Disclaimer/Note: I do not own GundamWing, or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). Zero-zero Aaron Flecker and the nameless reporter, for example, all belong 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 Four — Feel Nothing

Aaron Flecker was not a religious man. Already nearing the age of fifty, not once had he ever caught himself wondering if there were angels watching over him, or an ultimate power who dictated his future. Flecker had never been able to believe in fate and destiny. He heralded from a family of Roman Catholics turned Atheist, branching all the way back to the pre-colony days before science and technology killed the priests and burned the bible. Prayer was considered blasphemous nowadays; the church a taboo subject in most households. And, for the vast majority of his life—from birth to this very moment, in fact—Aaron Flecker had never believed in God.

But now, surrounded by sobbing friends and co-workers, he found himself in a crowded room with his hands clasped in front of him, lips moving fervently in some half-forgotten Christian mantra. He found himself wishing—praying, if you will—that there was a God; that He existed, and He was merciful. That He would deliver them, His 'devout children,' from harm. The man next to him was down on his knees, hysterically screaming 'God save us, God save us' through his tears.

A heavy thud rattled the room, terror bouncing off the metal walls as the lights flickered off, then back on again. The power was going out. Another shudder, and it was gone, the people in the room plunged into darkness. Flecker could feel the panic rising up in his throat like bile; his chest constricting painfully as he tried to breathe, lungs working overtime as he began hyperventilating. Desperately, he fought against the frenzied throng; pushing, shoving, biting. The man next to him had already fallen silent, trampled to death beneath the feet of his friends.

The creak and groan of reinforced steel brought them back to their senses, faces upturned as all eyes went to the ceiling. It was quiet except for the muffled cries of the injured that went unheard, ignored as the sounds of strain from above continued, growing. The air was thick with tension, and now the sound had changed to a violent hammering—thud thud thud. Flecker was breathing heavily through his nose, the sweat from his brow dripping down into his eyes, but he did not bring a hand up to wipe it away. He stood, riveted on the spot; pupils dilated in fear.

God save us. . . he tried to whisper, but his mouth could only work in silence, his voice seeming to have fled. Vaguely, as though he felt the action through some kind of trance, he realized that someone had taken his hand, perhaps for comfort he did not have to give.

Finally, Flecker was able to look away; simply listening to the people around him scream and feeling the air being forcefully ripped from his body as the searing heat cut down through the ceiling of the shelter, hearing the hiss of liquid metal spatter against human flesh, burning through multiple layers of skin and bone. Flashes exploded on the other side of his closed lids, and it was only a brief and flighty moment before the hot, tainted-blue light slammed into him and then. . .

And then. . .

And then he did not hear, and he did not feel, anything, anymore.

"—Miss Darlian, as the Vice-Minister of Foreign Affairs, surely you can tell us more about the current groups in question? Is it possible that the perpetrators are using these latest attacks to throw off the investigations?"

Relena sighed, giving the reporter—a relatively young man with glasses that kept slipping down his nose—a rather terse smile as she held back the urge to scream. She knew that smacking the man upside the head would have looked very bad on camera, and so found something vaguely resembling restraint. A deep, steadying breath, and several press flashes later, she managed a response:

"The ongoing investigations are making progress. Unfortunately, no single individual or organization has yet been identified as the attacker. Our committees are doing their best to find and stop them before these tragedies can continue. Security within the colonies is our top priority, and—"

"Ma'am, how many more people need to die as a result of the ESUN Council's inability to act? Shouldn't we be arming ourselves against these terrorists, going in and wiping them out before more atrocities are allowed to be committed?"

She narrowed her eyes at the reporter's question, her teeth coming down sharply on the side of her tongue as she bit down a harsh retort to his foolishness. Things were not that easy. They could not simply 'arm themselves' and rush out into space with angry war cries and their judgment clouded by bloodlust. It was bad enough having to listen to the colony representatives fuss and complain about Earth's lack of involvement; the last thing she needed was some young upstart goading the people into a violent retaliation with—at best—a half-formed plan.

"For us to maintain peace within the nations, we cannot raise ourselves to another war. Whoever these people are, this is obviously what they want: to frighten us into a corner, and tear down everything that we have worked for over all these years. The Preventers and interstellar police forces are currently working together to find these criminals, as well as the international police located here on Earth. We are exhausting all possible resources in our efforts to catch them, and it is only a matter time before the individuals responsible are brought to justice."

She had not yet mentioned the video call that she had received almost six months prior to the first attack; did not want to tell the Council that the terrorist had contacted her with the intent to warn her of the coming 'reign of terror.' Though she instinctively knew that it was wrong, she wanted more than anything to keep that secret to herself, perhaps out of the assumption that he would attempt to call her again. At that time, she hoped to appeal to his better nature—for surely, all men, no matter how vile and evil, still maintained a semblance of their humanity that could be appealed to—and persuade him to stop. There must be something at the root of his actions, some grievance that could be addressed peacefully.

"One last question, if you please, Miss Darlian," the young man said, pushing his glasses up with one finger, and then pausing to quickly jot something down in his notes. "There has been talk of the ESUN Council reinstating the death penalty in this case. Can you shed any light on these rumors?"

". . .They are only rumors. Thank you, and good evening, ladies and gentlemen."