06-Sep-2000
revised: 20-Sep-2000
Title: The Longest Dream, Part 7
Author: Hope of Dawn
Feedback: C&C appreciated!
Archive: GW Addiction
Hey all--ya gotta love the Labor Day weekend. It gives ya lots of time to write! (well, it does if you're me and you're stuck at a boring job with nothing to do but anyway...) So anywho, here's the next bit--more explanations will come in the chapters after this, don't worry--it's just a matter of figuring out how to write 'em without boring everyone to tears... Fair warning--this hasn't been beta-read very much, so if it's a bit clunky, sorry!
Legal stuff: None of these characters are mine. Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sunrise, and Sotsu Agency, among others--Xenogears belongs to Squaresoft. For time-wasting purposes only and not for profit, so don't sue, 'kay?
Writer's Notes: This ended up more of a little character interlude than anything--though it is setting some stuff up for the future. . . Warnings: slight AU, X-over, shonen-ai, language, violence. All the good stuff! *grin*
{{--like oil-slicked bubbles rising to the surface, an alien presence intruded on his mind, pervasive and polluting. A cold, malevolent Other, it examined the twilight recesses of consciousness minutely, searching for. . .something.
Like the shifting of the tide, he sensed a peaking of the Other's interest. A decision made. He shuddered with an instinctive, helpless dread.
The Other struck.
Dimly through his own mental screams, he heard his companions' anguish as the Other's remorseless power ripped through them, invaded them all. It ripped them apart, searing hell-fire through reawakened nerve endings as it raped their bodies and souls--taking what it needed without mercy; their helpless, frozen shells plundered, harvested like so much meat.
Five minds screamed in unison, providing counterpoint to the shrilling of mechanical alarms on disturbed and broken life-support systems; together combining into a single concerted wail of loss and violation. . . The empty silence he had floated in for so long grew deeper as he fell gratefully away from the pain--a dark, despairing spiral that began to disconnect his anguished mind from a ravaged body. . .
. . .then Light shattered the darkness, drove away the last malignant taint of the Other. A blinding, comforting cocoon of Light that was, in its way, just as alien as the Other--and yet, oddly familiar. Something, a small spark of remembrance in the fading ember of his soul, flickered in recognition of this--an existence free of pain, free of the *then* and the *where* and encompassing all of the *now*. The mechanical alarms were silenced, their broken connections restored. The others, shattered and shuddering, were also drawn past him, into the Light. He felt their minds subside, their pain taken away with undimmed compassion as they were eased into the embrace of a comforting womb outside of time. . .
. . .and dimly, his soul heard a snatch of a long-forgotten lullaby. Barely a memory, wrapped in childish not-thoughts of food/warmth/sleep/love, the quiet, trickling melody evoked a single question, even as he fell asleep in the Light. . .
. . . Momma. . .?}}
Trowa awoke in a sudden rush, his body tense and trembling in reaction to the unnamed nightmare. Staring at the blank, all-too-familiar sickbay ceiling, he listened to the subdued, harsh rasping of his breathing as his body fought instinctively for more oxygen. His fists clenched, reassuring in their immediate response. He was awake--alive. . .his body was his own again. Trowa used that thought as a mantra, chanting it silently as he listened to his heartbeat slow from its frantic thumping.
Alive. Awake. In control.
He sat up, shivering as the cool night air met sweat-slick skin, and scanned the quiet room. The dim, clean lines of metal shelves and tables gleamed faintly in the moonlight that spilled through the windows; the tiny lights of powered-down life-support machines winked like small eyes from the far corner of the surgical unit. The hallway outside was quiet, and only the muted night sounds of the desert filtered in through an open window. Brushing back sleep-tangled hair from his eyes, his darkened green eyes turned to his five companions' sleeping forms. It was a small, private weakness, but he needed this. Needed to confirm with his own eyes that this wasn't another dream born of delirium; that their long frozen confinement was truly over.
Quatre slept still and quiet in the next bed, his brow furrowed in a little frown as he breathed steadily. Trowa smoothed a light, fleeting touch over the pale flesh of one shoulder, bared above the covers. A tiny smile bloomed briefly across his features as Quatre mumbled and pulled up the blankets in response to the chilly touch; wrapping himself up so thoroughly that only the tousled mop of blond hair could be seen. Even in sleep, Quatre's nesting instincts came through. . .
In the bed on the far side of Quatre, Wufei lay motionless under a single thin sheet. His breathing was light and regular, his countenance as serene as a joro statue. Even so, Trowa hesitated to assume the Chinese pilot was asleep. It was equally possible that Wufei was in a state of deep meditation, and completely alert to his surroundings. Both states of consciousness looked identical to an outside observer--a fact that had caused the death of many an OZ soldier in the past. However, irregardless of whether Wufei was asleep or in a meditative trance, Trowa was not about to wake him; either way, the Chinese pilot would not be appreciative of the interruption.
Heero's bed against the far wall was empty--Trowa's emerald gaze picked him out from the shadows, reading quietly in a stiff-backed chair next to his partner's bed. Duo slept restlessly, heedless of the gleaming lines of IV tubes coiled around his arm. His wiry form was curled up tightly under the covers as he twitched in uneasy dreams. Despite his earlier little escapade (or perhaps because of it), the braided pilot had suffered several setbacks to his progress, and still suffered from lingering hibernation sickness. His continued weakness had made Duo irritable, and the energetic ex-Preventer chafed at the doctor's restrictions. However, Heero had without words or questions become quietly protective: enforcing the doctor's orders, providing distractions to occupy Duo's pent-up energy, and maintaining a constant vigil as the boy slept. Trowa approved; he would have done the same.
Heero glanced up from his sheaf of computer printouts as Trowa slipped out of the bed.
Trowa gave a one-word answer to Heero's unvoiced inquiry. "Recon." The taller boy pulled a loose tunic out from a nearby chest, tugging it on over his head. Eyes gleaming with approval, Heero nodded. The papers in front of him rustled quietly as he returned to his reading.
Pushing unsuccessfully at the sleep-touseled hair falling forward into his face, Trowa padded noiselessly on bare feet out the door. The hallways were dimmed and silent, their only occupant a distant guard yawning at his post. Trowa faded into the shadows and let the guard's sleepy gaze flicker past, then moved quietly down another intersecting hallway. At this hour of the morning, very few people were awake; Trowa moved unobstructed through the base, memorizing the layout as he went. The Mobile Suit hangars were busy, spilling a blaze of light and sound into the corridor as he passed. Trowa paused briefly to look--noting the grime-encrusted forms of the five Gundams as well as the gleaming ranks of their benefactors' Mobile Suits. Even at this early hour mechanics swarmed over the docked Suits like busy worker bees, conducting tests, maintenance, and cleaning away the accumulated grime of the desert. He could pick out Heavyarms' distinctive silhouette to the rear; but with no way to approach unseen, he throttled down the urge to check out the damage to his Gundam in favor of continuing his reconnaissance.
Mentally, he checked off the areas as he passed: the kitchens, dark and quiet; the crew quarters, with their bunks of snoring soldiers; service areas, computer access points. The only area he was unable to penetrate was Operations--the guards there were doubled and very much alert, and Trowa caught a glimpse of a blue-and-white clad individual working quietly at some simulations through a half-open door. He stopped briefly, searching through his memory of the long list of people that had been introduced to them.
Sigurd. Nominal second-in-command of the Aveh military, after Bartholomew Fatima. Aveh's Head of Intelligence, if common gossip was to be believed. Trowa watched for a moment, then moved on. After the incident with Duo, Trowa wasn't sure how well-received this little expedition of his would be. . .better simply to avoid the issue. Slipping down two more darkened corridors and through a service entrance, he blinked in surprise as he found himself on an outside rooftop, his face slapped by a sudden rush of cool, dry desert air.
The desert moon shining above was full and bright--and utterly alien. Trowa stiffened as he took in the gleaming face above him, devoid of its familiar pattern of light and dark splotches. Instead, the moon was larger by about a third than the one he was used to, and brighter. A faint pattern of lines had replaced the familiar craters, and only a few small pockmarks marred this moon's gleaming surface. His breath hissed between his teeth involuntarily in startlement.
A low, rumbling chuckle floated out of the shadows in response.
Trowa spun towards the sound, crouching defensively. After a split-second's searching, he picked out the large frame of a man sitting on top of a jumble of crates. A flaming red mane of hair flared defiantly around the broad, strong-featured face--and an amused gaze gleamed in the darkness as it watched the pilot react. After a long, tense moment, Trowa relaxed. The--person, whoever he was, lounged at his ease on the crates with no signs of taking offense or calling for help. Trowa bowed incrementally.
"Sorry to disturb you," he murmured. The stranger's eyes widened slightly in the dimness.
"You're one of the old ones Uzuki dug out of the ice fields, aren't you?" A brief pause. "Thought you guys didn't understand Lambspeak." The bass rumble of the stranger's voice was curious but detached, as if the answer had little importance.
"After a month or so with nothing to do but sleep and listen, one tends to learn things." Trowa gave a small, ironic smile from the shadows. "I'm a quick study."
"Apparently." The muscular stranger sat in relaxed silence for a moment, watching something out of Trowa's field of vision from his perch. He dug briefly in a pocket, bringing out a small cylinder. The flare of a match lit up the broad planes of his face as he lit the cylinder, highlighting vivid green skin and delineating heavily-muscled forearms briefly. The pungent, slightly acrid scent wafted past Trowa as the man inhaled, then blew out a thin stream of smoke. "You smoke?"
Trowa shook his head. "No." He cocked his head, considering--the man seemed to be inclined to talk, and didn't appear to be anyone official. Possibly an avenue worth pursuing. The stranger shifted in surprise as Trowa climbed easily up the jumble of stacked crates and sat a small distance away. "What is it?"
The green-skinned man rolled the cylinder absently between thumb and forefinger. "This? It's reik. Nasty habit--but great for relieving stress."
Trowa considered that bit of information. "May I?"
The stranger shrugged and handed it over. "Your funeral."
Trowa took a brief, tentative drag--aware of the stranger's eyes on him, watching for a reaction. The smoke had a deeply herbal bite to it; Trowa's eyebrows quirked as he felt it sear his throat and stimulate his system. It didn't appear to be harmful, though--and after a short evaluation, he decided he liked the slight stinging alertness the reik induced. "Not bad." White teeth flashed in the dimness as the other man grinned and dug out a second cylinder.
"Tough guy, huh?"
Trowa shrugged one shoulder, slipping easily into the 'casually macho' mode that seemed to be universal among soldiers and mercs. "Not especially." He took another drag. "So. What exactly are you?"
The green-skinned man stiffened briefly, then relaxed with a low, sardonic chuckle. "You always this direct?" His tone was lightly amused--but with a defensive undertone.
Trowa met his gaze levelly. "No point in ignoring the obvious. Not too many green-skinned, red-haired people where I come from. Didn't mean any harm in it, though."
"Ah." The man leaned back and smoked silently for a moment. "I'm a demihuman--a mutant. Name's Rico--Rico Banderas. You?"
Trowa sat quietly, letting his relaxed posture deflect the tension. "Trowa Barton. Gundam pilot."
"'Gundam--oh, you mean Gear pilot." Trowa shrugged, not bothering to correct him. "You come from Solaris originally, then?" the stranger asked.
"No--from Earth," Trowa replied. He waited, senses alert, for the response that would either confirm or deny his suspicions.
"Earth? Never heard of it." The man--Rico--casually flicked off some ash onto the dented surface of a nearby crate. The green-eyed pilot's shoulders slumped as he registered the complete lack of recognition in the answer. His gaze was drawn back up to that beautifully alien moon. He'd suspected before that they had been lost further than they knew--but here was the proof, harsh and beautiful. The last shred of hope dropped away. Space-based colonies did not have moons.
"No. . .I guess you wouldn't have," he murmured, feeling an unaccustomed pang of loss.
Rico leaned forward, watching something below intently. Trowa followed his line of sight--and picked out distant, shadowy forms moving over a nearby sand dune. "Enemies?"
Shadows rippled over defined muscles as the larger man relaxed again, leaning back. "Nah--kids." Trowa looked over in surprise. "Demihuman refugee kids, playing. Some of 'em are naturally nocturnal; parents need their sleep, so I keep an eye on 'em when I can. It's pretty safe here, but still. . ." He shrugged.
"Hm." Listening more intently, Trowa could pick out the distant shouts of children at play. He fiddled with the papery cylinder of reik contemplatively, arms braced loosely on the raised edge of the roof.
"So, is it true?" Rico suddenly asked curiously.
"Is what true?"
"What people are saying." The man looked up at the star-washed night sky. "That you came from the stars."
"Possible. Hard to tell, really--since we don't really know where 'here' is," Trowa answered quietly. "No one has really told us much of anything."
"Ah-" Between the stony face and the deep shadows, it was hard to tell--but he thought Rico looked a bit sheepish. "Sorry. It's mostly Dr. Uzuki's orders, really--I think he didn't want anything causing additional stress. You guys were out of it for quite a while, from what I hear."
"it wasn't a whole lot of fun," Trowa allowed.
"Yeah. I probably shouldn't be askin' you stuff like this, really--Uzuki'd kick my butt if he found out."
Trowa looked at his green-skinned companion assessingly, noting gleaming silver lines of battle scars and the enormous bulk of pure muscle. As Duo would put it--'built like a brick shithouse'. "I find that hard to believe."
Rico shook his head. "Thanks for the compliment, but don't let the Doc fool ya. Underneath that mild manner and geeky glasses is one hell of a fighter--probably the best I've ever seen. Even Fei can't beat him in the hand-to-hand stuff all the time, and if Uzuki gets his hands on a sword. . .?" He whistled softly. ". . .watch out. He's no one to mess with. I'm tough and all--but those two are in a class all their own."
Trowa filed that information away for future reference. "I see."
The green-skinned man grinned. "I doubt it--but you will."
"So why are you here?" Trowa asked. "You don't seem to be the soldier type."
"Me?" Rico thought for a moment. "Got nowhere else to be, really. Lots of places hate mutants, and Nortune--my hometown--was pretty much destroyed a couple of years ago. Sorta fell into the habit of tagging along with Fei; and when he left for the mountains, I ended up here, helpin' Bart and his crew with the refugees. Lots of the mutant refugees feel more comfortable if there's another mutant around to help with things."
Trowa nodded slowly. "So, Fei is. . . was in charge?"
Rico frowned in consideration. "I'm not sure he was 'in charge', really. . .it was more that things just sorta revolved around him. Wherever he was, things changed--for better or for worse. Ya know?" Trowa nodded, thinking of a certain Wing pilot who ended up a catalyst for both war and peace. "But while Fei's a cool guy, and a kick-ass fighter, the kid's definitely got some. . . .issues." The green-skinned man looked over at Trowa, as if suddenly remembering he was talking to a stranger. "Sorry--can't really say much about that, though--that stuff ain't mine to tell."
"Ah. Understandable."
"Hmp." Rico grunted softly, grateful that the subject was dropped. They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the *chirring* of night insects. After a few minutes, Trowa stirred and crushed out the last embers of his reik.
"I'd better get back. Don't want them to miss me."
Rico stretched. "Snuck out, huh? Don't blame ya."
"Aa." Trowa leapt lithely down from his perch, landing soundlessly on the ground. After a cautious look around, he cracked the service door open and paused briefly. "Thanks for the smoke."
"Don't mention it." Rico watched the lanky young man leave as silently as he had arrived. An odd, vaguely humorous realization came to mind; if the others were anything like this intense young man, they wouldn't be content in their sickbay confinement for long. Citan Uzuki was going to have his hands full.
Taking another deep drag of reik, he smirked up at the stars. "I'm sure I'll be seeing ya again."
End Part Seven
(:./hope/dream7)
