24-Apr-2000
Must be on a roll. :) I don't usually manage to get out chapters two days in a row. But here it is: Chapter Three of True Enemies True Friends. I've given up on giving titles to the chapters. It just seemed kind of redundant. :)
'Where... Where am I?'
The steady, unthinking tread faltered, then paused entirely. Trowa pressed the back of his hand to his fevered brow, wide emerald green eyes taking in the unfamiliar scene before him with no little confusion. A narrow road leading down the mountainside. Heavy foliage on either side of the path. The dirt road the only hint of civilization though there was nothing else to indicate that other people frequently passed by that way.
Where was he? How... how did he get here? His Gundam... where was it... where were the others?
He pushed down the surge of panic when he realized he could not remember... his past God-only-knew how many hours an utterly blank slate. He remembered heading out on a mission with the others - a rare time when all five of them were together. He remembered flashes of the battle hazily as if viewed through a mental fog.
He remembered fighting the panic and distress at the sudden resurgence of deeply buried memories... something had triggered them - if only he knew what he might have had a chance of avoiding a recurrence. But at that time, the emotional trigger did not seem important. He knew he had to leave... had to be alone to get the panic back under control... But he was already committed to the battle; how could he leave his friends... ?
So he'd stayed... numbly going through the motions of an external battle while the real war waged within him.
He'd stayed until he could not remember anymore...
What had happened then... ?
The steady, unthinking tread picked up... its unchanging rhythm lulling him into a false sense of direction even as it took him on a constant downward path from the mountain. Somewhere down there, there had to place from which he could contact the others and call for help. Quatre would come for him. Surely Quatre would come.
The bartender looked up as the door pushed open and a young man stumbled in, his clothes travel-stained and covered with dust. His lips were parched, his green eyes dazed and disoriented.
He knew all the signs; he had seen them before in others. Heat stroke. Damnable desert sun. He hurried over to lend the young man a hand, leading him towards an empty table in a cool, quiet corner of the bar. "Relax, kid, you're okay now," he promised gruffly as the young man slumped down into a chair, seemingly no more cognizant of his surroundings.
His brain had probably been baked from overexposure to the harsh desert sun. The bartender shook his head grimly, wondering what had possessed the boy to track across the unforgiving wastelands. He returned with a glass of water which he offered to the young man. The slender hand reaching for the glass was unsteady - almost trembling - and in the expediency of not having to clean up the potential mess, he held the glass instead, raising it to the man's lips. "Easy now, not too fast. There's lots more of it where it came from."
Finally, the young man pulled his lips from the empty glass. "Thank you," he murmured, his voice so soft it was scarcely more than a sigh. His tongue darted out to wet his dry, cracked lips, wincing as it tasted blood.
The bartender surveyed the much too pale face with concern. "I've a quiet room in the back. Maybe you should rest for a bit -" He took a step back in surprise as the young man surged to his feet, the single visible green eye locked intently upon the television screen.
The picture was bad - reception was terrible though one would imagine that would hardly be the case in an environment as open and exposed as the desert. The sound came through clearly enough; the professional voice of a newscaster. "We interrupt our regular program with exciting news. OZ has taken yet another step forward in its desire to establish peace and security in the colonies. We have recently received report that the five terrorist Gundams were engaged by three of OZ's top mobile suit units, and in an unexpected turn of events, one of the terrorist Gundams turned on its co-conspirators. The four terrorists were destroyed in the ensuring exchange of fire. It is unlikely that their remains will ever be recovered. The remaining Gundam is believed to have fled from the battleground. Here are some clips of the battle taken from one of our OZ units."
The young man's eyes went wide with raw disbelief.
Not even the grainy television reception could detract from the finality of the battle. Four on one. Yet the four did not attack... they were merely drawing the deadly rain of missiles away from the city. They'd passed up on several opportunities to bring down the friend-turned-enemy Gundam by killing its pilot with a single clear shot into the cockpit. They knew all the weak spots, after all. They would know exactly where to strike. Instead they were maneuvering for a chance to blow out the thermal exhaust - crippling, but hardly fatal. The four were not fighting to kill... but the one was...
His hands gripped on the edges of his table, knuckles white.
The black Gundam, the one called Deathsycthe Hell was the first to go down after a valiant effort - the massive firepower of the friend-turned-enemy Gundam ultimately too powerful, too irresistible. Two of the remaining three Gundams converged on the traitor... one attempting to physically wrestle the machine around... the other - the shape so painfully familiar to him - finally opening fire...
Oh God, what had he done?!
He did not need to look at the screen to know what was happening... the missile hatches opening, their deadly payload extending for launch. Yet, he watched it all, his friends' final moments captured on film as the missiles streaked from their hatches to slam into the white Gundam that had thrown itself over Deathscythe Hell in a futile attempt to protect its fallen comrade.
The inferno that had swept across the landscape had decimated several neighbourhoods as well as the broken bodies of OZ mobile units scattered across the ground.
The inferno would have destroyed the Gundams and their pilots, incinerating their remains beyond recoverability.
The inferno had taken out the external monitors on the distant OZ mobile unit, terminating their observations of the battle...
But not before a single Gundam was captured on film, streaking away from the field of death.
Heavyarms.
The friend-turned-enemy Gundam alone had escaped the massacre that day.
Quatre would not come for him. Not any more...
"No... "
The bartender glanced back, his mouth dropping open in surprise. He barely managed to reach out and grab the young man as he reeled to one knee. "Oh God... No, please no... " an almost inaudible litany of prayers flowed unceasingly from the young man's lips, the slender, graceful hands clenched into fists, the green eyes too bright, unseeing. The boy was in shock, he realized, then he shook his head. Heat stroke could drive even the sanest person mad.
"Come now, you should rest," he murmured soothingly, half-carrying, half-dragging the young man to the room in the back and settling him down upon the bed, removing his boots then drawing the thin blankets up to cover the trembling body. "Just rest for a bit. I'll send Katya in later with water to try bring your temperature down. It'll be okay in awhile," the good, solid man promised.
No, you don't understand, Trowa wanted to say. Nothing will be okay ever again... I've killed the only people who have ever cared for me. Nothing will ever be okay... nothing...
But no sound emerged from his lips apart from the soft, keening cry of anguish... of utter loss...
Quatre would not come for him. Not any more...
End Part 3
(:./danyale/true3)
