Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Gundam Wing, or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). Zero-zero, for example, belongs to me. I do not own the series' creator, mech designer, or PHYSALIS, and I'm not making any money off this story. This story was written solely for entertainment purposes, and no copyright infringement was intended. Please, do not sue. All original concepts in this story are original (duh) and belong to me, or have had all rights handed over to me. Do not steal. This story is AC (Alternate Continuity), takes place (for the most part) almost five years after Endless Waltz, and contains: violence, language, angst, flashbacks, acts of terrorism and subsequent political brouhaha, religious references, twisted senses of morality, and an obnoxious timeline.

Better Than Nothing:
Chapter One — Expect Nothing

Heero shivered, though not from the biting cold that crept through his clothes and nestled close to bone. His breath came out shaky, white clouds escaping his partially opened mouth as he stood there, eyes uplifted to the artificial sky. He was nervous, filled with a childish terror of what would not, of what could not, come. It made his lips tremble, his stomach flutter with the fluctuations in his breathing, and his hands twitch. After spending a moment longer like that, he turned, eyes closing as he fumbled for the pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his button down work shirt. He managed to take one out, dropping another to the snow covered ground in his haste. The cigarette remained unlit though, and his teeth clamped down on the filtered end angrily. The lighter—one of those windproof black cylinders that felt oh-so-much like the trigger mechanisms he used during the war—had been left at home in the kitchen of his run-down, southern slums apartment. He picked a hell of a day to quit smoking. . .

He opened his eyes again, rubbing his too-smooth hands together in an attempt to create some warmth as his gaze roamed to the right, and his breathing hitched, then stopped and was held. The old facility was over there, only an odd dozen yards away. It laid there, an intimidating fortress from a half-remembered nightmare to him, and he shied away. He did not know why he had come here, to this hellish place with its awful, screaming memories of things that he was not supposed to think about anymore. It was the anniversary of the Accident; that horrible, horrible mistake that he had made oh-so-very long ago. But he did not want to be here, did not like coming here every damn year to stand—petrified and pained—in this frigid stretch of once-flowered field. He wanted to go home, to run away from this past again. And again. And again.

But Heero could not, and he knew that he could not. Because. . .because it was against the rules, it was something that he should not do. It was something that he just could not do. And no matter how much it hurt him to come back here, to the morning of the Accident, he would do it. Because he deserved it, for all that he had done. And She. . . She deserved it, too. She deserved to see this, this emotional turmoil that She brought on with every waking moment, with every forced beat of his heart. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he headed back through the field the way that he had arrived.

He picked up speed as he went until he was running, just as he had run from that place last year. And the year before that, and the year before that. He ran as though the wolves of hell were biting at his heels, and perhaps they were, in a way. Perhaps they had risen up from the ground after him, for he could hear them growling and screaming in his ears; snarling howls of victory falling from bloodstained jaws. That mindless terror swept through him, leaving him feeling weak and breathless, a child lost in too much darkness. So he ran. And he ran. And he ran, but he could not get away. Not from it, and not from the past. Not from Her. She was following. Following following always following just behind so that if he turned back. . .

But Heero ran on, pushing past the people of the colony who got in his way, not bothering to stop when they fell to the ground. He could not stop, just like he could not say he was sorry. . .

A screech of tires along pavement, someone slamming on their brakes as their vehicle swerved to miss hitting him, and the stench of break fluid came to him. He stumbled, staring, momentarily blinded as the car slid on black ice towards him. The driver screamed, and Heero scrambled out of the way, blocking out the hateful curses directed at him.

And he ran.

BlueFaery: ZSP-OF1
Error. Access Denied.
BlueFairy: ZSP-OF1
Error. Access Denied.

"Oh come on. . ."

BlueFaerie: ZSP-OF1
Password Confirmed.

A flicker of blue across the monitor, followed by a short-lived hum from the hard drive, and the screen shuddered, returning to start up.

"Son of a bitch. . ." he rubbed his hands anxiously before setting his fingers down lightly on the keyboard to continue.

Geppeto: ZSP-OF1
Error. Access Denied.
Gepeto: ZSP-OF1
Error. Access Denied.

"You asshole. . ." he paused, gently tapping the desk as he thought. "Maybe. . .?"

WoodenPuppet: ZSP-OF1
Password Confirmed.

Accessing ' ZSP ' Files:
00010 -- GZSP-OF1.exe
01001 -- GZSP-OF1.txt
00111 -- GZSP-OF1.jpg
00001 -- GZSP-OF1.exc

Hello, Professor.

"Thank God. . ." were the murmured words, more exhalation than anything else. Glancing back over his shoulder to the partially opened door, Zero-zero slipped his zip disk into the drive. Three clicks—that was all it would take for him to have a copy of each and every one of the files shown. Carefully, he tugged his laptop out of his bag, opening it as he waited. These files would need to be checked for contamination before he uploaded the virus and left. He looked back to the door once more, listening.

There was nothing.

A sigh and he flicked the 'on' switch of his laptop, popping the disk out of the older computer and replacing it with another. Slowly, with that reverent deliberance that he always used in contact with God, Zero-zero opened the files, a soft smile playing on his bottom-heavy lips. Oh yes, this was it. . . He snapped the laptop shut, canceled the running program on the other computer, and instead opened the zip drive. This Creator, the most merciful of the Three that he still acknowledged, would have a nasty surprise when he tried to turn on hi—

Blinking, Zero-zero looked up, back over his shoulder to the door. There was a noise coming from down the hall. Footsteps; the sound of someone waking up. He cursed under his breath.

Reluctantly, he took his disk from the drive, hopping up onto the desk and pushing his bag through the small opening that led out into the crawl space between the two layers of the ceiling. Though this Creator had been smart enough not to have ventilation shafts large enough for a human being to move through, he had not thought about how much room there was between the heavy plaster of the visible ceiling and the wooden foundation above it. Once Zero-zero had ripped out the warm rose padding, it had been relatively easy. Unfortunately, if this Creator came into the room, he would not be able to move—what with the groaning of the plaster beneath his weight and the fact that in some places it actually sagged and flaked when he passed over it. With a grunt, he hauled himself up after his bag, squirming slightly to get in, grumbling as he did so:

"Risk everything, or gain nothing? Hmph; Geoffrey de Charny was an incompetent ass. . ."