31-May-2001

*pops up and looks around* Hi everyone--I'm ba~ack! And I've got a brand new story! Actually, it's the first story in a trilogy I have planned, but it can stand by itself, I think. It's a different style of fic for me, so I'd love to hear what everyone thinks... Anyway, on to the fic!

Title: The Prince
Author: Hope of Dawn
Feedback: C&C appreciated!
Archive: GW Addiction at http://www.gwaddiction.com
Writer's Notes: I've never seen this pairing done before, so I thought I'd give it a whirl. Given that there are no details available on the OZ, the Specials, and how they function, I've sort of reinvented them, using a combination of historical and modern military protocol to keep the 'feel' of the Romefeller/OZ/Alliance structure. Warnings: profanity. Lots of it!
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?

The Prince by Hope of Dawn

The first time I saw him, I hated him.

The day was a hot, humid, miserable one. It was a late summer afternoon at the Tshabong AFB (located at the ass end of Africa, for those who actually care about such things), which meant it was hot enough to fry eggs on the asphalt in the shade. Going out into the noonday sun was an invitation for spontaneous combustion.

I was working on an overhaul of the prototype Aries we'd received earlier in the week when I saw him. And not just me, either. Every grease monkey in the place stopped and stared at the man striding down the tarmac. Not that that's much of a surprise. Even in OZ, it's not every day you see an officer sporting a glorified silver bucket on top of his head.

He walked into the hangar, accompanied by a few other Aries pilots. All of them were six foot plus of unyielding aristocratic arrogance. Nothing dared mar the shine of their gleaming boots or the pristine correctness of their high-collared uniforms; dust seemed to swerve away before it could even *think* about settling on such tailored magnificence. In comparison, we were a bunch of sooty serfs in grease-stained trousers and rolled-up sleeves.

As the new arrival surveyed the cluttered hangar with a faintly interested air, one of the test pilots continued what was evidently the ten-cent tour.

"This is one of the main hangars, Sir, and these are the new prototype Aries we'll be taking up. As you can see, everything is top of the line." If he got any more deferential, he was going to hurt something. "From what I hear, these babies are hot, sir. Faster than anything we've flown before. And by tomorrow, we'll be putting them through their paces." He waved an all-encompassing hand at the gleaming trio of Mobile Suits, ignoring us completely. Typical. To an OZ pilot, anything without a pair of wings on the collar was effectively invisible.

Lt. Bucket-Head, however, had apparently never heard that rule. Used to being ignored, the other mechanics stiffened belatedly under his inspection, snapping their heels together and saluting. I didn't bother. Instead, I picked up a greasy rag and began to wipe my hands as he threw a hard-eyed glare my way--no doubt trying to intimidate me. Obviously they hadn't told him how pointless that was. This was *my* turf.

Finally he gave up, and turned away to inspect the Suits. He ran a gloved hand over gleaming surfaces, tugged on missile mountings, tested cockpit seals. I would have been impressed if his checks weren't so damn redundant. Not to mention condescending--he acted like my boys didn't even know basic maintenance.

Walking over to the Aries I had been working on, he leaned in as if to inspect the open fuselage. I promptly leaned against the hull, arms folded, and blocked his view. He straightened, and I'd be willing to bet good money that he had his eyebrows arched behind that stupid mask. If you've ever worked for Romefeller, you know the look. That whole aristocratic 'You dare challenge *me*?' face.

His voice was deep and rich--of course. "Is there a problem, Lieutenant...?"

"Otto," I snapped. "And yes, there's a problem. I'm trying to work here, *Sir*. So with all due respect, go inspect something else."

There was some muttering from the pilot peanut gallery. Someone--another new guy, I'll bet--snapped, "Do you know who you're talking to, Lieutenant? Show some respect!"

I snorted. "Kid, I don't care if he's General Khushrenada himself. I just spent over three hours getting these thrusters calibrated the way I want them, and I'm not about to let some ham-handed pilot waltz in and fuck up my Aries just because he was bored."

"Your Aries?" Lt. Bucket-head asked softly. The tension level kicked up another notch.

"Yeah. In this hangar, it's my Aries." I stared at him levelly, tapping a boot against the concrete floor. "Once it's out on the tarmac, then it becomes your Aries. But until then, I suggest you stay out of my way, and let me do my job." I bared my teeth at him in something only remotely resembling a smile.

"I... see." I could almost hear the wheels clicking behind that mask. Probably wondering if I was insubordinate enough to start a fight. "Then you'd better get back to it, Lieutenant." He walked toward the open hangar doors with unruffled dignity, the rest of the pilots scrambling in his wake.

I hawked and spat, unseen by that arrogant retreating back. "Yes, *Sir*." He didn't deign to notice. However, if looks could kill, the glares sent my way by the other pilots would have had me six feet under. Apparently I didn't show the respect due His Magnificence. Big surprise.

The rest of the crew erupted into a hum of exited conversation as the last of the pilots left. Refusing to be drawn into the frenzy of speculation, I turned back to work on the Aries. I was elbow deep in coils of multicolored wiring, recalibrating the thruster for a test burn, when an amused comment floated my way.

"We all realize you've got balls of tritanium, Lieutenant, but do you realize who you just cocked off to?" I glanced over my shoulder, scowling. My crew chief grinned, white teeth gleaming in his dark-featured face, and wiped a hand over his forehead in an exaggerated expression of relief.

"If you've got something to say, Wakely, say it," I snapped. "I've got work to do."

He continued to grin wryly and shook his head. "Only you, Lieutenant, would tell the Lightning Baron to fuck off."

My hands stilled. "Lightning who?"

Wakely leaned back against the orange-patched bulk of a nearby forklift, and crossed his arms. "Come on, Lieutenant. You can't tell me you haven't heard about the Lightning Baron. Lieutenant Marquise is only the hottest up and coming pilot in the Specials. Word has it that he's on the fast track to the top--and that he and Khushrenada are like this." He crossed two grimy fingers, and smirked.

I continued to reattach the tangled wiring. "Do you think I care, Sergeant?"

"Dammit, Lieutenant--with all due respect, you're cruising for a bruisin'!" Wakely snapped, his sly good humor fading in the face of my indifference. "Marquise is our superior officer *and* the base's new golden boy. One word from him could ruin your career, and you sit there and damn near order him out of the hangar! Don't you even realize the kind of shit you're in?"

I completed the bypass circuit, and grunted in satisfaction as the motherboard began to hum under my hands. Carefully bundling the loose loops of cable out of the way, I resealed the access hatch and turned around.

"My career, Wakely?" The stocky crew chief stiffened and stepped back hastily as I brushed past him. I wondered idly what he had seen behind the blankness of my eyes. "Whatever made you think I give a flying fuck about my career?"

I should have been a damn prophet.

No less than two days later, Lt. Zechs Marquise crashed and burned that very same Aries against the unyielding red scrub of the Kalahari desert. No one bothered to give us the official word when it happened, obviously, but we all saw the lights and sirens heading off down the airfield. By then the story of my little confrontation had made the rounds, and I felt their eyes on me as the fire trucks screamed by. We all knew who was due to go up that day. It didn't take a genius to figure out what they were thinking.

Lt. Marquise lived, though.

It was probably for the best. If he had died, I'm pretty sure I would have been lynched in fairly short order. His crew chief was questioned as a matter of course, but as the officer in charge, final accountability fell to me. Add to that the fact that I was the one who done most of the calibration and testing of that particular Aries, and no one was surprised when I was brought before a board of inquiry. Ostensibly, they were questioning me about my 'work' on the Aries now scattered across several miles of desert. At least, that's what they said. Their squinty, inbred little eyes told me the truth. All they were really trying to decide was whether I had committed simple incompetence or deliberate sabotage. Either way, they had already decided my guilt.

After all, it was inconceivable that a superior pilot like Marquise, with his shiny new rank and spotless record, could have been responsible for the crash. I, on the other hand, was nothing more than an insubordinate mustang--an officer who had worked his way up from the ranks of the enlisted. Only my skill at all things mechanical had gotten me this far without a discharge or worse. As it was, my record was spotty enough to get me a not-so-discreet MP watchdog, and effectively shunned by the rest of the base.

As the inquiry dragged on and the forensics team continued to sift through the wreckage, I knew the powers-that-be had already made their decision. Innocent until proven guilty? Only if you're blue-blooded enough to warrant it, according to OZ.

So I went about my work, and waited. After a week, I started drinking. I was off-duty, most of the time. Off-duty and steadily working my way towards a court martial. If anyone deserved a drink, it was me. So far I'd been doing a fairly decent job, if the number of beer bottles littering my quarters was any indication. Every last one of them a good dark German beer, none of that yellow American piss. I'd thought about switching to something harder to speed up the process, but decided against it. It was almost a pact we had, me and my beer--a slow drunken slide towards forgetfulness. A sacred ritual performed every weekend, in which I offered up my self-respect and my dignity in exchange for oblivion.

I always remembered in the morning, though. Had it shoved in my face by the MP that dogged my footsteps; shoved home by every 'yessir' and 'nossir' that passed my lips as I was cross-examined in that hot, stale little room. And every night, I drank a little more.

Three days later, sometime in between fucking late in the evening and too damn early in the morning, I reached the end of my stash. My face was reflected in the amber glass, distorted and wavering, as I rolled my last bottle between my hands. I contemplated the last swig remaining in the bottom--and saw my future in a single moment of half-drunken clarity. A future that consisted of a dark progression of days, hot and immutable, until I was turned into an official scapegoat. Then they would court-martial me, break my legs, and leave me in the desert as a sacrifice to aristocratic infallibility.

The realization made me angry. I couldn't care less about Lt. Bucket-head, but I had my pride. I wasn't just your average grease monkey--I was the best god-damned mechanical mind the Specials had. Hell, if I hadn't been under suspicion, I would have been assigned to handle the damn post-crash forensics myself!

If I had sabotaged the Aries, Marquise would be dead. I couldn't care less if they drummed me out of the Specials for insubordination, but I'd be damned if I was going to sit back and be court-martialed for being an *incompetent* saboteur.

I swallowed the last lukewarm mouthful of beer, and used it to stiffen my spine. The officers' quarters here were ramshackle clapboard buildings. It was a running joke on base about how flimsy they were, and my fellow officers certainly found it easy enough to sneak out unseen for a little unscheduled R&R. For me it would be even easier, since I didn't have to leave the base. All I had to do was make it as far as the hangar.

My grand escape turned out to be pathetically easy. With a judicious application of force, the grate on the window of the men's room was easy to remove. My exit was less-than-dignified as I wiggled through the narrow splintery opening, but the MP outside (bored out of his mind and more than half-asleep), never noticed. Intimate knowledge of the base patrols, gained from too many double-shifts, came in handy as I scuttled around downwind of the dogs. With some desultory skulking in the shadows and a quick sprint across the tarmac, I was at the appropriate hangar.

The examination of the shattered Aries was being conducted in a secured hangar, similar to the ones that normally house the prototypes. There were no windows to the outside, and only one access besides the big main doors, but very little additional security. That was fine by me--less chance of being interrupted.

The door had an electronic lock--one five-minute, sweaty-fingered cross-wiring job later, the lock buzzed open. I flicked a switch as I entered, and the harsh fluorescent lights obediently snapped on overhead, illuminating the interior. I stopped and stared for a moment. I had been on investigative teams before, but the sheer number of broken and burnt parts that filled every inch of the stained concrete floor staggered me. Almost nothing was recognizable, even to me, and a cold trickle ran down my spine at the realization of how fast Marquise must have been going when he crashed. It was amazing he survived at all. Then I shook my head, brushing off my moment of awe. Squaring my shoulders, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

Six hours and several degrees of eyestrain later, I had the beginnings of my answer. Not enough for any real evidence, but enough anomalies to make me wonder. I mentally damned whoever was leading the mechanical investigation. They obviously had been working under the assumption that the crash had been caused by sabotage, MY sabotage, and missed a great deal. Nasty things, assumptions. The fact that I knew that wasn't the case, combined with the fact that there wasn't a square inch of this particular Aries I didn't know, inside and out, allowed me to see the little things they had missed... and they had missed a lot.

The preliminary inspection showed no sign of anything other than crash-related damage. There were no worn parts, no suspicious scoring. However, a long, splintered crack near the aft fuselage made me wonder--the pattern was inconsistent with the other fractures caused by the crash. On a hunch, I took a sample of the alloy and began to run it through a series of tests. Wrapped up in the riddle laid out around me, I didn't notice until too late that my cover had been blown.

I don't know what gave me away--a crack of light at the door, a camera I hadn't noticed--but suddenly there were MPs everywhere, surrounding me with guns drawn, hollering at me to surrender. I didn't even think about resisting. I'm a grease monkey, not a black ops terrorist. I dropped the wrench I was holding faster than a red-hot poker, and started reaching for the sky.

Within seconds the place was swarming. My face was pressed to the concrete as my arms were wrenched back and handcuffed. White-coated technicians scurried around the laid-out parts, yelling at clumsy-footed MPs as they tried to figure out what I'd tampered with. A hard-soled boot slammed 'accidentally' into my side. I recognized the MP that had been on duty outside my quarters. He looked pissed.

For a change, I wasn't angry. I had taken a gamble and lost. I had my suspicions, but not enough hard evidence to back them up. As I was manhandled to my feet and dragged off for questioning, I consoled myself with the fact that they probably wouldn't even bother to add 'tampering with evidence' to the list of charges. It was pretty small potatoes considering what they were gonna nail me for already.

Subtlety, I decided later, was not in the Alliance dictionary. We'd been going around in circles for several hours now, playing the MPs' little game: they would ask me a question, I'd give them the most smart-ass answer I could think of, and then they'd bounce me off the walls for a while in an attempt to make me tell them what they wanted to hear. Not the truth, of course. That had no relevancy here.

Apparently, though, I had worn them out. The latest batch of inquisitors had stomped off about twenty minutes ago, leaving me to stare at the puke-green walls of the interrogation room as they rethought their 'strategy'. I shifted in my chair. My hands were still cuffed together behind my back, but my feet remained free. I resisted the temptation to pace, however. I wasn't entirely certain of my balance at the moment, and my face had been slammed against the floor enough for one night, thank you. Instead I shut my eyes, trying not to think about how damned *tired* I was of this whole bloody mess.

The door clicked open once more. I sighed, opening my eyes in order to give my new interrogator my best condescending sneer... only to choke in surprise as I saw Lt. Bucket-Head standing there, giving me the once-over. My fledgling sneer was instantly transformed into a full-fledged hating stare.

I'd never seen the man again after our one encounter, and had heard only base gossip about the crash. So it was with a certain amount of vindicative glee that I realized Lt. Marquise hadn't survived the crash unscathed. His lower forearm was encased in a light cast and bound up in a sling, and there was a stiffness to his movements that implied a few other injuries as well. I set my jaw, and let my glare do the talking for me. I hope you hurt like hell, you arrogant sonuvabitch.

The mask made it hard to tell, but he seemed unmoved by my hostility. Instead, he sat down in the straight-backed chair across from me, his back to the mirrored window. Leaning back, he tapped a white-gloved finger contemplatively on the scratched metal surface of the table.

"You're an interesting man, Sir Otto," he remarked casually, as if he was discussing the weather. I blinked in surprise, and couldn't help my reflexive glance up at the video cameras that monitored the room. Lt. Marquise smirked slightly, reading my glance. "I have... requested to be unobserved while I am questioning you. I assure you, the cameras may still be on, but they are both unmonitored and unrecorded--for the moment."

I stayed silent, thoughts racing. Like most of my fellow officers, I was a member of the Order of the Zodiac. The Specials were our training ground, right under the noses of the Alliance military we ostensibly served. However, the oaths of service we had taken to the Alliance were worthless. No matter how much as I disliked the aristocratic arrogance and secrecy endemic to the organization, my fealty was already pledged to OZ, first and foremost. It was a distinct and immutable part of my life--and one I hated.

By invoking my OZ rank, Marquise had moved the game to a whole new level. A level in which, as a Baron to my Knight, he held a great deal more power. Sneaky bastard.

I inclined my head, my glare never faltering. "My lord Baron," I replied, tacitly acknowledging the change in venue. Let him play his power games. This particular nut had been a long time hardening.

Those lips quirked in a slightly satisfied smile. "Just so. Now, Sir Otto. Why don't you tell me exactly what you were doing in that hangar?" I stayed silent. Mouthing off would not deter this man's coolly calculated questioning the way it had with the Alliance.

"After all, you're already under suspicion for sabotage, as well as possible charges of insubordination, incompetence, obstruction, and so on and so forth. Trying to get the charges lifted by eliminating the evidence? That was a rather stupid move, don't you think?"

I shrugged as much as the handcuffs would allow. "Then I guess I'm just not as smart as you, my lord."

"Ah. Funny you should say that." Marquise straightened, leaning forward with an air of anticipation. "I've read your records, Sir Otto. Your files describe you as an insubordinate and sullen officer; a problem child who happens to be a mechanical whiz as well as a borderline alcoholic. But the one thing they did not say you were, was stupid." His verbal trap snapped shut. "Given your recent actions, I found such an inconsistency puzzling. That is, until I had a look at the evidence they found of your 'tampering'."

My stony silence continued. Let him speculate all he wanted. In the end, it wouldn't change anything.

"No trace of explosives, or indeed any chemicals that might have been used to destroy evidence. No attempts at escape, even given ample opportunity. Several pieces of equipment, apparently used by you for unknown purposes. And a double handful of scribbled notes in your handwriting, scattered about the hangar." He paused, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "In my experience, criminals bent on destroying evidence don't generally jot down little notes to themselves in the process."

I raised my eyebrows, and said mockingly, "Perhaps I was writing down my terrorist rhetoric for everyone to see and admire."

"In a near-illegible scrawl on oil-stained bits of notepaper? I hope you have more of a sense of posterity than that," Marquise shot back. "No, Sir Otto--I don't think you were there to tamper with the evidence at all. I think you were looking for something... and that makes me wonder exactly what were you trying to find."

"Well, whatever it was, I obviously didn't find it, now did I?" I snapped, wincing as bruised ribs gave a twinge of protest.

"No. You didn't," Marquise replied, his voice dangerously soft. The chair screeched along the floor as he stood. "But something tells me you will."

That was far from the final word on the subject. Even for someone with Marquise's connections, yanking someone out of the stockade in order to let them investigate their own supposed crime takes quite a bit of work. I'm pretty sure that phrases like 'security risk' and 'Are you nuts?!' cropped up repeatedly in the course of *that* particular conversation. In the end, though, his High-and-Mightiness had his way.

So I found myself back in the hangar, elbow deep in sooty grease and puzzles. I also found myself thrown in with the twitchiest and most ham-handed forensics team it had ever been my misfortune to work with. Their incompetence was amazing, even for the Alliance.

"Spengler! Where the fuck is my three-eighths drill?" I hollered, then grimaced sourly as I saw the technician flinch and drop the tool in question. The forensics crew had become as nervous as hell ever since they were ordered to work with me, the supposed saboteur. Their skittishness had made the last few days into nothing but one accident after another, and did nothing to sweeten my temper.

I pried delicately at a flaking and fragile metal plate from the twisted remains of the fuselage with both hands, swearing continuously under my breath. "motherfucking... Airman! Give me a hand here!" I shot a glare at the owl-eyed young man dithering over my shoulder. "Don't just stand there, Robbins--hold this edge steady."

"Um... ah, yessir!" He reached in to help, and the sleeve of his coat flopped in my way and obscured my vision. My fingers, sweaty from the heat, lost their grip on the metal.

"Shit--grab it, Robbins!" As if in slow motion, I saw the airman make a fumble-fingered grab for the falling edge of the plate, catching it... only to have the heat-weakened metal disintegrate under his incautious grip.

Robbins began to stutter useless apologies, his hands cradling the remains of my evidence. I scooped the fragile shards of metal into a specimen tray with infinite care.

"Get out."

Robbins' voice cracked nervously. "Sir?"

"I. Gave. You. An. Order." Hot fury rose up, grabbed me by the throat. Didn't these imbeciles realize that this was my *life* they were dicking with? "Get out! All of you!" They scuttled like cockroaches as I yelled. I saw the MP stationed outside the door stiffen, his hand on his sidearm--and didn't care. "GET THE FUCK OUT!"

The door slammed. I was alone in the empty, ticking silence of the hangar, with only the pieced-apart remains of the Aries watching as I folded in on myself. "... out..."

I slumped there for a moment, just resting. Then I set my jaw, pulled myself back up, and continued hunting for my answers.

The day went on, hot and sullen. That evening found me sagging in front of a wheezing and rusty fan as I squinted down a microscope, trying to analyze only partially-visible cracks in an assortment of metal shards. I sighed and rubbed my eyes. Tiny stress fractures, just like all the others. But were they caused by the crash, or something else? Dragging a sleeve over my sweaty forehead, I bent back down to the eyepiece.

The door opened with a screech, and at the sound of boots approaching, I assumed that one or more of the technicians had finally mustered up the nerve to return. "Hand me the A26 specimen slide," I said, waving a hand in the general direction I remembered it being without looking up. "I need to compare these."

There was a pause--then the sound of a brief search. The slides were set down on the stained metal counter top. "Here," said the unmistakable voice of Zechs Marquise.

My shoulders stiffened. Perversely, I refused to look up. He wasn't the only one who could hide his face. "What the hell are you doing here?" I asked. Then added a belated, "Sir."

"Just checking on your progress, Lieutenant," came the smooth reply. "Especially since I am given to understand that you've been terrorizing the forensics team that was already on site."

I snorted. "Forensics team, my ass. A bunch of junkyard mechanics would be more useful."

"I see. Well, then it appears I have to rely on you for answers. Any luck so far?"

I was already in a foul temper, and Marquise's insistent questioning proved to be one straw too many. I spun around and let him have it with both barrels.

"Damn it, Marquise! You think I'm playing a fucking game here? Well, I'm sorry, but Colonel Mustard did not throw a candlestick into your Aries in the library! I have several tons of scrap here that used to be the most advanced Mobile Suit I have ever seen, Lieutenant, and it's going to take time before I can even guess as to what happened, much less give you an answer!" Despite my best efforts to stay angry, the weariness seeped back into my voice. I raked a hand through my hair. "So just--back off, all right? You'll get your answers--but only when I know they're the right ones."

After a minute he said, "You're right. I'm sorry."

The heat and stress was obviously getting to me, because I could have sworn I just heard Lt. Bucket-head apologize. No doubt about it; I was starting to hallucinate. "What?"

His jaw set, he repeated, "I said I'm sorry. I was pushing too hard."

I asked dazedly, "Why?"

He frowned. "Because the Specials need these new Aries functional. Because I don't want to see any other pilots injured or killed." He shrugged, then added, "And maybe because I've never lost control of an aircraft before. I'd rather not repeat the experience."

Shaking my head, I interrupted him, "No. I mean--why are you apologizing?"

"Why am I--?" He cocked his head at me quizzically. We regarded each other in mutual incomprehension for a long moment.

I was the first to turn away.

"Never mind." Turning back to the microscope, I swapped the slides. "Unless you're prepared to make yourself useful, Lieutenant, I suggest you leave. I've got work to do."

"What do you need me to do?" Came the immediate reply. Already off-balance from our earlier exchange, his comment knocked me for a loop. My befuddlement must have shown in my face, because he added, "If you don't mind that I only have one free hand to give, that is. At the moment I'm on light duty, so I have the time--and it looks like you need the help."

Do? What *could* a pilot do? It was a question that had never been asked. Alliance military protocol, combined with the rigid stratification of rank nurtured by OZ, ensured that pilots and other higher-ranking officers never soiled themselves with anything so menial as mechanical grunt work. That was for underlings and lower ranks; those blue-bloods not quite good enough to lead Romefeller's vision of aristocratic supremacy.

What was Baron Marquise playing at? I fumbled for an answer. "Ah... that pile of scrap over there. I need it sorted out into separate piles of metal, glass, and synthetics." It took a monumental effort to keep the surprise off my face as he nodded his head, dropped his immaculate uniform coat over a chair, and headed over to the massive pile of parts. As it was, I'm sure I was bit wild-eyed.

I watched for a moment as Marquise began to sort through the stack one-handed, heedless of the grimy soot that flaked off everywhere. Then I shrugged, and turned back to my work. Once he got tired of playing detective, he'd be gone soon enough.

I was wrong.

After a week of sweaty, painstaking work, he was still there. Not constantly, of course. Unlike myself, the man still had other duties, not to mention tending to basic things like sleeping and eating. Still, he always came back.

As for me, I remained my usual, polite self. Sixteen-hour days take their toll on a person, though, and after a while, my potshots no longer held the same venom. I was dead tired, and acutely aware that time was running out. Only my own damned stubbornness kept me going, trying to prove the Alliance wrong.

"I'm missing something." I scrubbed grimy hands over my face, trying to rub away my weariness. "It's right there. I know it is... " Pacing around the shattered cockpit module, I smoothed a hand over the dented metal. "C'mon, baby... what's your secret? What aren't you telling me?"

"Do you normally talk to inanimate objects?" Marquise quipped as he sauntered in the doorway, coat slung casually over one shoulder.

Without thinking, I snapped, "Of course. That explains why I relate so well to someone who wears a salad bowl on his head."

Marquise paused in mid-step. "Salad bowl?"

I couldn't help it. I had to look. I turned, and had to fight from laughing at the mixture of offended pride and surprise on his face. Waving a hand at the aforementioned headgear, I said, "Salad bowl, ice bucket, spittoon... take your pick. What's the matter? Hasn't anyone ever bother to tell you how stupid that thing looks?"

"Well... not to my *face*," he grumbled.

"Well, I guess I get to be the first. Go me." Giving up on the Aries for the moment, I slid down a nearby support beam, sitting on the cracked and stained concrete floor. A brief moment of curiosity prompted me to ask, "Why do you wear that thing anyway?"

The lieutenant turned away, apparently to study a rather ordinary looking wing fragment. "My face is... rather memorable. It preserves my anonymity."

I snorted rudely. "Bullshit. You could look like Quasimodo and you'd still be less obvious than you are wearing *that* thing."

"I doubt it."

"Then prove it." I challenged. "Take it off, Lieutenant, and prove to me that your oh-so-famous face is more memorable than someone parading around with an ice bucket on his head."

Marquise looked acutely uncomfortable. Before I can enjoy the moment, however, he turned the tables on me. "Why are you so curious?"

I shrugged. "No reason."

He crossed his arms, and stared at me intently. "I think there is. Ever since the first day I walked in here, you've been goading me. Sniping at me, trying to make me lose my temper. Why?"

"I'm allergic to know-it-all pilots," I retorted. "They make me sneeze."

"I doubt that greatly." Marquise had the same look I remembered from the interrogation room. He would keep pushing until he had an answer, one way or another. "Why don't you try the truth?"

To this day I don't know why I told him. Maybe it was because I was tired, and not thinking clearly. Maybe it was years of bottled-up resentment needing an outlet. Or maybe it was simply because no one had ever bothered to ask before. Whatever the reason was, though, I did it. I told him.

"You really want to know? It's jealousy, plain and simple." I laughed bitterly at his surprised look. "What? You thought I wouldn't be able to admit it? I'm not stupid, Lieutenant. Look at you! You're the embodiment of everything I had ever wanted to be."

I looked down at my hands, contemplated the callouses and worn-in grime under the nails. "I was in the Academy once, you know. Not really given a choice in the matter, either; it was expected of me, as a second son." My father's voice echoed in my ears; a deep, rolling German burr, speaking of family pride and a barony won in feudal days. Of glory and honor on the battlefields of Europe. "Not that I minded. Back then, I wanted to join OZ, to be part of the Specials. I wanted to be noble and heroic and to *fly*."

I looked up, trying to see past the shadowed rafters. "I wasn't the smartest recruit, or the most talented. I certainly wasn't the most blue-blooded. Even so, I made it halfway through flight school just by working my ass off. Then, midway through the program, I failed the reaction-time test for pilots by two percentage points. And that was it. No second chances, no margin for error. I was cut from the program."

I glanced over at Marquise. "Do you know what it's like to come *this* close to something you've dreamed of--only to fail? To fall short, because you weren't *quite* good enough?"

He shifted uncomfortably, like he was about to say something. I didn't give him the chance. I didn't want his pity.

"I was grounded, and reassigned to a Suit engineering corps. Despite my failure, I didn't resign my commission--I couldn't dishonor my family name that way. So I stayed, shuffled from base to base, fixing Suits that I would never be allowed to fly."

I squared my shoulders, and looked Marquise straight in the eye. "I may not be talented or pedigreed enough to become one of the OZ elite, but I still have my pride. I won't lie, and pretend that I'm not jealous of every time you get to fly. I won't demean myself by pretending that I don't hate you for being everything I couldn't." I stood up and turned, intending to walk away before I did something I'd regret. "It isn't noble or pretty, but there's your answer, Lieutenant. I hope it makes you happy."

A glint of silver caught my eye, and I glanced over my shoulder--just in time to see Marquise reach up, and slowly pull off his silver mask.

Now, I'd like to point out that normally I don't go around admiring guys. However, Marquise was... different, somehow. Surrounded by damply falling bangs of that white-blonde hair of his, he had an aristocratic, smooth-planed face, classically handsome. It was a face that could stop traffic without even trying.

But it wasn't just his looks that froze me in my tracks and justified the mask. It was his expression. There was a fire banked behind those too-perceptive eyes, and an iron determination in the set of his jaw that didn't belong to a mere OZ lieutenant, or even a pilot. It was something far more implacable; something that said wordlessly--I will not be stopped. As Marquise looked at me with unconscious arrogance, running a hand through disheveled hair--I saw the face of Alexander.

Memorable was an understatement.

Jarred out of my resentment, I searched in vain for something to say as time ticked painfully by. Finally I offered him the only concession I could, served with a half-assed, crooked grin.

"Put that bucket back over your head, Marquise. You're too damn conspicuous without it."

After that, we reached an unspoken kind of truce. One that relied on neither of us mentioning our respective confessions, which was just fine by me.

It was too bad I hadn't made the same amount of progress with the Aries.

"I'm missing something obvious, I just know it." I glared at the blue computer screen with its neat little rows of utterly useless data, resisting the urge to put my fist through it.

"Like what?" asked Marquise. The lieutenant was perched on a pile of replacement armor pieces, flipping through my test results.

"I don't know!" I started to pace, thinking out loud. "Okay. We've established what *didn't* cause the crash. It wasn't the software--diagnostics and simulations come up clean. It wasn't a hack, or a bug--there's no evidence of tampering with the code." I frowned. Software wasn't really my area of expertise, and I had been forced to rely on other, more expert analyses. Analyses that I couldn't double-check myself. "--Insofar as we can tell."

I rapped my knuckles on the black boxes that lay on a workbench, festooned with data cables. "The ADR modules report nothing wrong with navigation, hydraulics, and vernier systems--everything is green-lighted up until the point where we have a catastrophic failure of several critical systems at once."

"I remember that part," Marquise put in dryly.

"Yeah, so you've said." I picked up a fragment of armor plate, and flipped it idly from hand to hand. "Equipment failure didn't cause the crash--there are no signs of defects or breakage that would indicate any such problems. What we *do* have is a very shattered fuselage, right around the auxilary fuel tanks. "

Marquise shrugged. "Probably the result of the explosion and the crash. I was a bit busy at the time, but I do remember the first explosion kicking in from the rear." He dug into a nearby cooler, and tossed me a water bottle as I continued to pace.

"And that's where it doesn't make sense," I replied. Dropping the metal fragment, I caught the bottle one-handed and twisted open the top. "I've found a definite, consistent pattern of micro-fissures spiderwebbing across every single fragment we've recovered from that area. A pattern that does not fit one made by the impact of a crash or a missile, or one caused by an internal explosion. Along with no unusual residue, no odd scoring," I took a swig of the lukewarm water, "that leaves us with... nothing. I'm definitely missing something."

Marquise frowned. "No impact, no explosion, no mechanical defect--and the micro-fissure pattern doesn't resemble anything else?"

I shook my head. "No. It's like the alloy just decided to--" I froze under a sudden realization and finished my sentence in a whisper. "--fall apart. That's it. That's what I was missing. I couldn't find a cause for the crash, because the cause was the Aries itself! It *has* to be the alloy-- it's too thin, not enough tensile strength, heat resistance, or..."

Marquise broke into my excited speculations. "Do you realize what you're saying, Lieutenant?" His voice was carefully neutral--almost too much so. "*If* the alloy is at fault, then there is either a problem in the design specs, or in the construction. You and I have both been over the design specs innumerable times, along with both OZ and Alliance engineers. What is the likelihood that no one noticed this?"

Mutely, I shook my head. Almost none. Such a flaw might have gotten past one set of eyes, or two--but not all of them. A chill ran down my spine as I realized what he was trying to say.

Watching me intently, Marquise finished, "So if it isn't a design flaw, that means that the formula for the alloy was changed deliberately."

"Mein gott," I whispered, collapsing abruptly into a nearby chair. "But that doesn't make sense--they had to know that something like this would happen. Unless..." I looked over to where Marquise sat, thinking about the rumors I'd heard of his test run. "That morning, were you were pushing that Aries faster and harder than specified tolerances?"

He nodded. "That's part of the job. To find out what a Suit can do and what it can't."

"So... with an Aries' normal speeds, the weaker alloy would *probably*--" I accent the word disbelievingly, "--never have collapsed. However, at the greater speeds that these prototypes are capable of, something must have happened to the metal. The weakened alloy fractured around the lines of the fuselage, and..." I didn't bother to add the 'kaboom'. "Question is--why would they change alloys?"

"Be careful, Sir Otto." Marquise's warning was cold and deadly. "Don't forget--all the manufacturers for OZ Mobile Suits are a part of Romefeller. Douglas Industries, in particular, doesn't just build the Aries; it's one of the Alliance's largest contractors. Its influence in Romefeller is... extensive."

I paled, as the reality of what we were playing with hit me like a ton of bricks. I had gotten so focused on finding the truth, of being exempt from the political games around me, that I'd forgotten how dangerous it could be. As a trouble-making lieutenant in the Alliance military, my crimes had been small potatoes. At best, I had been facing a dishonorable discharge--at worst, a general court-martial and possible execution.

But if I blew the whistle on the powers-that-be of Romefeller, I could expect far worse. I had no network of allies, no grand honorable lineage to fall back upon. Romefeller, cloaked in secrecy and Machiavellian manipulations, didn't follow the Geneva convention, didn't give warnings. It just reached out and ruthlessly eliminated any possible threat--including families, friends, and acquaintances, from root to branch. I wouldn't be the only one made to suffer.

My shoulders slumped, and bitterness threatened to strangle me. I had been so close to the truth. So close to finally winning, just for once--and now this. I briefly considered defying fate, and exposing the truth. Then I shook my head, shoved my chair back and headed for the door. My pride could not override the dictates of honor.

"Where are you going?" Marquise asked sharply. I paused, but didn't turn around.

"I'm going to confess, sir."

"What?" The utter confusion in his voice made me smile bitterly.

"That I'm the saboteur. That I caused the crash."

Marquise grabbed my arm from behind, spinning me around. "You--you're just going to give up? What have we been doing all this time, then?"

I threw off his hand angrily. "Trying to save my ass, Sir! But now it's not just my ass anymore, is it, *Baron* Marquise?" I saw the slow, dawning realization in those eyes, and continued, "Don't worry--I'll give them a story they'll believe."

We regarded each other in silent understanding. "It won't be one that I'll believe," he replied quietly. My anger receded.

"You know that doesn't matter," I said, meaning every word. "Not with the games Romefeller plays."

Marquise's face hardened. "Perhaps, but this is my game as well--and I don't concede defeat so easily." Grabbing his uniform coat from a nearby bench, he shrugged into it like it was a suit of armor, fastening buttons with angry fingers. Who knows? In a way, maybe it was. "Give me proof of your suspicions, Sir Otto, evidence I can use, and you will have the allies you need. You have my word on it."

I stared at him warily. He wanted me to trust him now, with all that was at stake? But despite my own suspicions, I couldn't shake the memory of what lay behind that mask... and I found myself wanting to believe him.

Against my better judgment, I nodded curtly. "Fine. You want evidence? You'll get it."

Five days, fourteen hours, and innumerable cups of black sludge pretending to be coffee later, I had the answers he wanted.

One-hundred thirty-something individually tagged bits of evidence. Test results, metallurgical analysis, tensile and impact studies, all documented in triplicate. Video files of me, scruffy and hollow-eyed, as I pointed out pertinent areas of damage. Plus enough independent corroboration from various experts to justify the whole mess. I stamped everything with the Alliance seal, boxed it up, stamped it again just in case I missed something the first time, and sent word to Marquise. Then I collapsed.

When I woke up, it was all over.

Either Marquise was a political mastermind--which I doubted--or the rumors of his connections were true. There were no public scandals, no open revelations--just business as usual for Romefeller, even as OZ scuttlebutt whispered about a very quiet, very vicious shakeup within their corporate halls. But apparently whatever story they fed the Alliance was good enough to get all the charges against me dropped. Not that I was commended in any way for my efforts. Instead, I got an official reprimand for breaking base regs and the chain of command, then put back on duty.

Yippee.

A week and half later, I was off-duty once again. This time, though, I was doing my drinking on a nice little bluff I'd found outside the base perimeter. It had an excellent view of the airstrip, and was remote enough that I could drink undisturbed with only a few scorpions for company.

I knocked back another swig of beer as a pair of Aries screamed in for a landing, and winced as one of them hit the landing strip at an oblique angle. "Bet I'm gonna be fixing *that* one tomorrow," I remarked to myself, only to jump and drop my beer in surprise as someone spoke up from behind me.

"You're probably right--though in all fairness, he's usually not that clumsy."

I swore, wiping my hands on my pants as Marquise walked up from behind me. "Damn it, Marquise! What the hell do you want *now*?"

He didn't reply right away, but walked up to the edge of the bluff, hands clasped behind his back. Looking down out over the patterned lights of the base, he remarked casually, "I hear you've been transferred."

Grumbling to myself, I twisted the top off a fresh beer. "Yeah, I've been re-assed to Nairobi." I took a long drink. "Couldn't wait to get rid of me, I guess."

"Well," Marquise said casually, inscrutable underneath his mask, "Perhaps someone felt you were needed out there."

I snorted in mid-swallow, nearly choking on my beer. "Yeah, right. Like the Alliance has a real shortage of competent mechanics."

"Of mechanics? No." Marquise turned around, and pinned me with a direct stare. "Of officers willing to die for their honor? Yes."

Slowly, I began to realize what he had meant. "Wait a minute. You mean you...?"

Another Aries patrol passed by overhead, engines screaming, and Marquise began to walk away down the hill.

"I'll see you at Nairobi, Sir Otto."

The End

(:./hope/prince)