A Note from the Author: Hello and welcome to the sequel to 'Resurrecting the Viper', which is useful but not required reading in order to enjoy! It's a shame I couldn't select the actual characters this mainly features - Ride, Almiria, Eugene, and my OC Artima - so just know they're the main four. I've also rated this M to be safe. I'd love to know what you think. Happy reading!


Chapter 1: Gunshot

New York City, Earth. May 15th, PD 332

"Do you remember Orga Itsuka?"

"Who the fuck is that?"

Four bullets through the stall door, four meaty impacts, four cases clattering to the floor.

The slump of cloth and a thud, the door squeaking as it tried to bounce open but failing when it lodged on flesh. A barely-heard final exhale. Dripping. Blood, thick and gleaming, rapidly tracing the grout between the tiny square tiles and engulfing them, swallowing the brass cases.

The bitter smell of it. Piss, gunpowder, death. The ache in his arm, the tingle in his hand from the kick-back dying too. Unclenching his jaw. His hand unable to stop shaking.

The blood climbing the stalls, painting the wall, the ceiling, brightening. Touching his feet and climbing him too - panic jolting him backward into the sink, the mirrors cracking as the blood pushed behind them and then exploding. The plumbing bursting, shooting more red into the air until it was all over him, coating him, pressing its way through his pores and down his throat, drowning a wordless yell.

Ride jerked awake, swiped his hands down his arms - they were damp from sweat, not blood, and he caught his breath in relief.

He sat up in the cot, one of four in the basement of the Manhattan safehouse. A glance around the blue-dark room told him Seppi and Derma were sleeping in two of the other cots, so Maeve was still on watch. Apart from the distant rumble of traffic all seemed peaceful, but he felt the seven-block distance between them and the bodies in the Île de L'Espoir conference suite bathroom all the more keenly. He checked the time - 02:04 - and leaned back on one elbow to start calming his heartrate. They'd be leaving in less than an hour, on the way to even greater safety. This basement was under a utility building and had all sorts of signal-garbling firewalls set up besides; they were in a pocket of dead space and had cleared their trail on the retreat. Less than five feet away from him was the trapdoor to the tunnel that'd take them all the way to the port. There'd been no mistakes.

Ride's free hand compulsively tugged Orga's scarf up under his nose and he laid there for a moment breathing in the musty smell. It's only been about eight hours since you did it. Of course you weren't gonna sleep good. But it's done - that's what counts.

And yet what was worse than the nightmare was that he didn't feel better. It didn't feel over.

It's not enough. It was supposed to be enough.

He dropped fully on his back, his eyes darting between the exposed metal beams that held up the ground floor and the conduit cables snaking along them. What was next, in that case? Could he even handle a 'next'?

Ride's mind went to Orga, and that day he was gunned down in the street protecting him. All the other deaths after having come so far together. He'd thought of nothing else since that day - it'd taken him a year to track down who was responsible for Orga's death, and the other six to plan the assassination of Nobliss. He and his team of seven - four of them former Tekkadan members, three of them others he'd roped in - had been MIA for five of those years. It'd seemed like once it was done, he could bury Mikazuki's gun somewhere and finally get on with his life like the others. But now that it'd happened…

I don't even remember leaving the hotel. All I could think about was how good it felt - how awful and how good. In a way I wish I hadn't done it. I'm so tired. But there was no choice. Someone had to. And it's done. There's no turning back. Nobliss was responsible for a lot of it, yeah, but not all of it. Nobliss didn't kill Shino, or Biscuit, or Mikazuki or Akihiro or Hush, or Aston.

Gjallarhorn. That meant Gjallarhorn was next. The pit in his stomach from yesterday opened wider as he realized that this could never be over until the entirety of Gjallarhorn was gone for good. It was a hive of culprits. Even if the vast majority weren't directly responsible, their indifference and their allegiance made them complicit. If Gjallarhorn hadn't been given the order to wipe Tekkadan off the face of Mars, he might still be on the Isaribi right now. He'd left a painting unfinished on the bridge.

Ride took in a shaking breath. And who gave the order? The Seven Stars. But they're pretty much dissolved now. That leaves Rustal Elion. He clenched his fist as he remembered the older man's face - one he hadn't seen much back then but had seen a lot lately in glimpses of newscasts as he and his team went about their preparations. Kudelia's been working a lot with him to try to keep the peace and improve things on Mars. She probably wouldn't want me to do this and I'm sure it'll cause problems for her. But… He sat up and swung his feet to the buffed concrete floor. I can't. I can't just let this go. It's too late now. I've...I've made my choice. All I can do is involve the others as little as possible. It only has to be me that takes the fall.

Ride stood and stretched half-heartedly. Somewhere a siren wailed and the sound drifted down to him from the three thin slits of windows near the ceiling on the far wall; he listened intently, tensing, and when it died away he relaxed again. A cat darted along the sidewalk outside, its shadow blotting out the sodium-orange streetlight of first one window, then the second, then the third.

Taking out Rustal is going to be even tougher than Nobliss, but I don't have years to plan. Clock's ticking ever since I pulled the trigger. His heartrate started to pick up again. I'm gonna need outside help. Someone who isn't Tekkadan, but knows enough to agree to help me. Someone more experienced, who can do this shit blindfolded. He raised the hand that'd held the gun, stared at his palm. He was shaking - from nerves or anticipation, it was hard to tell. Someone whose hand won't shake.

He looked at a tiny paper crane gently rising and falling on Derma's chest - a habit he'd picked up to calm himself enough to sleep - and remembered her. The way she'd been folded on top of the Gundam's body while she told them stories; stories that later unfolded into flight when the Khort Mogoi carved its way through a fleet. How its movements hadn't been any different to what he'd seen her do in the hangar alone that first day she'd arrived, gliding through zero-gravity, like everything bent to her will. Everything had bent to her will after that. He was old enough to see that now. It'd bent until the day Orga couldn't bend anymore and sent her away. Who knew what happened to her after Mars - presumed dead like the rest of them. But he knew better.

That's what I need. A ghost. There's nothing in a ghost to shake.


Philadelphia, Earth. May 17th, PD 332

Almiria Bauduin crossed her legs the other way and squinted her eyes to the hot breeze. The sun that so many had proclaimed made the graduation ceremony 'perfect' made her new, starched Gjallarhorn uniform stifling. She was equally grateful for the cropped-short hair she'd been sporting for about a year now. She'd slipped away from her family and friends to come sit on the foot arch of her Graze - one of twenty standing in two lines of ten either side of the promenade-bordered, long rectangular pool in the stately Calamity War Memorial Gardens of Philadelphia - to ease the ache in her cheeks from the practiced smiles and digest the morning. In her white-gloved hand, the token flute of congratulatory champagne grew warm. Her eyes settled on the greenery dwarfed by the stately gray Grazes and unfocused; the sounds of the after-party in the courtyard nearby began to fade.

It's done, then. I did it.

She'd allowed herself the superficial joy over the accomplishment when they'd got their exam results a week ago and then, privately, the feeling had passed. Everyone was proud of course, her brother especially. She kept up the act around them because she was, of course, a Bauduin, and Bauduins - particularly nowadays - must always project what is honorable and good about the Seven Stars.

The Seven Stars...what bullshit. Doesn't mean anything more than a historic honor title now. She turned the champagne flute by the stem between her fingers, watched the cut crystal cast shards of rainbows on the blue of her knee - darkened to a navy five years ago rather than the cerulean it'd once been. Dyed darker with blood.

It wasn't that graduating top of her class wasn't something she hadn't wanted to do for herself. Owing to McGillis'...work, she'd always been interested in mobile suit piloting but it hadn't been until their visit to the Chifeng Museum in the Republic of China seven years ago that it'd become her interest, and the fire had grown from there. She enjoyed piloting. Shame not much of it was necessary nowadays - which added an overall farcical tone to today that got under her skin.

It's just theater. She drained the lukewarm champagne in one long gulp, squinted at the taste. And theater can't cover up what they did.

It'd been...complicated when she'd learned the truth. All of the truths - well, most of them. She was convinced there were still some she didn't know and more still that she never would. The truth that Gjallarhorn and its Seven Stars was not a round table full of knights had of course been a shock to her as a naive child, but the truth that Gaelio had been the one to kill McGillis had been difficult to digest. More difficult still was the apparent truth that McGillis had ulterior motives in becoming engaged to her. Both of these were lodged in her chest like bullets that tapped at her heart whenever she breathed; mostly the second, because she still wasn't sure if it was a truth. She'd never know, because McGillis was dead. Her fiance was dead and she had to navigate the wreckage of that for the rest of her life.

While Gjallarhorn lives, and takes on new life. Like nothing happened. How many of us has it chewed up and spit out?

Her gaze swept along her fellow graduates' Grazes, all identical to her own. She imagined them stripped to their bones - McGillis had wanted to do the same to Gjallarhorn, to scoop out the rot, to reforge it. Would he have been proud of her? Would he have wanted what Gjallarhorn had become? She, for one, wasn't convinced that things weren't the same as they'd always been, which was - in a way - why she was here.

There was no other way to become a pilot, she reminded herself as her fists clenched. Slow and steady wins the race - this is just the latest in the many steps you've taken. There's no other way to make change but from within. No other way to finish what Macky started -

In fantastic coincidence, the face that her mind's eye had settled on came into view in the real world: Rustal Elion, escorted by her brother and his wife Julieta Juris, walking down the strip of gravel toed by the Grazes. No doubt coming to find her. She took a moment to enjoy the fact that the three most powerful individuals in Gjallarhorn if not the civilized world were looking for her, and then packed away her bitter scowl.

"Almiria!" Gaelio called to her and waved. His body was having a good day - he only carried his cane rather than used it, however lightly.

Almiria climbed down carefully on account of the champagne flute and fabricated her smile on the way. She raised her voice, "Don't be mad. The crowds got a little stifling, is all!" She joined the three of them on the gravel. Decorum possessed her as she turned to Rustal. "On behalf of my fellow graduates, thank you for a wonderful ceremony," she bowed somewhat. "Your keynote address was inspiring."

"Your own valedictory address was very eloquent," Julieta said. "Many people have been commenting on it."

"Thank you!" Almiria said, and meant it. Compliments from Julieta were rare and a sign of Gaelio softening her somewhat over the three years they'd been formally together.

"On that, the Vice President and I agree. It's my pleasure to still be invited to these," Rustal said, that measured smile she so detested never leaving his face. "Keeps a man young to see such ambition and talent in the next generation."

Almiria kept what she wanted to say behind her teeth - that these Grazes would likely see nothing but ceremonial flyovers and their pilots would but lucky to see a sortie in their entire careers, purely because of their surnames. Most of them, anyway. Instead she said to Gaelio, "Dad's still networking, I guess?"

Gaelio shrugged good-naturedly, "He ran into some people he knew, so he sent us to come fetch you."

They began a leisurely stroll back; with Gaelio and Julieta in the lead, Almiria reluctantly but dutifully fell into step with Rustal. She struggled to think of a relevant conversation topic that wouldn't be too much of a labor to play along with, as well as keep her mind off her true intentions. While she'd grown better at lies and facades over the years she wasn't convinced she was perfect yet.

Unfortunately he spoke first. "My sincere compliments on your achievement, Miss Bauduin. You've shown yourself to be a dedicated and truly talented student. You should be very proud."

"I am, I have to admit." Which was true. "And thank you. I'm happy to be done but also in a way I miss it," she said, to layer-on the self-effacing personality others expected of her. Throw him off her scent.

"That's understandable. You've opened a new chapter of your life today. Though I'm sure you deserve some downtime, have you given much thought to your next step?"

"I'm more of the one-step-at-a-time sort," she lied. "And I know that happily, there's so little need for combat positions nowadays. People like my brother are a dying breed. I wanted to preserve the skills, if nothing else. So maybe I'll end up in regulations or diplomacy." She toyed with the champagne flute.

"Now that Gjallarhorn has seen five years of solid restructuring," Rustal said with practiced delicacy, "you're right in that the old ways are dying. For more people than ever, peace isn't just a dream. That being said, keeping the peace will always be necessary - perhaps someone like yourself who has their heart in the right place could find fulfilment as a field marshal in the newer territories. To start, at least. I imagine you wouldn't have much trouble climbing the ranks purely out of merit."

"I appreciate your vote of confidence," she smiled.

He placed his hands behind his back. "It's easily-given. Perhaps this reveals an old hand, but I have to admit to keeping an eye on you for some time."

"Oh?" This was news, but not entirely a shock.

He hummed an assent. "Many of us were concerned about you following the death of McGillis Fareed. It was a trying time to say the least, particularly for someone as young as you were. You had to mature very quickly. I'm glad to see that instead of shying from it, you've embraced your life after him."

'Life after him' - it was like a gunshot straight through her, but she kept walking. There has been no 'life after'. There could never be. With the hatred for Rustal boiling under her skin, she smiled again, "I'd be lying if I said it wasn't difficult at times, but yes, I knew I had to embrace all of the possibilities in front of me. I don't think I'd be here now if it wasn't for everyone who supported me."

A side path took the four of them up a small rise toward the courtyard; they passed through small, white-clothed satellite tables laden with empty champagne flutes and tiny matching hors-d'oeuvres plates, on which Almiria abandoned her own glass. The trees - she squinted and, as was her hobby, identified them as elms - rustled pleasantly in the breeze as though they were joining in on the excited conversations. She continued to smile and exchange a few words with her friends but kept moving through the crowd, and in doing so realized with a distant sadness that maybe she wouldn't see any of them again and if that were the case, had any of them truly been her friends? Had she, Almiria, of the Seven Star Bauduin family, not ultimately changed just as Gjallarhorn had not changed?

They dyed themselves a different color. My name changed dyes too. But nothing has really changed - I'm still alone in seeking vengeance for a murder. She blinked, realizing her eyes had settled on her brother, and redirected them instead to Rustal, who was speaking with her father. First you remove the head, and then you burn the body. Then Macky can have peace. I can have peace. But you have to be smarter than him. The key is keeping your hands clean. She tugged on her gloves, looked away through the crowd. Now it's time to find someone who'll keep my hands clean.


A(nother) Note from the Author: You'll notice I've sprinkled in some headcanons, such as Gaelio and Julieta getting married at some point. Also, I changed up the location of Nobliss' assassination to New York rather than Mars purely for flavor.