing on the couch. He pulled the quilt off the back and wrapped it tightly around him. The space heater, about three feet away, basked his face in its hot, dry warmth. After a few minutes, the shivering stopped, and he once again felt his eyelids growing heavy.

The Shinto shrine sat off the main thoroughfare not far from F729 spaceport. The small building with its orange-tiered roof was set back away from the road behind a high wrought iron fence and a shield of leafy trees. Only the very peek of the roof could be seen from the street.

Wufei climbed the steps that led from the gate to the temple. As he ascended, the noise of vehicles and the crowds died away, replaced by the chirping of a few small birds in the trees off to the sides of the stair. After about sixty steps, the ground leveled off as he stepped up on to the cobblestone path that led up to the shrine. A young male priest—dressed in the traditional white and blue robes—was scraping a twiggy broom lethargically across the walk. He looked up, curiosity plain on his face, as Wufei approached. "Good morning!" he called. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I am looking for Brother Oshua," Wufei responded. "I was told he was a priest here."

The young man frowned when Wufei mentioned the name. "He's here," the priest said, then made a visible effort to re-school his expression from dislike to bland. "He should be inside."

Wufei nodded his thanks and headed onward to the shrine. A tree stood by the entrance, hundreds of tiny pieces of paper tied to its sparse limbs. Each slip of paper was a prayer, he knew, and the artificial wind that blew through the colony carried the prayers to Heaven. As he climbed the steps to the shrine, one of the prayer slips came loose and fluttered down at his feet. Curious, he bent down to pick it up. Gently, feeling no sacrilege, he unfolded it and read the single character printed with painstaking precision on the inside:

Vengeance

The paper crumpled as he closed his hand into a fist. How familiar he was with this particular prayer. He did not pray, exactly, and certainly never tied the slip of paper to this tree, but how many times had this one word danced through his mind during meditation? Vengeance—revenge on the Alliance, on OZ, on Treize, on the world that no longer needed him. Vengeance—the chalice from which war poured in a ruby red gush richer than any French wine. Wufei had been drunk on it for so long. Now, he figured, even the lingering hangover had passed. But not for everyone, obviously.

He dropped the wad of paper into his pocket and went in. Inside, the shrine was dark and cool except for a fire crackling in a pit at the far end of the room. A large man with brown skin and a shaved head sat before the fire, his head bowed in prayer.

"Brother Oshua," Wufei said quietly as he came and knelt down beside the praying priest, careful to point his toes inwards so as not to inadvertently insult anyone who came in.

"Chang Wufei," the priest greeted him. He lowered his hands to his lap and raised his head, though he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the fire. "What brings you to F729?"

"Davis emailed me," Wufei answered. He too kept his eyes on the flames, his face growing warm in their heat. "What is it that Master O. plots now?"

"My brother is not the one controlling Wren these days—command of her was given to D. before the Eve Wars. My brother has, essentially, retired."

Wufei scowled. He had never met the operative known as D., but he knew of the mysterious leader well enough. D. had been the one to order Master O. to construct the Shenlong and find a pilot for it. Wufei had won the privilege of piloting it through his martial skills. "Are you sure?"

Oshua did not bristle at the needling as Wufei had wanted him to. Instead, he simply answered, "He has gone into seclusion on Earth—to meditate, to try and forgive himself for his sins. He writes to me once a month. The last message said simply: "I yet live".

Wufei nodded, "So he will be of no help."

"No, he must first tend to the needs of his soul before he can assist another. Tell me, Chang Wufei, what did young Wren speak of in her communication to you?" There was some hesitation in the priest's voice, which did not surprise Wufei—Oshua had always had a soft spot for Davis.

"She asked me if I was content to be nothing more than a redundant soldier. A prop in the stage show of politics," he answered bitterly.

"And what was your response?"

"I didn't send one. I need to find her though—before she does something to destroy all I've worked for these past two years."

"I fear," Oshua replied, "That it may be too late for that."

He awoke soon after sunrise, judging by the light flooding in from the window behind the couch. Roberta was sitting at the card table in the middle of the room, watching the news on a little black-and-white TV with the sound off, and drinking coffee. She didn't look nearly as intimidating in the light of day as she had the night before. She was right—they were about the same height (five foot ten)—and she had the build of one of the legendary Amazon warriors—broad shoulders, muscular arms partially hidden by the sleeves of a white t-shirt that clung to her breasts. Her long, lean legs were encased in a pair of black denim jeans and stretched out beneath the table. She was younger than he originally though—late thirties, probably, with crow's feet and a hint at laugh lines around her mouth. The white streak in her black hair was caused by a scar that started by her right eye and disappeared into her hair beneath her temple rather than by age.

He hadn't moved except to open his eyes, but nevertheless she said, "Well, you're awake."

He sat up, shrugging off the quilt and putting his feet on the floor. Roberta un-muted the TV.

"…authorities are still investigating the mysterious Gundam attack on a palace outside of Prague where the Waltz for the Children Charity Ball was being held to raise money for orphans on the L2 colony," the newscaster read from his notes. Heero got up and moved to stand behind Roberta in order to get a better look. The image over the newscaster's shoulder was a picture of the front of the palace, complete with the hole the Gundam had punched through the wall. "Killed in the attack was Alberto Dominga, the Minister of Agriculture, and Alfonz David and Malcolm Jayne, two freelance bodyguards hired by the Preventer organization to help with the security at the event. Vice Foreign Minister and former Queen of the World, Relena Darlian was abducted by the attackers, whose identities are, as of this moment, still unknown. We take you now, live, to a press conference at the palace in Prague where Preventer head, Lady Une, is about to give a statement."

The image of the newscaster was replaced by a full screen live video feed. Lady Une, dressed in her Preventer uniform, her sleek brown hair gleaming in the early morning sunlight, was standing behind a podium. Six microphones were wired to the top of the podium, and a boom mic could be seen hovering in the upper part of the screen. Behind her, Heero saw Quatre standing quietly off to one side, still in his tuxedo with all the medals, though he looked a little dusty. Beside him, in more casual clothes, stood Rashid and Sylvia Noventa. All three looked exhausted. Lady Une, who had probably had even less sleep than any of them, did not look a bit fatigued. In fact, she was practically radiating carefully contained fury. Heero was glad he was beyond her reach for the moment. The lady's wrath was like a sword, and it could cut indiscriminately when she was like this.

"At this time," the head of the Preventers said, "We are still investigating the identities of both the commandos and the Gundam who attacked here last night." She did not lean into the mics, like most people did. She didn't need to. Her voice carried well. "We have, however, uncovered some clues that we hope will lead us to Vice Foreign Minister Darlian." She paused for questions, her face expressionless to the untrained eye.

"Has a ransom note for the minister been received?" a reporter shouted from off-screen.

"Not at this time."

"What about the mobile suits? Where did they come from?" someone else asked.

"The Gundam that attacked the palace is an unknown model. We are still trying to identify who might have built it. The other Gundam, which acted to defend the guests at the charity ball, is the Gundam 03, also known as Heavyarms, privately owned by Preventer Trowa Barton. The Taurus mobile dolls that escorted the shuttle carrying the kidnapped Minister Darlian were built by OZ during the Eve Wars. A security camera at the Prague Spaceport managed to capture a picture of the serial number on one of the dolls, and we have traced the unit back to a lot that was decommissioned and recorded as 'destroyed' in A.C. 196. Obviously, we are looking into this as well." She turned to leave.

"Why did Barton bring his Gundam to a charity ball?" someone demanded.

Lady Une sighed visibly and turned back to the podium. "Preventer Barton tells me that he brought the Gundam Heavyarms to show a potential buyer. Several museums have expressed interest in acquiring one or more of the Gundams in the interests of historical preservation. No more questions please." She stepped down off the platform, Sylvia, Quatre, and Rashid trailing after her.

"That's a lie," Heero muttered.

Roberta muted the TV again as the station returned to its newscaster. "I know—no real Gundam pilot would ever sell their Gundam," she said quietly. A hand stole up to the gold chain hanging around her neck, and she toyed with the tiny gold cross that hung from it.

"That too," Heero agreed grimly, "But I meant that Trowa isn't a Preventer."

Roberta let out a short bark that might have been a laugh, "Now he is."

Lady Une's cell phone began ringing before she even stepped off the platform at the news conference. She unclipped it and glanced at the number—the President. She muted the ringing and returned it to her belt. She didn't have time to placate the doddering old fool right now. She had faxed him as complete a report as was possible at this early stage of the investigation a full hour before the press conference started. "Winner," she said over her shoulder to the sweet-faced former pilot of the 04, "I'm going to need you to complete the investigation here in Prague. Handle the palace, the spaceport, and, for God's sakes, find that damn Aries!" A local TV station had caught footage of the Taurus mobile dolls shooting down the rogue mobile suit. Fortunately, none of the major networks had picked it up yet, but there would be hell to pay when they did. In an era of peace, weapons like mobile suits weren't supposed to exist. And now, thanks to this fiasco, she had to justify the presence of four different varieties!

Winner, thankfully, didn't argue with her. He really didn't work for her, though she was arranging for him to be paid like a contractor (though he needed money like the Sahara needed sand). Thank God, he realized how dire the situation was and how short-handed the Preventers were. He really was a smart kid. Especially finding the tracking device hidden in Relena's necklace. "I'll send a team out to comb the woods for it," he assured her.

Une flashed her badge at one of the M-16 wielding guards at the palace doors, and he let her through. The attackers had shot the metal detectors inside to shit, so she didn't have to worry about the handgun, concealed at the small of her back by the uniform's jacket, setting them off. Each step she took across the carpeted hall made little puffs of dust rise up, she noticed.

"Miss Noventa," she said, turning to the young woman who was returning her ID to her pocket, "Do you and your grandmother have adequate personal security?"

The blond girl looked up, surprised. "We haven't bothered with bodyguards since Grandpapa was killed. We aren't very interesting, from a political perspective, now that he's gone."

Une forced herself not to frown (she had noticed several fine lines around her eyes the week before and had resolved not to scowl so much). "You don't have anyone?" Fools—the Noventas may not be politically active anymore, but they were still Old Money. Someone could get very rich abducting and ransoming the girl or her grandmother.

"There is Ruamsak," Sylvia replied, "He was my grandfather's manservant. Grandmother kept him on as a butler and a pilot. He's at the airport right now with the family jet."

"Do you or your grandmother have any pressing engagements in the near future?"

"We were going to go to Marseilles tomorrow," she answered quietly, "It's the anniversary of Grandpapa's death."

Une looked away. Lord, the girl made her uncomfortable! It was common knowledge that she had had a hand in orchestrating the coup de tat had reached its crescendo with the death of Field Marshal Noventa. She wondered how Quatre—who had been one of the pilots to attack the New Edwards Base (though it had been Heero Yuy who had destroyed the Field Marshall's shuttle)—could stand beside her and not feel guilt. She looked over at the blond pilot, who was gazing at the Noventa girl with a mixture of sympathy and adoration. He was obviously completely infatuated with her.

"One old butler is insufficient for a trip to a public cemetery," she informed Sylvia. "I will assign someone to escort you. Now, if you will excuse me." She nodded to them and headed off down a side hall. This was not the first time she had worked in this palace—two years earlier, she, as an OZ colonel, had been summoned here by Mr. Treize. It seemed like a life time ago.

She had established a base of operations in a suite of offices off the ballroom. Her aide, whom she had brought with her from Brussels, looked up as she entered. "The president's office has called three times in the last ten minutes," he informed her, "And your ward is here."

"Mariemaia?" This time, she allowed herself to frown. The child should be at her boarding school in Paris. What was she doing here?

He nodded. "She went to go get something to eat. Barton's also here—he's waiting in your office, as you requested."

"Thanks, Singh, I'll be in with Barton. Ask Mariemaia to wait out here for me, and if the president calls again, tell him I've fallen off the face of the earth and the cell phones aren't getting good reception." She opened the door to the inner office and went in. When OZ had inhabited the palace, this had been one of the rooms used to make video bites of various high-profile leaders in a "working" environment. After the ESUN had claimed the palace as government property, most of the frippery had been stripped out, leaving the polished teak desk with a pastoral scene inlaid on the top in mother of pearl as well as a high-backed black leather desk chair.

Trowa Barton stood against the wall beside the desk, hands clasped behind his back, his feet shoulder-width apart. "I'm not longer your commanding officer," Lady Une snapped as she crossed the room and took a seat behind the desk. "You don't have to stand at attention."

"But you are in charge here," he argued, quietly. But, he shifted a little. The pose became slightly less rigid. Une rubbed her temples—she could feel a headache borne of frustration and sleep deprivation sneaking up on her. "I suppose you want an account of why I brought my Gundam to Earth," he said after a moment.

"That would be nice," she said, sarcasm rich in her voice. "Since I just had to explain to the entire world why there is still an active Gundam roaming around." She watched his reaction closely and was disappointed when his neutral expression did not change at all. It was, she decided with an inward sigh, true to form for the young man who called himself 'Trowa Barton'. "Get one of those chairs." She pointed to a stack of metal folding chairs in the corner behind the door, "And come sit."

He did as she directed. They had been here before—in this same position—him sitting across from her, calculating in that cool head of his how best to phrase what he had to say so as not to arouse her suspicions. This time, though, she was not over-burdened with confusion and conflicting ideologies. Simply, Trowa had some explaining to do. "Well…spit it out," she ordered.

"You know I work for a traveling circus."

She nodded—she had seen a recording of one his and his sister's performances. Noin and Sally had tapped it when they'd gone on vacation several months before Mariemaia's Uprising. Une had been as impressed with Trowa's stoicism as she had been with his sister's skill with knives.

"It's expensive to transport something as large as the Heavyarms from colony to colony. I brought it to Earth to see if Howard could help me find a place to store it," he continued. His face was perfectly impassive behind those ridiculously long bangs. As usual. He was, she mused, such an elegant liar. And, it was nearly impossible to tell whether or not he was lying to her right now. This interview did indeed remind her very much of that first meeting where he had been the Gundam-pilot-in-OZ-uniform and she…well, she had been very confused.

"Who's Howard?" she asked.

"A Sweeper—he helped us out during the war."

"He was on Peacemillion, wasn't he?"

Trowa nodded.

She eyes him suspiciously for a moment, then sighed. "I can't tell if you're lying or not," she admitted. She reached up and pulled the back off of one of her earrings. Carefully, she removed the diamond stud and slid the back back over the post. "That annoys me."

"I apologize," he said evenly.

She took out the other earring and set the both of them down on the desktop. The sunlight coming in from the window behind her made the little diamonds twinkle. She poked one idly, and it spun, flashing, in a tiny circle. Barton's eyes stayed fixed on her face. She had always admired his focus. "I refuse to accept your apology…at least until this whole mess is dealt with. We're so short-handed…" Mentally, she cursed Zechs and Noin for leaving her in a pinch like this. She understood Zechs' desire to leave the Earth and colonies—indeed anything that had been significant in his first life—he had done more than any man could for the human race. (Except, perhaps, for Mister Treize who had given his very life). Nor, did she begrudge Noin following her heart. However, they left two very large holes in the Preventer hierarchy that Une was having a damnably hard time trying to fill. "Field Marshall Noventa's widow and granddaughter are planning on visiting his grave tomorrow. I'm assigning you to play bodyguard. With the abduction of Relena Darlian, we can't afford to take chances with any high profile figures like the Noventas, and their personal security is inadequate. I will adjust your pay accordingly."