30 Ways to Conquer Mars
#007 スーパースター
A.C. 197, March 「Secrets and Small Things」
Gundam Wing © SOTSU AGENCY - SUNRISE - ANB
This is a work of derivative Fanfiction. No claims are made towards the ownership of intellectual rights pertaining to the metaseries.
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"I won't keep running away, Zechs… I'm not like you."
It began, like a number of awkward moments throughout space and time, with several bottles of hard liquor and an existential crisis. They have been down this path before and will find themselves back here time and again, in whatever other corners of the big, wide, universe they happened to be haunting then, right up 'til the day they die. That would be a fine ending, too.
His hunt for a decent beverage led them through every bar and shop in four-fifths of the colony cluster they had picked to lay low and regroup in. Their options were fairly limited, to be honest. The earth and all of L-1 and L-2 were crawling with ambitions eager to ingratiate themselves to the Earth Sphere United Nation administration at their expense, although it was his sister Relena's agents that they were most wary of. Since faithful Quatre was on X-18999 in the L-3 sector with his private army, it came down to being spotted by the largely sociopathic Wufei, or one of the twenty-nine other, female, Winner progenies.
They went with the L-4 colonies only because the Winner women were far likelier to want them sound and hale. What was it that Sally Po had said? "We all want to be there when the two of you are finally dragged to the altar." Noin was not sure if 'we' included the Chinaman, but given that neither parties were required to be alive for a wedding in his culture, it seemed better to avoid that situation altogether.
The first three bottles disappeared into quietly measured shots. The next two they divided and chugged without bothering with the glasses. By bottles number six and seven, the tall young man with the hair of angels and his porcelain-and-ebony companion were the only customers left in Nafi's Dada Den of Delights, much to Nafi's distress, because that was when the conversation started.
"What do you think she'll do to us if we don't take the mission?"
"Use your imagination. Why would anyone think Dadaism a delightful anything?"
"It's an anti-war anti-art, sounds good in theory." Zechs shrugged, passing the bottle. "What does she expect us to do? Revive the Martian civilisation and lead them to war against the evil, invading corporations?"
"Funny that doesn't sound half as crazy as it should," Noin took a swig, "but since the rumours of intelligent life up there were debunked, we're probably out of luck on those indigenous reinforcements. Seriously? You think there's some merit to that nonsense?"
"I didn't say that. If it bothers you that much, we don't have to stay…"
"Yes, we do." She hefted the half-bottle of deep amber firewater mournfully. "They've got Wild Turkey."
"Point taken," he pulled another from the crate under their table. The problem was local law, which prohibited the consumption of alcohol outside licensed locations, and they were neither drunk nor desperate enough to risk that sort of attention yet. "Do you think anyone recognised us?"
"A bit late for that, isn't it? Mr. Commander-in-Chief of White Fang."
It was, in actual fact, the reason they were left to themselves so quickly.
He groaned.
"How are we expected to infiltrate anything with our faces plastered over the news?"
"Actually, that's all you. In case you haven't noticed, you've been something of an anti-celebrity ever since you single-handedly declared war on Earth. Other than that, we're being swept under the carpet as a matter of grave embarrassment while they think of new ways to bring the galaxy to heel."
"Different verse, same song." Zechs muttered into his drink. "Just like those bastards on the Earth Sphere Alliance council."
It was Noin's turn to shrug. The prince can be surprisingly simple about politics and the whole happy caboodle of song and dance that came with it, sometimes, a trait that Trieze Khushrenada encouraged in his colleagues from time to time. Fortunately, perhaps regrettably, he had never considered her to be one of them.
Sometimes, she shuddered to imagine the plans the late leader of OZ must have had for Milliardo Peacecraft and his Kingdom of Sanq. Sometimes, she merely wondered what went through the man's mind whenever he looked at her.
"Maybe I should get another mask."
"That would be a shame. I was getting used to drinking to an actual human being instead of a shiny metal plate."
"I could get it in leather," he offered with Turkey number nine. "Hell, you could get one too. Forget espionage, we'll go out there and build an alien, masked, civilisation. We'd be gods. You can be the Goddess of Secrets, and small things, like paperclips and chess pieces."
"'Small things'? Is that what you call the paperclip that has saved your dignity dozens of times? What would people say if they were ever to find out how often the great Lightning Count used to lose his keys?"
"Fine, be the Goddess of Whips and Chains, if you prefer."
He chuckled wearily. She sputtered and turned bright red.
"That was one time, one time! And you came to me!" She hissed.
"How about we just go to ground?" He buried his face in his arms with a sigh. "MO-five or further out, where we never have to hear about any of this again. It worked pretty well for me the last time."
Noin gave him a sharp look of the kind that usually meant he was in for an ass kicking, when they were children.
"I won't keep running away, Zechs… I'm not like you. Besides, if we leave things as they are now, this peace will fall apart before Relena even turns twenty and the sacrifices we've made would have been for nothing."
"So what do you propose we do? You said it yourself, everyone knows who I am, and damned if I'm going to let you waltz back into that den of vipers on your own!"
He glared, watching her for signs of mental instability as she focused unnecessarily hard on her drink.
"Become a superstar." She met his eyes and concluded with a dangerous grin.
An elegant golden eyebrow shot up.
"You're kidding."
"No. Since everyone knows who you are, let's play it up. A resume like yours and a few well-placed words, we could get our pick of mercenary work with just a few jobs to build our reputation."
"Why would I want to do that?" He asked, unhappy with the implications of involving himself in any sort of social dealings.
"Because," she replied patiently, "we can't live off of the stash forever and you don't have any better ideas."
"I like the nation of aliens plan," he was quite forlorn. "It would have made you a goddess."
She ignored him. "With conditions as they are with the Project, it won't be long before one or more of the companies put out for bodies to safeguard their interests against everyone else. That's our ticket in."
"And because in return, you are going to wear a dress and sing for me."
"What?"
"Love songs. At a retro theme pub of some sort, I think."
"You can't be that drunk already!" She gasped aghast, snatching an empty bottle from his end of the table to sniff for suspicious content.
"I'm not. I'll need a contact on the ground when I'm out there shooting down the ruffians of the galaxy, an information liaison, mission control. Also, to make up for defeating me with your incredibly depressing but astute world view."
"You're courting a kiss of death, Merquise."
"I've heard it said you would do anything for me, Noin," he smiled sickly sweetly. "Whatever happened to that bright-eyed girl who served unquestioningly by my side the last two years?"
"She thought you were going to die."
"Every moment, for two years? That's impossible. Did I have 'death-wish' written on my back?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Hn." He regarded her thoughtfully. "I think I liked you better when you thought I was going to die."
"Yes," she agreed, reaching over to tug on his hair. "I think I liked you better then too."
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