08: beasts in a junkyard.

Treize let the ice in his brandy melt.

He sat, slightly slumped, in the armchair of his home office, and let the twilight soothe his burning skin. He didn't rise to wash the ancient room in desklamp when dusk faded into bruised night, didn't absorb the history of his family estates that he carefully collected in each chamber of this, his favourite regal manor. He didn't blink much, gaze long lost its focus on the thick persian rug beneath his boots. He didn't sigh.

When Romefeller's Specials unit that was controlling his prison of a mansion made their rounds, one barging through his door to affirm his location, he did not flinch from the sword of light and noise pollution that stabbed from the doorway, though it disturbed him. He simply flicked his gaze to the lukewarm tumbler forgotten in his hand, raised it to his lips, let it linger there as he scoured the burnished liquid with eyes suddenly too dry and stretched thin, and then failed to take a sip before returning to his previous stoic position. Treize didn't like his spirits so watered-down, but why bother relieving himself of what had become a perfectly comfortable relic of his last four hours of disassociated contemplation? House arrest, after all, did not demand any strenuous activity such as fixing himself a new drink or, more importantly, standing. Neutered as he was here, cut off from the countless troops more loyal to him than their uniforms, unable to contact Une without use of military communications devices and determine the status of his missing lover, Treize may as well have fused with that armchair and rotted, to the delight of the Duke who had scheduled Treize's sudden stint in futility.

Numerous weapons were available to him in his abode, but none nearly potent enough to eliminate all that stood between him and any effective access to the world outside. He knew Dermail realised that he was far too poignant a figure to simply be removed; knew his resignation was an extreme surprise to all involved in the proceedings and the Duke had absolutely no further plan to deal with this psychotic ex-General. Treize's strategy was still well-guised. He just wished he fucking knew that Zechs was alive enough to take part in it.

Treize finally closed his eyes, a relinquishing act that eased the intensity in his face and drew his brow into a weary, throbbing furrow that he rubbed unsuccessfully with two fingertips. Who knew such relaxation could be so exhausting?

Again there was a slash of harsh light, the muffled voices and stomping of a unit on patrol. Treize added a wince to his current repertoire of inconvenienced expressions. "Somethin' troublin' you, sir?" enquired the jaunty voice of a Specials soldier who had just stepped into Treize's dark-soaked office. Silhouettes carried firearms these days.

"I'm afraid I've developed an awful headache," Treize mused at the intruding young man, indifferent to whether he would catch the snide in Treize's voice, "It must be due to the sudden herd of dumb brutes I've acquired."

"Somethin' Colonel Une could help with, maybe?" The soldier did not sound offended. In fact, he sounded furtive, obviously speaking a code Treize ought to have learned.

Sapphire eyes began to gleam. "I dare say she may be the only possible assistance, yes. It's a pity all my military equipment has been removed, and I cannot communicate with her."

"That's somethin' maybe I can help with."

"I would be very grateful."

"Don't need gratitude, sir," the soldier chirped as he closed the door quietly, instantly growing sober, "I just need your orders, General Khushrenada. I ain't no soldier at all without orders, and we ain't OZ without you. Me an' some of the other boys an' girls here will follow you straight outta this hellhole, you can count on us."

"Excellent," Treize glanced at the young man's insignia, "Lieutenant. Consider yourself promoted to Captain and rally those of you loyal to me into a small section to await my command. Send an officer with the necessary communications devices for me to contact Lady Une. Of course, I needn't mention that you must not be discovered?"

" 'Course, General, sir."

"Your name?"

"Lieu- Captain Anmodere, sir."

"You will be offered the proper promotion accommodations once my Treize Faction reassumes military control. Dismissed."

Anmodere saluted in attention and filed swiftly out of the office, taking the light and the last vestiges of Treize's impending despair with him. It was time to develop one of the many contingency strategies he had considered in his idle commiseration with the- Ah, yes. Time to pour another brandy, too.

"What's that over there?"

"What?"

"Over where?"

Hidden, Une rolled her eyes. "Be more specific, Captain Tarovsky."

"Wedged in the satellite's exposed framework, maybe thirty metres three'o'clock from my facing. Reginoff, you're closest, turn about fourty degrees lef- Yeah, see it?"

"Affirmative. Approaching... holy shit!"

The hope Une had been nursing since they discovered Tallgeese's arm unfurled at the base of her throat and flooded ice through her veins, but before she could respond, Reginoff was shouting again.

"That's him! That's Tallgeese, no apparent critical damage to cockpit area, full pilot-protective structure intact, I'm running diagnostics now..."

"Excellent work," Une managed to collect her voice and hammer it into a steady, confident praise. "Drake and Tarovsky, move in and inspect Tallgeese's position. We must be certain it's safe to remove the mobile suit without incurring critical damage. Diagnostic report?"

"Life-support systems functional but running lean," Reginoff rattled off, "oxygen levels at 40, heating at 62- If he wasn't wounded, Colonel Merquise should be alive in there."

"It appears that Colonel Merquise piloted the Tallgeese into this position, as there is no visible damage to the external shell that would indicate the Tallgeese striking the satellite after a blast."

"The remaining arm appears to be holding Tallgeese in place," Tarovsky explained, "We'll have to-"

fzzzzt"-move-"fzz"-legs-"fzzzt"-in, pilot-"fzzz"-Respond-"fzzzzzt"Come in-"fzzt

"What was that?" Une demanded, switching her com to higher reception, accepting all immediate frequencies, "Everyone in my flight, silence!"

The static interference softened, fading into background white noise for a few tense seconds before a very familiar voice, weakened and strained, whispered into Une's wavelength, "Come in, pilot. Respond if you read. Come in."

Une's heartrate fluttered at that voice. "Colonel Merquise, I read. This is Colonel Une commanding a flight of Specials. Are you injured? Can you exit the cockpit?"

Penned private in his chamber that no longer seemed to double as his coffin, Zechs allowed himself a moment of sick relief, a moment out of the reverie of agony in which he'd been wallowing for the past thirteen hours. "You found me," he murmured, his voice almost childish with wonder, slurred. For that moment, Une's own worry roared back at the prospect of brain damage, of finding the soldier but losing the man, but then- "No, I can't move much. I've lost"fzz" sensation in my legs and hands, and I-"fzzz"I'm-"fzzzzt

"Come in, Colonel. Repeat?"

"I'm trapped."

"Are you able to open your cockpit? Can we pull you out?"

"No-"fzzz"-suit is compro"fzzzt

"Repeat?"

In frustration, Zechs shouted, "No! My suit is compromised!" and instantly regretted raising his voice above the perilous mumble he'd been managing. Wracked with pain, Zechs barely choked down the bile that threatened in the back of his throat, dizzy with the numerous throbbing areas in his immediate consciousness.

"We'll recover Tallgeese fully," Une acquiesced, flipping frequencies to order her troops into their various retrieval responsibilities, then flipping back to Zechs. "Release Tallgeese's hold on the satellite frame."

fzz"-can't."

"Repeat?"

"I can't move," Zechs rasped, losing his strength reserves exponentially now.

Une frowned in concern. If the pilot were unable to complete even a simple manoeuvre as that... Her voice softened, "How badly are you injured?"

"It's bad, Une," he admitted, his breathing becoming shallow,"I'm- I'm pinned to the seat by a bar from the-"fzz"-panel. Through my- my ab-"fzzz"abdomen. Torn the suit. Don't think it p-p-" The sound of his hacking cough filled even the flight's airwaves, fluid gurgling in his lungs. "p-punctured... organs."

"Rest, Zechs. We'll cut through the satellite frame."

"Beam sabre-"fzz"-t operational."

Whatever Une's response was, Zechs didn't bother to listen.