Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Gundam Wing, or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). Zero-zero/Maru Rei and Junichiro Yukira, for example, both 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 Twelve — Achieve Nothing

April.

That month jumped out at him, made him twitch, tilt his head to one side in confusion. He sniffed, wiping at his runny nose. April. Some part of him thought that it was absurd, impossible. He was an orphan, his mind tried to reason through the emotional haze, through the rampant insanity of the moment. Orphans did not have birthdays. No one, Doctor J included, should have known whether or not he was born in April. The month of April should not have mattered.

"How. . .how do you know that?" he asked, his voice soft and muted with a strange and incomprehensible fear. He did not notice the open door, did not care to look inside. His fellow pilots peered in cautiously; feigning disinterest towards the young man's troubled past out of loyalty, some unspoken creed in masculine conduct. Trowa, G, and Duo excused themselves, stepping into the room to give Heero and the good doctor some time alone. S would have followed them had Instructor H not weakly protested against it. Looking to J helplessly, the other doctor led the instructor back down the hall towards the break room, signaling to O for assistance when the shaky old man stumbled. Wufei was left in the hall just in case things got out of hand.

"Your mother was on the staff," J explained casually, as if perhaps discussing funding or some other terribly dull but unavoidable topic linked to his facilities. He did not acknowledge the actions of the others. "She was in charge of research on long-term effects of the Zero System on the juvenile psyche."

". . .Why?" he struggled to form the word, to force his lips to move. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. "Wh-why did she. . .?" He could not bring himself to finish that sentence.

"I think you've misunderstood me, Heero. Your mother did not 'donate' you to the cause of science; she had you for the sole purpose of providing us with a qualified substitute for Zero-Zero. I picked your father out of a catalogue, so to speak, in hopes of creating a genetically superior subject."

"Her name." It was not a question. It was a command, a terse and cold order as Heero straightened, glaring death and daggers at the doctor.

"Junichiro Yukira."

"Is she still alive?" he was breathless, hopeful. Something in the name sounded familiar. He knew he had heard it before. Junichiro. Perhaps he could meet her, could ask her why she had given him to J. The idea of putting this woman—this stranger, the woman he had dreamed of and imagined for years—through a guilt trip, of making her feel absolutely miserable, was surprisingly appealing.

"No," Doctor J looked down somewhat apologetically, sadly toying with the head of his cane. "Poor girl died just last year in a car accident. It was terrible. She was only forty-five."

There was silence, marred only by their breathing. Heero could have sworn he actually heard his hopes shatter one by one like fragile glass, wondering through a heavy blanket of shock if perhaps his sanity would follow suit. It was just too much. If only J had told him sooner, he could have gone to see her; could have met this elusive Junichiro.

"I'll kill you," he told the old man, trying to take a step towards him. He knew what he would do now: he would strangle that man, wind that goddamn cane around the bastard's neck. Teach the fucker not to play with other people's lives. But Wufei was stopping him, strong arms wrapped around his ribcage to hold him back. A frustrated cry escaped him as he struggled to break free. "Fine! I'll kill you both, you hear? I'll fucking kill you!"

"H-hold on, Heero! Maybe she has relatives? Or-or something?" the suggestion sounded desperate, a question directed at J. The good doctor nodded absently.

"Her father's still alive."

Heero stopped abruptly.

"M-my grandfather?"

"Oh, yes. Your grampa." The stress on the final word was hardly noticeable, a slight emphasis that Heero barely caught. His mouth worked silently for a moment and he shook his head. This was not happening. This could not be happening. The metal monster before him was unreadable, suggesting impossibilities.

There was no way. Heero tried to convince himself of this. There was no way that Doctor J could be serious. He remembered as a little boy—a very, very little boy—hearing that word, saying that word. Grampa. He remembered the shocks, the heavier-than-normal flow of electricity that would rush through him as punishment for using that word. He remembered the screaming

( not your grandfather—)

and the sick gurgle he would make in the back of his throat when his brain shut down and he forgot how to speak. Heero started shaking, remembering the feeling of his head slamming back onto the cold concrete floor when the seizure would take hold. He remembered hearing Doctor J

( Call me that again and I'll get rid of you I'll just replace you—)

telling one of his assistants to put something in his mouth so he would not swallow his tongue. He remembered being afraid, and tried to remind himself that it was just a memory.

"No," he said, fighting for control of his emotions, battling with himself to keep them off his face and out of his eyes. "No. You're lying again."

"No, Heero, I'm not lying. . ." the good doctor stifled a series of coughs with his hand, looking to the boy with a small smile. Heero thought it made him look sinister, somehow vicious and evil in the harsh hall light. "What, after all, do you think 'J' stands for?"

"The fuck is this?" Duo cursed, his voice too loud in the quiet room, mouth left open as he stared at the walls. Old newspaper clippings covered the white walls, tabloid articles circled and highlighted; thick streaks from a black grease pen scrawled over the tops and in the gaps where the concrete still showed through. There was tape everywhere, holding up the brightly colored strings connecting one chaotic set of articles to another. A Bible had been torn apart and its pages were spread along the floor, over the desk and taped up next to a picture of the Crucifixion on the wall. Part of Revelations was underfoot, and Duo quickly stepped away, batted down the urge to cross himself, or pray, or. . .or something. Instead, he moved closer to the right wall, peering at group of articles; black and white photos with smudged and unreadable news or gossip beneath. He was surprised to find that this set—marked by a red highlighter and string that connected it to another similar arrangement—was about him.

All of it was about him. The papers dated back to the start of his involvement in the war, to the first sightings of Deathscythe in AC 194. Most were from the year after, when he had been labeled a terrorist and threat to colonial society, called a disturbance of the peace and war monger. There were notes scribbled into the margins; opinions of the reader and the chapter and verse of some Scripture that justified it. Duo did not recognize the numbers, did not comprehend any importance that they might have had.

A humorless smile crossed his face as his fingertips touched upon the surface of one of the photographs. It was a blurry and unfocused shot of him and Hilde from when they had lived together on L2 a few years ago. How many had it been? Three, four years? He did not quite remember. But he did remember the incident, in all its glory. He even remembered the reporter who had taken the photo; remembered smashing the man's face in against the charred frame of a busted car in the junkyard out back. Those were good times.

Trowa was also gawking, though not so much at the individual photos as at the sheer number of meticulously cut articles, all of which seemed to have something to do with one of the former Gundam pilots. Duo's were marked by red, his own by green, Wufei's division was done with classic neon yellow, and the ones dealing with Quatre were streaked by blue. Heero's were unmistakable; corded off as they were from the rest and enclosed by a stretch of black yarn and ink. The only thing that any of these writings had in common, as far as he could tell, was their connection to one of the five mentioned. Some were reports on the dealings and business of the Winner Corporation; others talked about terrorists and bombings possibly linked to the Preventers. A philosophical theory proposed by their Chinese companion lay scattered across the floor, with a copy Relena's acceptance speech nearby.

"Hey. . .hey, Trowa, do you see this?" Duo pointed to a spot on the back wall by his current position. "There's somethin' carved into the wall. It says"— and here he squinted for a moment, reading the scratchy English letters slowly —" God has no religion. What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"It's one of Gandhi's sayings," Professor G offered, leafing through a pile of papers on the desk against the left wall. Duo snorted lightly through his nose, running his fingers over the message. Gandhi? Well, that was certainly not something he had been expecting to find in the room of a genocidal maniac. Especially not one who pranced through space with a nuke under his butt.

"Weird. Look, there's some other stuff here, too."

"Like what?"

"Like more weird sayings, and stuff. Farther down the wall," the American explained, crouching to the level of the newly discovered quote. "Says, forgetfulness of self is remembrance of God. Then, next to it, it says, Ego is sin. Lose Zero to become absolute Zero. Achieve true Nothing and enter Eternity."

"I don't recognize it," G glanced to Trowa, who replied with a simple shrug, before returning his attention to Duo. "Does it say anything else?"

"Uh. . .something about Revelations, the Four Horsemen, and purging the universe of evil. You know, the usual corrupt loony mumbo-jumbo."

"Don't be a smart-ass," G sneered, poking idly at the cot in the far left corner of the room.

"Well, excuse me, your highness."

"Enough, children," Trowa chided. "We're here to look for clues to Zero-Zero's whereabouts. Grow up, please. Especially you, Professor."

"Clues? You think he actually had a plan and left behind clues? This man is crazy. He's beyond crazy. Tell me how this is 'progress?'" Duo gestured to the room with a broad sweep of his arm. "Tell me how this obsessive, 'I'm gonna stalk people from my happy militant Tupperware box' is progress—?"

"Please just shut up and get over it. . ." G sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

"—And what the hell made J think that letting this nut job loose was safe? Man, this is so not safe," he huffed, scuffing the toe of his shoe on a clump of loose bible pages. His hands were dug deep into the pockets of his old jeans, his expression slightly sulky. "I just don't like being here and doing nothing, y'know?"

"Alright, alright," Trowa suppressed the urge to sigh as he turned to address the scientist. "Do we know what he was after? What exactly was the mission that J sent this guy on?"

"I believe he said it was 'to make sure that nothing like the Gundams could ever be created again,'" G offered helpfully, pointing upward as though emphasizing some grand new idea. "He told us while you were all taking a break."

"Then we need to check the map again. From what I saw, it looked like he was moving toward Earth, swinging wide to catch the other colonies on his way. That would put his next target somewhere on the outskirts of L1, wouldn't it?"

". . .C-1013. It's the first colony he'd encounter heading into this Lagrange point from that direction, and it's heavily connected to the production and development of Mobile Suits."

"But. . ." Duo stared at G, slack-jawed as he tried to collect his thoughts. They all knew what he was going to say, and it caused a sudden chill to fall over the men. He leaned back, swallowing hard before forcing the words out of his closed throat. "But that's us."

"Junichiro? Doctor Junichiro?" Heero said the name and title with disbelief, his wide eyes begging the old man to tell him it was not true. But J only sighed, his pronged fingers snapping together loudly.

"Yes, Heero," he coughed again, managed to wheeze out a better introduction. "I am Doctor Junichiro Daisuke. And before you ask the answer is no, you don't have a real name. Only the one you're using now."

Heero's legs felt weak, and he would have fallen when they failed him had Wufei not been holding him up from behind. He tried to cry, tried scream, but even his soul felt tired, dead; he had no more tears left for this. Dry sobs racked his body, his shoulders jerking and chest heaving. A broken, helpless wail escaped him.

Why was this happening? Why did it have to be this way? Why him? What ever happened to leading a normal life, to becoming human? That dream, that hope and life-quest seemed so far, forever out of reach. He had to face the truth now: he was nothing more than a substitute, just another toy soldier

( I'll get better, Grampa—)

in one of J's vicious games. Even the blood that flowed through his veins, that gave him strength and forced him to react to the world around him, had betrayed him. Doctor J's own kin? The thought sickened him, the perverse unfairness of it all left his mind reeling. He was denied even a purpose in life because of this relation. Because tools and weapons needed no reason for living.

( I'll get it right for you)

"You sick fuck," he choked on the words, unable to breathe. Wufei was saying something, was trying to calm him down but Heero could not hear him. Could not hear anything through the noise he was making. Could not see or even feel anything outside of himself. His throat, which should have been burning, raw and bleeding by now, had gone completely numb.

( so please, please, Grampa—)

Small hands after the surgery, reaching for J's pristine lab coat. The frail body of a little boy with slate-blue eyes, a faceless woman in the background. It took Heero a moment to realize that it was a memory, that he was capable of detaching from his past to the point of consciously projecting it. That little boy had to be him. His child self tugged at the white coat, looked up hopefully with parted lips and foolish adoration. There was a slight, raised discoloration at his temples, standing out on that naturally dark skin. Heero felt himself brush his fingers over the same place on his own temples, felt smooth and flawless epidermis but nothing else.

When had those scars left him, he caught himself wondering vaguely as the good doctor of memory turned away, called back over his shoulder to tell the woman to take 'that subject' back to the containment facilities. He watched the little boy scream, begging J to come back. Watched the boy call him 'Grampa,' and remembered trying so hard to be worthwhile. To be perfect so J would

( tell me—)

give him a kind word and an extra hour of rest. But no matter what he did, no matter how fast or how strong he was, no matter how many tests he passed, J was never satisfied. Never.

Heero blinked, rousing himself from his dazed reverie, lips curling back into a snarl as the initial feelings of shock and mourning slipped away. They gave rise to a fierce and boiling anger, to a bitter vengeance.

"Do I make you proud now, you fucking bastard?" he finished the question he had wanted to ask for the last fifteen years, spat it out with a nearly acidic sarcasm. "Will you throw me away now? Replace me? Kill me? Come on, Grampa; gimme another chance. Do you remember that?"

"Heero—"

"I hate you!" he screamed the words, and J fell silent. Heero was panting from the emotional exertion, from the adrenaline and animal instinct that told him to be afraid. He had not known that he would say that, did not expect himself to feel that way. It was strange, but he almost wanted to apologize. Almost wanted to say

( I still love you, Grampa—)

he did not mean it. But instead, he simply repeated the statement, whispered it like blasphemy in the face of God. "I hate you. . ."

Doctor J said nothing. The old man turned around and walked away, the grind of his prosthetics on the floor deafening in the suddenly quiet hallway. Wufei tightened his grip.

"Are you going to be all right, Heero?" the other pilot asked, cautiously, watching for the young man's reaction. Heero took a deep, shaky breath, and pushed away.

"No," he said, but he sounded calmer, like he was finally getting his control back now that the good doctor was leaving. "No, I don't think I'll ever be all right. But we have more important things to worry about. Come on."

Wufei nodded his approval, lightly patting Heero on the shoulder in a show of awkward camaraderie. They entered Zero-Zero's room then, both stopping just inside to look at the pale faces of their companions questioningly. Trowa was the first to move. He turned for the door, fumbling with his cell phone, hands oddly clumsy as he removed the device from his pocket.

"I need to make a call," he mumbled as he pushed past the two Asians, his throat tight and the words sounding too desperate as they left his mouth. If it had been anyone else, Duo would have described the redhead's actions as a passive form of panic. But this was still Trowa, and—regardless of how many years had passed—it seemed somehow wrong to think of him as the hysterical type. Instead, he decided that the other pilot just sounded sick, and probably needed to go somewhere private to vomit his guts out.

"What's going on?" Wufei asked rather nervously as he watched the door slide shut.

Meanwhile, Wing's former pilot made his way over to the cot in the corner, glancing up at the wall above it with narrowed eyes and a thoughtful frown. The pictures in this small, secluded section of the room were altered, mutilated; cut and pasted together like Frankenstein's monster. Here, Zero-Zero had cut off their heads, and placed them on the platters at the 'Last Supper'. In another, he had removed their arms, and hung them from a woodcutting of the Yggdrasil, the tree of life from Norse mythology. Tabloid photographs devoid of eyes were taped at eye level, the kanji for 'death' and 'hatred' in greasy black streaks across the glossy media. An old newspaper clipping, key words and phrases underlined by a thin strip of white, caught his eye, and that frown deepened. AC 192. . .? Heero started reading.

C-1013, L1 colony cluster. November 14th, AC 192. A series of high-powered explosives were set off at the UESA military training facilities on the corner of 52nd Street and Pine last night. . .

"We think we're next on this wacko's hit-list."

"What? Are you serious?"

. . .The bombs not only decimated the Alliance fort, killing approximately 200 recruits and officers, but also ignited the underground fuel line that the base shared with a nearby set of apartment complexes. . .

"Yeah, man. It totally sucks," Duo whined, leaning back against one of the walls. "I don't know if the Preventers will be able to mobilize any kind of attack force in time, or even if it would do any good. I mean, what the hell do you use to fight a fuckin' Gundam and win?"

"Another Gundam, of course," G answered, smiling at the confused expressions he received. "S made a vague allusion to it earlier. Remember the 'big guns' comment?"

"All of our Gundams are gone," Wufei snapped, sifting through a stack of papers marked by yellow. Heero motioned for silence, but the other three were far too involved in their own discussion to notice such subtlety. "So unless you've been—"

"Oh, don't worry; I have," he interrupted with a wave of one hand. "And Duo, you'll be happy to know that I even brought him with me. He's an old friend that I know you've just been dying to see again. . ."

"You made another Deathscythe? Are you outta your goddamn mind?"

. . .Starting a gas fire that reduced these once magnificent homes to smoldering rubble. In a vain attempt to put out the blaze, the environmental controls were tapped, letting down the barrage of snow that still litters the ground this morning. The apartments were home to some 546 people. So far, 113 people have been retrieved from the wreckage and are currently in intensive care at St. Raphael's Hospital on 39th Street, and approximately 198 people are still unaccounted for. . .

"Absolutely. Which, in this case, has proven to be a saving grace," the professor smoothed his mustache thoughtfully. "This'll be the perfect opportunity for me to test my brand-new, completely untouched, Deathscythe Hell Lucifer Custom. Oh, and S said that he could get a hold of an old Virgo and re-equip it for Barton to use. There was even mention of your beloved Altron coming back into service. So much for 'being gone,' don't you think, Wufei?"

"Go to hell," the pilot in question spat, lips curling back in an angry sneer. "Nataku was put to rest, and I promised that she would never see a battlefield again. So don't count on it."

The American forced a laugh, brushing his bangs up off his forehead for a moment before letting them fall back into place. "So, lemme get this straight: you wanna send the three of us out against Heero's obsessive big brother in an experimental Deathscythe, a suped-up Virgo, and Wufei's dead girlfriend? Shit, man. . . We are so screwed."

"That would be the plan, yes."

"Just shut up and die. Both of you."

"You're such a grouch, 'Fei. You need to, like. . .get laid, or something."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Heero looked away from the article with a small shudder, wrapping his arms around himself protectively. He remembered that incident; that fire and the snow after. Remembered walking over those ruins, digging through the debris in hopes of finding. . .something, someone still alive. But there was no one there when he looked, no one left when he scraped his palms open on the rough concrete while he searched. He gave himself a moment to recollect himself, to put his thoughts in order as he listened to the remaining pilots dissolve into childish bickering. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism, an attempt to stay sane through this mess they had somehow gotten involved in. Whatever it was, it brought a dry, humorless smile to his face.

"What are we waiting for then?" he asked. The others blinked in surprise, their attention suddenly focused on him. Heero raised his chin defiantly, eyes narrowing dangerously as he spoke. "I say we get our guns, and show this sonofabitch how real men fight."