windandwater | Goodbye LJ...

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

He did not have that time, he did not have that breath. His enemies closed in for the kill.

"Heero, did we win?"

The Gundam with the angel wings was failing. Heero's eyes were grim as he fought with the controls, fought with the Dolls, but the nonstop barrage of fire from all sides rattled him, blinding him. The sensors showed only static, and one by one the diagnostic systems counted out their deadly toll. *Shielding at 17%,* one whispered. *Main firing battery D03-7 empty,* another warned. *External cameras non-functional. Coolant circulation disrupted. Armor plating weakening --*

The pilot allowed himself only one curse, sibilant Japanese. He was the Perfect Soldier, the superior pilot! It was inconceivable that he should be surrounded, that he could be defeated. That he should, even for a moment, be out of control like this, off-balance and shaken and there were just too many sounds, too many warnings, danger everywhere all around and he couldn't see it all --

*Target acquired!* one monitor blared at him. He saw it. He saw it all. Sparks and fires, and every machine spoke at once.

*Warning -- multiple bogeys --*

Locked. His Gundam was locked. It wouldn't answer him, wouldn't respond to his command.

(Try again, Heero Yuy.)

"Initiate command sequence four-kuro-alpha-"

*-- radar hits in sector zero-nine-five --*

[Sparks in the cockpit. Blinding fires in space.]

*Command not recognized. Command not recognized*

[Impact shakes him. He has to take another breath to finish the command.].

"-HT-five. Commence. Three. Two..."

*Beam saber battery exhausted. Zero-zero-*

From:

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[Sound crackles over the radio. Video out, audio only. No sound in space.]

"Heero! HEERO! Look out, man --"

(Heero Yuy was dead. He died in the name of peace. There was no peace. There was no Heero Yuy.)

"...One. Saichaka."

[This is a machine that speaks, give orders, fights against other machines. But not even machines are perfect. The smoke in his glowing eyes, the black blood flowing from his hands -- these are proof of that.]

*Re-initializing --*

(If, indeed, he had ever lived at all.)

*--impact imminent--*

"--Goddamit, Heero, they're right behind you! MOVE!"

I know what I'm doing, Duo! I can die just fine without your help!

*Target acquired!*

"Fire."

*Warning. Blast radius restricted!*

I know what I'm doing, Wing. Just do it. Just finish it.

*Command not recognized--*

[No sound in space.]

*--two--one--*

(No sound in space.)

"HEERO!"

From:

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Another angel fell onto the field, as black as the warrior was white, and without sword or shield he shoved his way between the shadow foes to kneel by the fallen warrior's side. Defenseless, he was the perfect target, the easy victim. Red eyes glinted, red gazes shifted.

"...did we..."

The Shinigami fought through the mobile dolls, but there was no chance that he could reach Wing in time. He flickered in and out of their radars like a ghost, like dust in space; the only proof of his existence was the desperate voice that crackled over the radio waves. "Heero, look out! They're right behind you, goddammit, Heero, MOVE!" he screamed.

Despair; Heero Yuy wouldn't make that mistake, wouldn't let himself be surrounded. If he wasn't responding to the threats around him, it was not an omission of carelessness. Duo saw the way the other mobile suit moved; something was broken, something must have gone very wrong. Mobile dolls flocked about him like vultures, glowing with power as they prepared to finish their prey. And Wing Gundam Zero could not stop them.

"Heero..."

The name caught on a sob in Duo's throat. Because Wing Gundam was not just his partner... Heero Yuy was not only his ally. Because Duo Maxwell had a secret. He had a sin. He was in love, deeply and desperately in love with Wing Gundam's pilot. This was war, and the young pilot had lost his heart to a war machine. Duo Maxwell was out of place among the mobile dolls, because he did something solely human. He loved. Because of that, he involved himself.

It was love that widened his eyes with realization, that slowed time down to a crawl. It was love that sat him straight in his chair, that moved his hands over the console to the button he should never have touched during combat.

Duo Maxwell quirked a smile.

"The things I do for you, Heero."

He turned off his cloaking device.

Alarms went off among the Dolls, at the sudden appearance of this threat in their midst. A strong, hale, powerful threat. Cannon barrels swung around. Targets switched. Focus shifted.

The universe exploded.

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

Another angel fell onto the field, as black as the warrior was white, and without sword or shield he shoved his way between the shadow foes to kneel by the fallen warrior's side. Defenseless, he was the perfect target, the easy victim. Red eyes glinted, red gazes shifted.

"...did we..."

The Shinigami fought through the mobile dolls, but there was no chance that he could reach Wing in time. He flickered in and out of their radars like a ghost, like dust in space; the only proof of his existence was the desperate voice that crackled over the radio waves. "Heero, look out! They're right behind you, goddammit, Heero, MOVE!" he screamed.

Despair; Heero Yuy wouldn't make that mistake, wouldn't let himself be surrounded. If he wasn't responding to the threats around him, it was not an omission of carelessness. Duo saw the way the other mobile suit moved; something was broken, something must have gone very wrong. Mobile dolls flocked about him like vultures, glowing with power as they prepared to finish their prey. And Wing Gundam Zero could not stop them.

"Heero..."

The name caught on a sob in Duo's throat. Because Wing Gundam was not just his partner... Heero Yuy was not only his ally. Because Duo Maxwell had a secret. He had a sin. He was in love, deeply and desperately in love with Wing Gundam's pilot. This was war, and the young pilot had lost his heart to a war machine. Duo Maxwell was out of place among the mobile dolls, because he did something solely human. He loved. Because of that, he involved himself.

It was love that widened his eyes with realization, that slowed time down to a crawl. It was love that sat him straight in his chair, that moved his hands over the console to the button he should never have touched during combat.

Duo Maxwell quirked a smile.

"The things I do for you, Heero."

He turned off his cloaking device.

Alarms went off among the Dolls, at the sudden appearance of this threat in their midst. A strong, hale, powerful threat. Cannon barrels swung around. Targets switched. Focus shifted.

The universe exploded.

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

"...tell me Heero... did we win?"

The armor-clad warrior struggled to his feet and wielded his blade, driving away his attackers. He did not look down again.

In uncounted nanoseconds it was all over; it almost took more time for the explosions to die down, for the remaining pieces of the Mobile Dolls to break apart and settle on Heero's restored monitors into non-threat categories, than it had taken the Perfect Soldier to break them.

Once the moment of indecision had past, relegated to just another win against the odds, Heero took stock of himself. He was back in control once more, but most of his external sensors were shot to holy hell. Still he was alive, and his suit could still function, and that was all that mattered. But things never stood still in space, and no sooner had Heero classified this sector as free of Dolls than a summons came from across the field, from the other side of the ship. Chang was fighting there and Barton, and they needed backup. His external sensors showed him sunfire and starlight reflecting off of metals. Useless, that. He had to route his radar screen through the external camera controls before he could see. There were enemies in the way, too many, glowing bright red among the wispy gray matter that signaled wreckage, signaled the losers. Heero fired his thrusters.

Duo saw his own Gundam, hanging still and soundless in space, before the clouds closed over the gap. He was alone in the field, and the sun was going steadily dark. Abruptly a wind began to blow, tearing through the grass, tearing through *him.*

"Maxwell." The voice ripped over the speakers, audio only, video out. "We don't have time for you to idle about uselessly. Chang and Barton are requesting backup in sector kappa-five. Dolls are scattered in the space along the translation vector. Clean it out."

"Saa, Heero," the response hissed faintly back, "did we win?"

"We haven't won anything, idiot. Get moving." Heero cut off the communicators. He was in no mood to listen to Duo's usual battle chatter, the useless tangents he went off on when there was work to be done.

"I'm right behind you, captain." The response was too breathless for cheer, but nobody heard it.

From:

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"The main force of Dolls is destroyed, Quatre-sama," one of the Maguanacs reported, from the bridge of the ship. "They set up an ambush around the southwest side, but it seems to have failed. Gundams 01 and 02 are moving to rejoin the others now."

Quatre nodded his acknowledgment and thanks. "It's too soon to say if the battle is won yet. They may yet have real pilots, hiding behind the smokescreen of dolls. Be careful."

"Hai, Quatre-sama," someone responded. "The enemy carrier is hailing us," another cut in. "They are demanding immediate surrender. They claim to have twice as many Mobile Dolls as we've already seen. What should our answer be?"

The words seemed to come a little slower than usual, as though he were hearing them through molasses. "They may be bluffing," Quatre heard himself say, even as his own hand moved absently up towards his chest. His Spaceheart felt so very strange. "It could be a ploy to distract our attention away from... backup troops, or it could... be..."

One hand slipped through his shirt, to touch the skin of his chest. "It could be..."

--soft--

--white--

"Quatre-sama?" someone asked him. He slowly turned to face them.

--so very, very cold. Snow?--

"Quatre-sama, they're demanding an answer."

"Tell them..."

--lying in a field, looking upwards into white as wool... snow... falling on him. Gently. Quietly. It was so hard to move, when he could just lie here and let the soft, white, pile up --

"...tell them that we..."

--the snow was talking to him, with a voice of cold white ice. White. White --

"Quatre-sama!"

He blinked reality back into place, and removed his hand from his chest. "We have more than enough strength to counter any forces they have left. We will not surrender."

From:

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--White, cold... it was so easy to let it cover him, and take away all the fighting and pain.

He blinked, once, and that simplest of action seemed to take a hundred years to complete. Everything seemed so hard, every thought came slowly and movement was out of the question. The field was so silent, even the soft breathing of falling snow could be heard. Staring up at the sky, at the white swirling against white in endless, secret patterns... if his heart beat it was too loud a sound.

*Stay,* the snow whispered to him. *You aren't needed. You can do nothing. Stay here and do nothing. There is no pain here, there is no mission. You cannot fail here. Stay and fall...*

...but...

The voice was so cold. And behind its promise of soft, soft fleece, every drop of snow was sharp, rigid ice. White ice. White metal. White Gundam. Cold snow. Cold voice. Cold eyes.

There was nothing but snow. It weighed him down -- weighed him down, and he could not move. Could not breathe. Could not feel his own heart beat.

Panic. *Where am I? What's happened? WHAT --*

-- PAIN! Dark and hot and PAIN threw him back into his body so sudden like a jolt of lightning left him twitching hurt hurt hurt so bad every motion even breathing heart beating stabbed through his insides *Oh God! I can't feel -- I can't feel --*

Sparks electric cracked and spat from the consoles around him but his hands were still on the controls, practically glued there by blood and burn. A whimper escaped his chest but even that was so hard to get out. He heard noises; hiss and fizz and the pounding of his own blood in his body -- oh God! He was hurt bad, real bad, he could feel it. He didn't have to look down to know it. Every fiber of his being was screaming, screaming in protest to the intruder burning hot something shouldn't be there no get it OUT! But he couldn't. No, he couldn't. First aid or even common sense said that when wreckage was lodged in a wound you couldn't pull it out without making it so much worse that might even kill him.

From:

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com - Date: 2006-02-21 08:06 am (UTC) - Expand

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

Title: Pocketful of Ashes

Author: Mikkeneko

Rating: R

Pairings: 2+1

Category: Angst, deathfic

Blood type: B -

Warnings: angst, blood, Heero-bastardization

Disclaimer: At the rate I go through the characters, the series would never have lasted all 59 episodes if I owned them. But it did, so I don't.

In a room with many screens, a young woman sat in the darkness with her hands folded beneath her chin. Her eyes were narrowed sharply as she studied the displays in front of her. Black shot through with white gave the background to a dozen different views of the fire and death of a mobile suit battle in space.

Silently, the woman watched as the gray shells of Mobile Dolls converged on another, larger mobile suit from a dozen different angles. The white MS was doing badly, that was obvious from any of the screens. It trailed sparks that died instantly in the cold vacuum, and moved in lurching, unsteady jerks. Her fingers tightened as the Dolls surrounded the white suit, drowning it in fire.

Abruptly, the screens began to change their view, swinging away from their target. There was a dizzying view of black and white as the cameras swiveled around to follow the change in target. Only one of the Dolls stayed focused on its target, and showed a perfect view of the white mobile suit as it recovered its balance and counterattacked... and then, one by one, each of the screens blanked out to show static.

As the last one flickered and died, the woman sighed, and stirred herself. Long, slender fingers unfolded to tap on a screen in front of her, and the screen displays went to blue, then began to play all over again.

"Dorothy?" A voice called quietly from the doorway, and the blonde woman looked up. Illuminated by the light from the screens, a tall, aristocratic man leaned against the doorframe in a carefully refined pose of casual interest.

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

Title: Pocketful of Ashes

Author: Mikkeneko

Rating: R

Pairings: 2+1

Category: Angst, deathfic

Blood type: B -

Warnings: angst, blood, Heero-bastardization

Disclaimer: At the rate I go through the characters, the series would never have lasted all 59 episodes if I owned them. But it did, so I don't.

In a room with many screens, a young woman sat in the darkness with her hands folded beneath her chin. Her eyes were narrowed sharply as she studied the displays in front of her. Black shot through with white gave the background to a dozen different views of the fire and death of a mobile suit battle in space.

Silently, the woman watched as the gray shells of Mobile Dolls converged on another, larger mobile suit from a dozen different angles. The white MS was doing badly, that was obvious from any of the screens. It trailed sparks that died instantly in the cold vacuum, and moved in lurching, unsteady jerks. Her fingers tightened as the Dolls surrounded the white suit, drowning it in fire.

Abruptly, the screens began to change their view, swinging away from their target. There was a dizzying view of black and white as the cameras swiveled around to follow the change in target. Only one of the Dolls stayed focused on its target, and showed a perfect view of the white mobile suit as it recovered its balance and counterattacked... and then, one by one, each of the screens blanked out to show static.

As the last one flickered and died, the woman sighed, and stirred herself. Long, slender fingers unfolded to tap on a screen in front of her, and the screen displays went to blue, then began to play all over again.

"Dorothy?" A voice called quietly from the doorway, and the blonde woman looked up. Illuminated by the light from the screens, a tall, aristocratic man leaned against the doorframe in a carefully refined pose of casual interest.

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

"Cousin." Dorothy acknowledged him with a nod, and Treize took that as an invitation to enter the room.

"Dorothy, what on Earth are you doing here this late?" Treize inquired, lifting one elegantly forked eyebrow in question. Those features that lent him an exotic, refined appearance gave the young woman the look of a dangerous animal, some sort of predatory bird. In the world they both moved in, where ties of blood were dealt with in terms of power and influence and not in love, Treize and his younger cousin would never be close... but he respected her skills, and she his.

"Reviewing some footage of the last battle," she replied. "These are the recordings transmitted from the cameras of the MD back to the control center before they were destroyed by the Gundam."

"Playing with dolls again, Dorothy?" Treize chuckled, and the blonde pinned him with a frosty look.

"I fear there may be some glitch in their programming," she explained, and, with a few taps of the keyboard, spun the images forward to the moment of the error. "Do you see? They had Gundam 01 fixed in their sights, an easy kill, but --"

Once again, the cameras performed their dizzying turns, and then began to blink out into static. Dorothy shrugged expressively. "Why would they turn away from their target like that? As you can see, it left them vulnerable to attack. That should not have happened." Another quick flurry of those slender fingers brought up the display of long, scrolling code on one of the screens. "My current theory is that the pilot of 01 somehow accessed their programming through a remote linkage and made changes, but --"

"Wait, please." Treize rested one hand on her shoulder, leaning forward as he stared intensely at one of the screens. "Play it again."

Dorothy shrugged, then set it to replay the disastrous moment again. The MD locked on its target, then turned... a flash of blackness speckled with white, the flare of an energy weapon, and then static.

"Again."

Intrigued, Dorothy played it again, but then slowed it down to half its normal speed.

"Freeze."

Obediently, the image halted in place. On the lower corner of the screen, instantaneously illuminated by the flash of a beam cannon, was another Gundam.

Treize straightened, then looked down to meet Dorothy's eyes. She made a soft hmm

From:

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as she looked back at the screen, examining her latest opponent.

"So. He had backup." Dorothy frowned, folding her hands again. "I begin to understand..."

"I don't understand."

Quatre's voice was dull and tired with endless repetition, and, like before, nobody had an answer. Because nobody had an answer for death, and it was Duo's sudden, brutal death that had driven them all into this shock. It should not have been so hard. They were all soldiers, and none of them were strangers to death or to violence. Duo had been a pilot too, a soldier like them, and death in combat was part of the game. So why was it so hard? Why did Wufei still walk around like a man in a dream? Why had Trowa retreated so thoroughly into silence? And why did Heero -- best friend of Duo's if he had one -- do nothing at all?

"I just don't understand," Quatre whispered.

Maybe it was the fact that of all of them, Duo had been the one who seemed unbeatable. Unlike Heero, unlike Trowa or even Quatre, Duo had never wanted to die. He plunged himself into battle with a recklessness that seemed as suicidal as Heero's self-destruct button, until you looked closer and realized that every move he made was backed by the balance of talent, and training, and absolute confidence that what he did was right. And he came out of every impossible situation triumphant, because he was Death and Death could not die.

And when Deathscythe's hatch had opened, and Duo's lifeblood had come pouring down the paint, it was as though some fundamental rule of physics had been altered. Duo was dead.

Surely there had been some mistake.

"It was still a mistake," Dorothy concluded. "Even the presence of a second threat shouldn't have drawn the MD's attention from their target."

Treize made a soft sound of agreement. "For that matter, why was the second Gundam not detected until that moment? It must have some extraordinary stealth capabilities."

"Extraordinary indeed," Dorothy agreed. "But that presents yet another puzzle. If that Gundam was capable of evading the Dolls' detection, then why change that strategy at that exact moment? Why give up such a tremendous advantage?"

From:

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"I agree. It makes no sense as far as I can see." Treize leaned forward and tapped the corner of the screen where the black Gundam hovered, trapped in the destructive power of the beam rifles. "This should not have been there."

He didn't want to be there.

There was no need for him to be there. There was no need to hold this session in the first place, and Heero had told the others of this fact in no uncertain terms. Duo was dead and while this was unfortunate, there was nothing more to be done about it. There was no mystery connected with the pilot's death, thus there was no need to collect Deathscythe's black box recording. The viewing was a waste of time and could only cause more trouble.

But he had been overridden, and somehow he found himself in this room with the lights darkened and the disk in the wall slot. A small table was placed in front of the wall screen, and the other Gundam pilots had arranged their chairs in front of it. Heero sat alone, on the opposite side of the table.

The screen flickered, and resolved itself into the familiar-yet-alien sight of a Gundam cockpit. Duo centered the screen, tugging at his harness straps to make sure they were in place. His breathing was quickened, and excitement glittered in his eyes. "All right, 'Scythe," he said as he wrapped his hands around the pilot controls. "Let's go kick us some ass!"

The screen image shuddered as the Gundam launched, then stabilized. Heero deliberately looked away from the screen, casting his eyes on the wall opposite. This was a pointless exercise, and he would not waste his time by watching Duo's battle theatrics. He couldn't shut out Duo's voice, though, his exultant and fierce warcries and the muffled sound of the combat all around.

But something inside him was counting against a clock, and he knew exactly what time it was when the tone of Duo's voice changed. It was tainted with fear, now, and Heero shuddered as his own name rang out from the speakers. "Heero, look out! They're right behind you, goddammit, Heero, MOVE!"

Why was there fear in Duo's voice now? Heero wondered with a touch of exasperation. He was not the one in danger.

"Heero..."

It was strange; he didn't remember hearing that strange, desolate note in Duo's voice the first time. Of course, at the time he'd had considerably more to worry about than Duo's mood swings.

From:

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"I agree. It makes no sense as far as I can see." Treize leaned forward and tapped the corner of the screen where the black Gundam hovered, trapped in the destructive power of the beam rifles. "This should not have been there."

He didn't want to be there.

There was no need for him to be there. There was no need to hold this session in the first place, and Heero had told the others of this fact in no uncertain terms. Duo was dead and while this was unfortunate, there was nothing more to be done about it. There was no mystery connected with the pilot's death, thus there was no need to collect Deathscythe's black box recording. The viewing was a waste of time and could only cause more trouble.

But he had been overridden, and somehow he found himself in this room with the lights darkened and the disk in the wall slot. A small table was placed in front of the wall screen, and the other Gundam pilots had arranged their chairs in front of it. Heero sat alone, on the opposite side of the table.

The screen flickered, and resolved itself into the familiar-yet-alien sight of a Gundam cockpit. Duo centered the screen, tugging at his harness straps to make sure they were in place. His breathing was quickened, and excitement glittered in his eyes. "All right, 'Scythe," he said as he wrapped his hands around the pilot controls. "Let's go kick us some ass!"

The screen image shuddered as the Gundam launched, then stabilized. Heero deliberately looked away from the screen, casting his eyes on the wall opposite. This was a pointless exercise, and he would not waste his time by watching Duo's battle theatrics. He couldn't shut out Duo's voice, though, his exultant and fierce warcries and the muffled sound of the combat all around.

But something inside him was counting against a clock, and he knew exactly what time it was when the tone of Duo's voice changed. It was tainted with fear, now, and Heero shuddered as his own name rang out from the speakers. "Heero, look out! They're right behind you, goddammit, Heero, MOVE!"

Why was there fear in Duo's voice now? Heero wondered with a touch of exasperation. He was not the one in danger.

"Heero..."

It was strange; he didn't remember hearing that strange, desolate note in Duo's voice the first time. Of course, at the time he'd had considerably more to worry about than Duo's mood swings.

From:

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His thoughts were interrupted by a soft, breathy chuckle, and involuntarily he glanced back up at the screen. Duo's eyes were looking not quite towards the recording slip, at the intercom, and he had a strange smile on his face. "The things I do for you, Heero," the recording said.

Then he moved his hand over to one particular toggle, and Heero's eyes widened as he felt an unfamiliar lurch of surprise in his chest. What in hell did that idiot think he was *doing?* He heard the soft intake of breath from the three other pilots, as they, too, belatedly realized Duo's intentions.

Duo flipped the switch, and for a moment the recording went mad.

"He... he turned off his stealth systems..." Quatre said slowly. "Right in the middle of the pack, and he turned off his stealth..." He turned searching, demanding eyes on Heero, but before he could ask any questions, the picture on the screen suddenly resolved itself into darkness again.

Quatre's attention immediately riveted back to the screen; apparently, he'd thought it was over. But it wasn't, Heero knew. Not by a long shot.

"Obviously, the Gundam chose that moment to decloak knowing that it would throw off the MD's shots," Dorothy concluded precisely. "Clever."

Treize frowned, then shrugged carefully. "Clever, but reckless. Evidently this maneuver bought Gundam 01 the time it needed to recover, and eliminate the Dolls. But in doing so, he must have taken virtually all their fire at point-blank range."

A gleam entered Dorothy's eyes. "I was so very disappointed that the Dolls hadn't managed to take down 01," she mused. "Do you suppose, perhaps, they did not fail to take out at least one of the Gundams?"

"Very possible." Treize studied the still captures they had managed to get of the black Gundam, as fragmentary as they were. "See if you can get any more surveillance footage. I very much want to know what happened to the second pilot."

For a long time, the loudest sound in that room was the dead man's heavy, labored breathing. Duo was slumped in his chair, head hanging, hands glued to the controls. The camera was at a slight angle to the com, enough that it afforded a perfect view of the bloody mess that started below Duo's waist.

The static crackle of machinery broke from the speakers, and everyone in the room

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jumped as the Gundam's com systems activated. "Maxwell." For a moment Heero did not recognize the voice that cut cold as space through the speakers. "We don't have time for you to idle about uselessly."

Duo stirred, faintly, and a breath of sound that the recording device barely caught. "Saa... Heero..." he whispered. "...did we win?"

"We haven't won anything, idiot. Get moving." Surely it was a trick of the speakers, of the low-quality recorders in Deathscythe's cockpit, that gave Heero's voice that cold, nasal sound. Because that wasn't his own voice. It wasn't.

The Duo on the screen seemed to stiffen suddenly, as though coming back to himself, and his eyes flickered open. Those eyes were impossibly dark, clouded with shock and pain, as the wounded pilot fumbled for the controls. "Heero..." he mumbled.

He wanted to tear the disk from the wall, but he couldn't move. What was the point of this? Why bother to relive Duo's mistake? Disinterestedly, he drew his gun from the holster and began to disassemble it, cleaning each component before he put them back together.

He only wished that he could turn off his hearing, as the recording played itself out with merciless accuracy. He heard his own voice, still flat as a machine's, and Duo's dazed, halting confession. He heard himself, ordering Duo not to bother him with trivial things. Heard the buzzing tone of a Priority Code One over the com, and then sudden white static as the burst of radiation cut off all further transmissions. Heard Duo, hoarse with pain and fear, pleading for Heero, for anyone to help him.

And, of course, nobody did.

A faint, helpless moan cut across the recording. Tears were tracking down Quatre's white face, and he lifted a shaking hand to touch the cold glass as Duo screamed out his name. It seemed to take forever, to take entirely too long before Duo choked on his own blood, and his voice faded into silence.

"I knew there was something wrong," Quatre said, his voice shaking. "Snow... blood... Allah, if only I'd realized..."

Heero snapped the last of the metal pieces into its slot and checked to see that the gun was properly loaded. "Are we finished here?" he asked in a dead-level tone.

Quatre gasped, staring at Heero as though he had grown another head. "I don't understand you," he choked out. "I knew that Duo... had feelings towards you. I even suspected that he had... fallen... in love with you, but it was his business and his choice not to tell you. I respected that, and I didn't interfere with the way... you treated him... but damn it, Heero, don't you even care that he's gone?"

From:

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Heero didn't even bother to look at Quatre, sliding his gun back into the holster. " 'Love' is just a pretty name for an unnecessary emotional attachment," he said, sounding as bored as though he were reciting something out of a dictionary. "It's a weakness that a soldier cannot afford. I always knew that Duo Maxwell was too emotional to be a true soldier, that sooner or later that weakness would turn him into a liability. And I was right."

"Yuy..." Wufei's voice was low and shaking with fury, and the hand that pushed him up against the back of the chair was bloodless with the force of his grip. "You... dishonorable..."

Heero met his eyes with a cold stare of his own, and said nothing.

Wufei slowly came around the table towards him, murder in his dark eyes. "I could not understand how a pilot like Maxwell had become so badly wounded by the Mobile Dolls. And now I know. It was because of you. He exposed himself to enemy fire to save *your* life, and how do you repay him...!"

"He made his own decisions," Heero snarled. "He made a mistake and he died for it. I had nothing to do with it."

"You *bastard!*" Wufei lunged the rest of the way across the room, gripping the collar of his flight jacket and slamming him back against the wall. "The only 'mistake' that Maxwell made was in trading his life for *your* worthless hide! He was ten times the pilot you are!"

Heero swept his arm up and broke Wufei's hold on his collar, shoving the Chinese man a few steps back and glaring at him angrily. "There is only one test of a soldier's competence. Duo failed that test!"

"How can you say that?" Quatre cried, rising from his seat also. "He sacrificed himself for you! Doesn't that mean anything to you at all?"

"A soldier's life is expendable," Heero muttered darkly. "Duo should have known that."

Wufei spat a curse, and his hands flew to his hip, as though searching for a weapon sheathed there. He froze his hands in mid-motion, though, staring at Heero with a look of disbelief. "I'm beginning to realize something, Yuy. For a long time I have considered Maxwell to be a flighty, shallow person. I could see the obvious skill with which he piloted his Gundam, and I respected him for that, but I was convinced that the boy himself was an idiot. And now I wonder why. There was nothing that Duo did, or said, that should have led me to doubt his intelligence, and I of all people should know that happiness is not equal to weakness. But you -- you, Yuy, with your sneers and allusions and curt dismissals of any value he might have had... I listened to you, and like a fool I let myself be convinced that Duo, not you, was the one with the problem..."

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

Heero: I'm committing suicide, but it's a good thing.

Duo: Man, good thing you're not Catholic--suicide's a mortal sin. You'd burn in Hell, which I can personally testify is not pretty.

Heero: Hey, I'm doing this for you!

Duo: Funny, that's what I said... ::sizzles:: Ouchie.

Mikkeneko: Mwa ha ha ha.

Relena: I'm not in this story. Given the levels of angst I see, I should probably be grateful.

Hilde: Uh, yeah. Look at me, I'm so crazy...

Trowa: Just a little psychic.

Hilde: Don’t you mean, psychotic?

Heero: No -- that’s me.

Quatre: At least it's not me again. I just had to watch him die.

Duo: Oh, poor baby.

Mikkeneko: Be quiet, you're dead.

Heero&Hilde: Please!

Duo: I'm not taking this lying down.

Mikkeneko: What, you want me to prop up your corpse?

Duo: Aw, go to Hell!

Heero: Okay.

Mikkeneko: I'm a Universalist. We don't believe in Hell.

Duo: Then why am I in it?

Mikkeneko: Because, you do...

Relena: I'm so grateful I'm not in this story.

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

As always, Trowa's footsteps made almost no sound against the smooth corridor floors. He glanced to the side, checking the numbers on the doorways as he passed, though it was hardly necessary; he knew all the Gundam pilots' rooms by heart, and he had come this way often these past few weeks.

Ever since... he did not like to think of it. But ever since Heero had fallen into such disgrace, only Trowa would visit the room that used to house two but now only held one.

He stopped in front of the right door -- he knew which one, it was the only door in the corridor that was left open a crack. He raised one hand to knock, then hesitated, feeling suddenly unwilling. The silence was almost palpable here, and something in Trowa told him not to rush ahead.

Instead of knocking, he placed his fingers on the door and pushed lightly. It crept open by almost a foot, spilling a swath of illumination into the pitch-dark room. The light crept half over the chair by the desk, revealing a pair of denim-clad legs and one lax arm; faintly outlining the rest of the body, slumped forward slightly in the chair.

He was about to call out to Heero, but something stopped the voice at his lips. He was about to go to Heero, but something kept him still in the doorway. Maybe it was the air that had shifted, and brought some telltale scent to him. Maybe there was something about the complete stillness in Heero's limbs told him, even before his eyes adjusted to the light.

The light from the door spilled across Heero's legs and arms, neatly cutting his body in half. On the desk, one hand rested entangled with a metal chain, the yellow light from the hallways turning the silver cross gold. His other hand, shadowed, dangled off the chair's arm, with a darker shadow fallen to the floor beneath his hand. Even as he watched, a bit of shadow moved with creeping slowness down his hand and hung for a moment, before detaching from his limp fingers to fall to the floor below.

In the dimness of the room, the shadows painted unreal textures on the wall, that seemed to writhe and twist as they slid towards the floor with that same detached slowness. A shock of white traveled up Trowa's spine, momentarily blinding him; a flash of emotions, too strong and too swift to comprehend, kept him stilled in place staring at what remained of Heero Yuy's face.

Just as quickly as they had come, they were gone, leaving him numb. So familiar; Heero's gun on the floor, Duo's cross on the desk, and the timeless way that blood moved down the painted surface. It was no comfort to him that his guesses had been right, that he had known Heero's mind better than Heero himself; that when Heero comprehended the choice before him, he would choose this way, to follow Duo in an explosion of gunpowder to whatever lay beyond. Now doubt assailed him; should he have acted sooner, spoken instead of waiting? Or was it truly better this way?

It didn't matter now. He took his hand off the door and stepped back, still numb, with something he vaguely could recognize as grief. Or was it pity? He knew he should call the medicos, Security, the other pilots, anyone -- but it did not feel right to intrude upon this moment, to somehow debase this final act of penance, with the shrill panic and sharp anger that they would bring with them.

After another hanging moment of stillness, Trowa turned softly away. With the same gentle, almost soundless footsteps, he went back the way he came. Later would be soon enough. For the second of his brothers, time no longer held any meaning.

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

It was 23:05.

Even as he hit the ground -- or did he? -- he rolled, tucking in his head and shoulder so as to present the smallest possible target. He came up on his hands and knees, one hand reflexively closing on his gun and bringing it out as he scanned his surroundings for possible threats. The familiar hollow click sounded in his ears as he pulled back the hammer, ready to fire, eyes searching for a target --

He stopped, still on his hands and knees, the tip of his gun pointing upwards. There was no target. The vista that met his eyes was bare, not only of people, but of buildings, plants, anything. The flat, hard ground he could feel beneath his hands stretched off colorlessly in all directions, the edges vanishing into a shrouding mist.

This was not a place he had been before. Confused, he tried to sort through his recent memories, even as his watchful eyes continued to scan the horizon. He couldn’t remember where this place was, or how he had come for. His mind was a confused jumble, his thoughts as foggy as the strange flat landscape. The last thing he remembered was --

The last thing he remembered --

and the sky

-- like a thin film of soap, shimmered above him in all the colors of the rainbow, and all of them gray, and none of them real.

Slowly, the tip of the gun barrel dropped; first only by a hair, then several inches. He stared out across the unreal place, mouth sagging open. “What is this place?” he whispered, deaf to his own voice. “Where the Hell am I?”

Tremors ran up and through his body. He tried to get to his feet, nearly falling face-first into the strange dust, all his perfect balance gone. As his left hand moved, something swung out from it and chinked, against his arm. It took a moment for Heero to identify it; it was the cross, the small silver chain and cross that he’d had in his hand when...

When...

He sank to his knees, and dug his fingers into the dark ground, and it bunched up beneath his fingers like gritty dust, just as he thought it would. But something was still wrong, terribly wrong... the sky...

Was it... was it an attack? A new trick of the enemy? Chemical weapons... affected the environment...? No, that wouldn’t cause... this... but, still... There was a mission. He remembered that. He clenched his hand around the handle of his gun, taking deep and steady breaths. A mission. He still had a mission.

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

It was 23:05.

Even as he hit the ground -- or did he? -- he rolled, tucking in his head and shoulder so as to present the smallest possible target. He came up on his hands and knees, one hand reflexively closing on his gun and bringing it out as he scanned his surroundings for possible threats. The familiar hollow click sounded in his ears as he pulled back the hammer, ready to fire, eyes searching for a target --

He stopped, still on his hands and knees, the tip of his gun pointing upwards. There was no target. The vista that met his eyes was bare, not only of people, but of buildings, plants, anything. The flat, hard ground he could feel beneath his hands stretched off colorlessly in all directions, the edges vanishing into a shrouding mist.

This was not a place he had been before. Confused, he tried to sort through his recent memories, even as his watchful eyes continued to scan the horizon. He couldn’t remember where this place was, or how he had come for. His mind was a confused jumble, his thoughts as foggy as the strange flat landscape. The last thing he remembered was --

The last thing he remembered --

and the sky

-- like a thin film of soap, shimmered above him in all the colors of the rainbow, and all of them gray, and none of them real.

Slowly, the tip of the gun barrel dropped; first only by a hair, then several inches. He stared out across the unreal place, mouth sagging open. “What is this place?” he whispered, deaf to his own voice. “Where the Hell am I?”

Tremors ran up and through his body. He tried to get to his feet, nearly falling face-first into the strange dust, all his perfect balance gone. As his left hand moved, something swung out from it and chinked, against his arm. It took a moment for Heero to identify it; it was the cross, the small silver chain and cross that he’d had in his hand when...

When...

He sank to his knees, and dug his fingers into the dark ground, and it bunched up beneath his fingers like gritty dust, just as he thought it would. But something was still wrong, terribly wrong... the sky...

Was it... was it an attack? A new trick of the enemy? Chemical weapons... affected the environment...? No, that wouldn’t cause... this... but, still... There was a mission. He remembered that. He clenched his hand around the handle of his gun, taking deep and steady breaths. A mission. He still had a mission.

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

But... what was it?

07:38.

Status: Functioning at maximum efficiency. All hunger, thirst, fatigue, was ignored. All his doubts were pushed to the back of his mind, the strangeness and the white noise in his head locked away behind the crystal clarity of the mission. He still had his Mission.

...If only he knew its perameters...

Stop thinking about that.

The weight of the gun was familiar as breathing. He kept it in his hand, ready and waiting as he moved, watchful for any target that came within sight. In unknown territory, it was necessary to consider all bogeys as hostile.

It didn’t matter. There was no sign of anyone... friendly or hostile.

And the sky...!

It was easier to ignore it now -- for the last 78 minutes, the mist had steadily closed about him. And the the ground had finally changed; the complete and utter flatness slowly became more rolling, dark shapes looming up out of the mist ahead of him and passing silently on behind him. He kept a watchful eye on them as potential cover for an ambush, but...

...no-one.

From:

mikkeneko.livejournal.com

“Now, that’s something you don’t see every day,” a voice commented from nearby.

Heero’s eyes widened, and he threw himself to his feet, whirling around and lowering his right hand onto his left wrist, pointed unerringly at the source of the voice.

That it had been the source of the voice was not in question; there was no-where else the voice could have come from. But he couldn’t figure out where it had come from.

He said ‘it,’ because there was no way to tell whether the figure was male or female. It was as pale and insubtantial as the strange fog surrounding them, and everything about it, from the features to the hair to the clothes, was fuzzy and blurred like a photocopy run through too many times. It had a head and body and limbs just like any human should, but the sleeves of the fuzzy clothing trailed off without ever really coming into hands, and the legs vanished several inches off the ground.

“Who are you?” Heero said, and his voice shook slightly despite all his training. “What is this place?”

14:06.

The creature gave a faint sigh. “If you weren’t showing your age before, that would have done it,” it said in a slightly disgusted tone of voice. “Only a Neate would ask such a stupid question. Let me guess -- your memory’s not in working order? I have to wonder at the cohesion you’ve managed, though -- I’ve never seen a stronger Corpus...”

“Answer me!” Heero said brusquely, raising his gun slightly to try and still the shaking. “What are you?”

“You can put that away,” the apparation said with a disparaging snort. “You can’t hurt me with it, you know. If it isn’t perfectly obvious, I’m a ghost.”

Heero went cold.

“And so are you,” it added as an afterthought.

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a.k.a. When Pervy Fanfic Writers Strike Back!

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