17-Jul-2000
Hidey ho, MLers. . .I'm back. I hope. Anyway, I wrote a sequel. . ..so lemme know what you think. *sweatdrop* I never realized how hard it is to write Quatre's 'voice'. . .
Legal stuff: None of these characters are mine. Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise, and Sotsu Agency, among others. For time-wasting purposes only and not for profit, so don't sue, 'kay?
Writer's Notes: Back by popular demand, this is the sequel to 'Running With The Moon'. I used the same material as inspiration as well, though it's not a direct take. The language in this one's a bit more contemplative than the last--mostly because I think Quatre's the kind of character to think in metaphors. Has shonen-ai, AU, and some violence. As always, the OOC-ness of the characters I leave up to the eye of the reader!
The desert is a rather odd place, at times--the weather is either predictably hot, or unpredictably dangerous. There is rarely any indication of which it's going to be--and very little mercy either way.
In my more whimsical moments, I often think that perhaps the weather of our homeland had rubbed off on my people as well, making us courteous and ruthless by turns, civilized yet fiercely savage. Or maybe we were that way before the desert. It's hard to tell, really, and inevitably becomes a chicken-and-egg debate really better suited for a casual midafternoon tea. Not an early morning reconnaissance such as mine.
Laying loose and relaxed, half-covered by the lightly blowing sand, I watch the troop movements below me intently. I don't bother using the binoculars that lay quietly on the sand next to me; I don't really need them, after all. They're just props to make the Maganacs feel better.
It's an odd human trait, that. To know the truth, even to use the truth to your advantage--but to still prefer to have a discreet fiction over the truth. I'm still not sure I understand people's ability to lie to themselves about truths too distressing to face. But human nature is human nature, and if a few small allowances let the Maganacs believe that they are needed, then so be it.
It's a good thing, to be needed. It gives one focus.
The dry, acrid air shifts again--filling my shirt with fine, grainy particles of sand. I wriggle a bit, burrowing deeper into my hollow--the sand is a bit uncomfortable, and yet reassuring. Underneath my fingertips, the rhythms of the desert continue--slow and silent, rippling under the broken rock and sand. The sand itself echoes those rhythms, ebbing and flowing in the wind. It did not take me long to learn those rhythms. Not suprising--even if I was raised in the silent cold of space, the desert is bred into me, skin and bone. The prickle of heat on the skin, the slow steady trickle of sweat down my temple--these discomforts have a basic elemental *rightness* to them; something that the cold, spinning metal wheels of the colonies can never invoke, no matter perfectly maintained.
The desert colors reflect the sun's slow, inescapable ascent; its reflected heat warms my bones even as the first heat-waves begin to shimmer in the air in their invisible thermal dances. I drop my head for a moment in silent respect--a hunter who wishes to be successful does not ignore Those Who Are Greater. In public, and among my family, I heed tradition and bow to Allah. It's a small thing, and I do not wish to cause them distress. However, like the binoculars that I do not need, that too is merely a facade, a polite fiction among desert dwellers. In starkest truth, the sun is the only true God here; everything, from the sere dry brush to the generals fighting their little wars, lives and dies according to its dual, inescapable rhythm.
Sunrise. Sunset.
The caravan I am watching moves sluggishly--a slow, awkward caterpillar thing that crawls across the dusty desert floor. My ridge offers me an excellent vantage point, as well as a little welcome shade. The vehicles and Mobile Suits are struggling; they are being taught the same lesson that every invader into this land has had to learn. Here, it is not your enemies that you must fear the most. It's the land itself, which is harsh and beautiful and quick to kill. To wage war here, one must emulate it.
That thought sounds a bit hypocritical, even in my head--after all, I *have* offered mercy to my enemies in the past. I probably will again in the future. It's hard for me not to feel sorry for them--so slow and clumsy, floundering in the desert like fish thrown out of the sea. Sometimes it is difficult to even think of them as enemies, instead of poor flopping helpless cannon-fodder. Most of them don't even know why they're here.
Such considerations are unnecessary, I know. They do occupy my mind, however--perhaps I should just chalk it up to noblesse oblige.
My gaze sharpens at a sudden flurry of movement in the caravan. Several Mobile Suits have stopped--from this distance, I watch OZ soldiers scurry around like frantic, red-coated ants. They seem to have caught something--the shouts and gestures make that clear. Two more OZ officers come around from behind a Mobile Suit, dragging their prize, and I stiffen.
Trowa? They caught Trowa?
My eyes do not lie to me. Even in the faded mechanic's overalls, the sandy-brown hair falling forward over his eyes is unmistakable. I do not even need to see his face. I cannot help but wonder what happened--it's so unlike Trowa to be that careless. Nibbling at my thumb, I watch the scene carefully--perhaps Trowa has something else in mind. . .
Of course he does.
A brief moment of inattention, and Trowa leaps free of his captors, twisting out of their grasp with a lithe ease I can only envy. He vaults one-handed into a jeep, spinning up a cloud of dust as he rockets away from the convoy, heading east. The red-OZ ants mill for just a moment, then soldiers jump into two other jeeps and accelerate away from the convoy in hot pursuit.
I shake my head--it would have been nice if he had consulted me on this. But Trowa is Trowa--I cannot pin him down any more than I can stop the sun. Rising to my feet, I stretch briefly before beginning my Run. East. It looks as if I will chase the sun today.
Running has a rhythm all its own--a needful pattern and beat, like that of a symphony. The first movement is the slowest--a measured, loping cadence. My feet pound out the first measures, my muscles warming, but relaxed. As much as I worry about Trowa, to rush the first movement is to shorten the rest, which will disrupt the rhythm. I force my mind to the discipline of running, waiting for the moment when the beat changes.
There. The distant growl of racing vehicles. I can smell them now--the artificial, acrid scent of gasoline and dry rubber, oil and metal. Without missing a beat, I sweep into the second movement, increasing the rhythm of my Run. My legs stretch and sweep and tuck as I change from a casual lope to a leaping gallop. I angle my trajectory, listening to the jeep race towards me. The angle is good--they do not realize that they soon that will be in the path of my Run. The thumping of my heart increases, provides counterpoint to the beating of my feet. The thudding rhythm of my paws across the desert floor becomes more demanding as the movement climbs inevitably towards its crest. . .
Now!
The jeeps come over the top of the brushy hill at what is (for them) a reckless speed. I spot Trowa, narrow-eyed and fierce behind the wheel of the lead jeep. He's led them a merry chase indeed--his expression hasn't changed, but I know he's enjoying himself immensely. The men in the two jeeps behind him are not enjoying themselves--they look furious. Then they see me, running towards them--and they look flabbergasted.
The third movement sweeps away conscious thought--the rhythm is fast, furious and pounding. My lungs expand to their utmost, drawing in great sweeps of air as I throw in that last burst of speed. Timing is everything here--the line between a run and a fall, between life and death--it all happens within a single second of the rhythm of the Run. My focus narrows down to that single point, that single moment, even as my paws beat out the rhythm instinctively. I sprint, overtaking the fast-moving jeep in blurring, ground-covering strides. .. waiting for the flinch, the reflexive jerk on the wheel--
The driver flinches. His eyes roll wildly at me--prey; he senses his death.
I leap.
One perfectly timed thrust, using all the speed at I had so carefully built for this moment--and my jaws sink into his throat, yanking him clear of the jeep even as I kick away from it myself. I fling him off to the side, twisting my head. If I have timed this perfectly, I can bring down a wildebeest or a gazelle. Humans are even easier--softer, with more fragile spines.
His neck breaks with a sharp, satisfying *crack*.
I skid to a stop, still wary--my parting kick has overturned the driverless jeep, sending it skidding towards the other. The second driver has talent, I must admit--he reacts appropriately, sending his dusty jeep into a controlled skidding stop short of the tumbling vehicle and its screaming occupants. Unfortunately for him, he's not quite good enough to notice Trowa heading back towards him.
I catch the faintly maniacal gleam in those green eyes a moment before he does it, and groan mentally. He wouldn't dare. . .
He would.
Trowa crashes his jeep into his pursuers head-on, accelerating every inch of the way. I wince at the ear-shattering *crash!* of the impact--and duck instinctively as shrapnel whizzes past. Trowa, for his part, has taken a leaf from my book. He uses the momentum of the crash and launches himself into the air, twirling in one of those wonderfully silly acrobatic twists he's so fond of, leaping on two legs--then lands lightly in the midst of the twisted wreckage on four.
He's going to singe off that tail he's so proud of, if he isn't careful.
Never let it be said my love wasn't thorough, however. He darts in and out of the twisted, flaming mess of the three jeeps skillfully, and I hear the crunch as he tears out the survivors' throats with exacting precision. It takes mere seconds.
For my part, I finish my fourth movement--the ending rhythm of every Run. Panting heavily, I let trembling and fatigued muscles loosen, my pounding heart slow down. Every Run has its price. . just like everything in the desert. To lose the rhythm or falter in the pattern means that you die. If you find the rhythm though, and perfect the pattern--then they die.
Trowa wanders over, his bloody work finished, and touches noses with me briefly before moving away. He knows I need space to breathe--the adrenaline rush of a Run doesn't subside that quickly. He points a sharp, reddish-brown muzzle at my kill.
:Good job. Very clean.: I thump my long tail in acknowledgement of the compliment, even as I continue to pant. The rhythms of life--breathe in, breathe out.
:Thanks, Trowa. I tried not to have him suffer.: I flatten my short ears at him slightly, staring hard at the sandy-brown fox that sat quietly before me. :I don't think the same could be said for *your* kill, though, love.:
:Hm?: Trowa flicks his large, elegant ears forward, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the heap of burning vehicles. :It seemed the best way to get the job done.:
:Best way? Or the most flamboyant way?: I wrinkle my whiskers at him a bit in mock distaste. He curls his fluffy, white-tipped tail fastidiously around his feet.
:Is there a difference?:
I sigh, flopping my lanky frame down to the ground in an exasperated sprawl. Trowa regards my long-legged, spotted body with his usual infuriating calm. I glare at him. :You could have at least told me which direction you were going to lead them in, you know, instead of leaving me to figure it out myself!:
He gets up and carefully picks his way over to me--then lies against me, tucking his smaller fox-body up against the tucked-in sweep of my abdomen. I let out a small involuntary chirp(1) of pleasure, even in the midst of my peevishness. It was so *nice* to have Trowa curled up with me like that--and he knew it, the manipulative fox. His luminous green eyes blink at me out of his sharp-muzzled face.
:I knew you would figure it out. Besides, no matter which direction we went, I knew you could outrun them.: He rests his muzzle on top of one of my forelegs. I give up--I just can't stay mad at him.
:Just... don't scare me like that, love. If you're going to get yourself captured, let me know. Okay?:
Trowa nods solemnly. :I promise that the next time I get captured, I'll make sure to check with you first.: His vulpine face is as impassive and unreadable as always--but those green eyes glitter with sardonic humor. I have the distinct feeling that no matter what I say, I'd just be digging myself in deeper. I content myself with changing the subject.
:Um, Trowa? Not that I'm not enjoying myself, but isn't the rest of the caravan going to come check this out?: I look pointedly at the roiling column of billowing black smoke coming from the crash.
:No, they won't.: My lover looks insufferably smug. I sigh again--and resign myself to playing the straight man.
:And why not?:
:Because of this.: His muzzle wrinkles with the slightest hint of a vulpine grin as he pushes a small remote detonator out from beneath his paws. I have no idea where he's been keeping it--and quite frankly, I'm afraid to ask. With deliberate delight, he places a single black paw on the biggest button.
We were promptly rewarded by the thundering *boom* and crackling of flame from the horizon. The sound of multiple Mobile Suits--all exploding at once. I watch in startled amazement, ears pricked forward. When did he...? Oh. So *that's* why he needed the mechanic's coveralls...
Trowa is *definitely* smug now. :I've been working on their suits for days. Once they were busy chasing me, they didn't even think about checking the suits for sabotage. OZ really needs to start finding smarter recruits.:
I simply sighed and put my head back down on my legs. I couldn't even say anything in protest. He *had* gotten the job done.
:So what now?:
The fox cocks his head at me consideringly. :An encore?: Trowa suggests a little too casually. His eyes glint with anticipation. :There *is* an OZ supply dump a few kilometers away.:
That's the problem with foxes. They're just so damn... insatiable. Though perhaps I shouldn't gripe too much--after all, mayhem wasn't the only thing Trowa is insatiable for...
I give my spotted fur an absentminded lick as I consider his suggestion.
:All right, Trowa. But *after* I take a rest, okay?:
End
Note:
(1) Yes. Cheetahs *do* chirp. Mostly to their cubs.
So? Whaddaya think of my choices for Trowa and Quatre?
Back to 'Running With The Moon'
(:./hope/chasing)
