08-Aug-2000
Once more into the breach, dear friends...
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: Technically I suppose this could be called the
sequel to 'Running With the Moon' and 'Chasing the Sun'; however,
you really don't need to read them to understand this one. They are
all set in the same AU, though. Warnings: There's minimal violence,
a eentsy hint of yuri, and some language in this one--nothing else.
Enjoy!
I should have never let my hair down.
Sitting loose and relaxed in my darkened corner, I allow the smoky light of the officers' club to drape concealing shadows over me. With an idle flick of my wrist, the snifter of brandy sloshes intriguingly, spilling golden-yellow reflective patterns on the wooden tabletop. Light and shadow wage their tiny, shifting battles over the scratched formica, while I watch the shifting shadow-play with an abstracted, alcohol-induced interest.
I reach up to unbutton the stifling collar of my uniform jacket and ease stiff neck muscles carefully, wondering idly if other OZ officers hate the blasted thing as much as I do. OZ uniforms, with their constricting collars, fitted jackets, braids and baubles and flashing epaulets--even living with them day in and day out has never made them comfortable. Perhaps that is because of what they symbolize--not my true self, but a flashy masquerade that conceals me; cloaking me in the colors of the aristocratic herd.
It is a necessary bit of camouflage, but an irritating one. Especially in situations such as this.
I lift the snifter to my lips and sip--only to grit my teeth in exasperation as that same persistent drunken officer sits uninvited across from me, and interrupts my brief moment of peace *again*. How many times must I say 'no' to this fool?
"C'mon, babe--I can show you a great time. Why don't we go for a drive, and see some of the local color?" The liquor-tainted, sloppy leer was a fair indicator of exactly what 'local color' he has in mind. Probably the local love hotel, tacky and tasteless, reeking of other people's scent and sex. How transparent.
"No." I put enough chill and bare-faced rejection into the word that even the stupidest ox couldn't mistake it for coyness. But apparently the OZ recruiters have lowered their standards, because this blearily grinning excuse for an officer doesn't move.
Mental note: have a 'talk' with the recruiters about exactly what kind of fools they're letting into OZ these days. . .
He shifts closer, and the aroma of stale beer moves with him to hang in a odorous cloud over the table. I grimace slightly, shoving back my scarred wooden chair.
"Thaas 'kay, babe. . if ya wanna stay here, 's alright with me. Buy you another drink?" He waves his hand in the air clumsily, signalling the waitress. Catching her eye from behind his back, I give a firm negative shake of my head. She nods incrementally and moves away to tend to other tables; leaving me to turn my attention back to my unwelcome tablemate.
"No. I don't want another drink." Blunt and to the point--I even use small words that his alcohol-sodden brain could comprehend. Shoving my brandy away, I begin to rise in the hopes of finding peace and quiet somewhere else.
He grabbed my wrist. "No need to be in a hurry, babe. Why dontcha stay n' have some fun... "
I sigh inwardly; apparently I have underestimated his tenacity. It's a bad habit of mine.
"Let... Go." I bite off the words, every syllable dripping with ice.
The man's grip tightens--I can see the flat viciousness swimming in the back of his eyes, even as he begins to whine. He thinks I can't get away; it makes him feel powerful. "C'mon, babe. . ."
I lift my gaze over his shoulder--and watch a familiar figure rise and turn towards us. She cuts through the crowd with unconscious arrogance; the other patrons fall silent in her wake, sensing the sudden imminence of violence. The jukebox thumps a raucous beat in the background--the clatter of glassware disguises the sound of her approach until it is too late.
Her hand reaches over his shoulder, peeling his fingers off my wrist and wrenching the elbow backwards in one smooth motion. The drunken fool gives a sharp gasp of pain as his joints are wrenched forcibly into angles they were never intended to go. A gleaming booted foot sweeps his feet out from under him, and she pins him mercilessly against the table, grinding his temple against the edge.
"What part of 'no' don't you understand, you sonuvabitch?"
Her tactics are impeccable. But then, I expected no less.
I straighten up and meet the intense amber-brown gaze of my sister officer with a nod of acknowledgement. She looks back down at the man clumsily trying to break her joint-lock, dark fire in her gaze, then forces him further onto his knees. All other conversation in the officers' club stops--all gazes are on us. They know better than to intervene.
I twitch my uniform back into place, buttoning my collar back up and brushing invisible lint off the white pants. Then I step around the table, stopping in front of the drunk officer. I stare down at him coldly, waiting until his pained gaze travels up my polished boots to my face. Waiting until he has begun to realize exactly what sort of position he is in. The blue-uniformed figure of my aide controls his clumsy struggles with ease--and she lifts her gaze to me as well. The stray locks of blond hair that fall over her face from the short regulation braid do not disguise the anger in her eyes.
"Your permission, Colonel Une?"
The man's eyes widen as belated comprehension strikes. He starts to whine again, babbling apologies and feeble excuses--I am not in the mood to listen to them. Giving my aide a short, sharp nod, I turn away precisely, dismissing the entire situation. Behind me, the drunken fool shrieks abruptly in surprise and pain. The wet, flat *snap* provides an interesting counterpoint to his scream in the stunned silence of the club as his wrist is broken like a dry twig.
Impatient and irritable, I ignore the people scrambling out of my way as I stride out of the club. I knew my aide will follow, after she has--exercised her anger. I can almost feel sorry for the poor fool--almost. The whispers swirl around us like an aura--furtive comments from the other patrons as they watch the scene with varying degrees of sympathy, amusement, or dismay.
"...fuckin' idiot... "
"...didn't even recognize Colonel Une... "
"...lucky... broken arm is all he got... especially with one of the damned Furies around... "
"...yeah... OZ intelligence... creepy... "
"...buncha fanatical psychos... if ya ask me... "
"...hey, at least they're on *our* side... "
A small, coldly satisfied smile flickers across my face. If they only knew...
Stepping outside, the familiar sounds and scents of the base envelop me with a rush of warm, humid air. It is oddly comforting, the cookie-cutter sameness of military bases--even if the location changes, the sights and scents of oil and metal, Mobile Suits and vehicles are ever the same. Over the distant rumbling of the sea, I can hear the scream of the Aries taking off and landing in their patrols. The moon, glowing and a sliver away from the full, gleams on the sleek flanks of the Mobile Suited sentries as they pace out their rounds.
I clasp my hands behind my back, contemplating the stars as I pace evenly away from the club. Not many of them can be seen through the lights of the base and the glare of perimeter floodlights. But I still like to try--the sky is always there, comfortingly familiar, no matter where I need to go. I draw in a deep, appreciative breath to regain my equilibrium; these quiet moments of peace are so vanishingly rare.
The quiet crunching of booted footsteps approaches from behind me. Her voice is vaguely apologetic, with an undercurrent of fierce satisfaction.
"I'm sorry for making you wait, Lady Une."
I turn away from the stars and scrutinize her. Pale blonde hair glimmers under the fluorescent lights; her lean, trained frame relaxed but alert. My aide-de-camp meets my gaze without nervousness, her hands clasped behind her back in parade-rest. Her competence and self-assurance is palpable; a far cry from the green, overly-nervous recruit she had been when she had joined the Furies. I smile at her, letting the approval show in my gaze.
"I take it the matter has been handled?" She relaxes under my approval, and smiles back.
"Yes, Lady. I doubt he will forget that particular lesson any time soon."
"Good." I pull my gloves on meticulously--flexing my fingers experimentally in the confining white cloth. "I appreciate you handling that drunken fool, Lt. Grise--I was not inclined to be as kind. However, I rather doubt that the reason you came looking for me while I'm off-duty was to defend my honor." I look at her inquiringly as her expression changes into one of barely-suppressed excitement and anticipation.
"That is correct, Lady Une. I was told to deliver a priority message to you right away." My normally-restrained aide is fidgeting with excitement. "They've finally done it."
I stiffen. "You mean... "
"Yes, Colonel. They've captured a Gundam pilot."
Tapping the folder contemplatively against the monitor, I watch the video feed from the cell. The pilot is incarcerated in maximum security, of course--but even so, I can't help but wonder if I should order extra security for the block. It would be prudent; but I dislike the idea of letting OZ's nervousness about these renegade Gundam pilots show in such a blatant manner. Still...
The boy is a terrorist, true, and likely trained in all sorts of lethality--but that doesn't explain the prickling down my spine--more of an instinct or sense of tension than any rational fear. It is an inescapable thought, however; a primal stirring that growls low in my consciousness--*this one is dangerous.*
I snap out a question without turning around.
"The prisoner has been interrogated?" I already know the answer, of course--OZ's interrogation procedures are brutal, but efficient. Even in the grainy security monitor I can see the bruises and contusions; from the way he favors his movements, I suspect broken bones as well.
The base commander clears his throat nervously. "Yes Ma'am, Colonel. He's been interrogated twice, with no success. We haven't even been able to get so much as his name out of him."
"Interesting," I murmur to myself. Lt. Grise, standing slightly to the rear, shifts her weight pointedly and stiffens. I flick my gaze to her for a short, considering moment; then, understanding her implications of her posture, turn to face the base commander.
"And?"
The lean, dark-complexioned commander frowns, trying to look confused. His acting skills are pitiful--I can smell his fear. "Colonel?"
I pinch the bridge of my nose delicately, adjusting the wire frames of my glasses slightly. "Something else is going on with the pilot. Exactly what is it that you're hiding from me?"
The man averts his eyes uneasily while his staff mutter amongst themselves in the background, shifting their feet. I glare at the huddled group coldly. 'OZ Specials' indeed.
"Well, Ma'am, ahh... the men doing the questioning, they, uh... "
My temper gets the better of me. It has been a long night, peopled it seems by nothing but fools. The fact that the moon-cycle is approaching Her zenith doesn't help matters any. Involuntarily my voice drops to a low purring growl.
"What about them?"
The base commander flushes darkly. "After the initial interrogation, they--refused to go near the prisoner. Ma'am."
"Indeed." My rage slips slightly, rumbling through my voice. Lt. Grise bristles as she picks up on the echoes of my anger and twitches slightly, as if to move forward. I close my eyes for a moment, mastering the budding rage. Killing him will not give me any answers.
"You're saying that your men, trained OZ officers, disobeyed a direct order."
The base commander twitches. "Yes, Ma'am."
"That they refused to go near a beaten and restrained adolescent boy."
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And their reasons for this dereliction of duty?" The commander mutters something under his breath. "What was that again?"
"They're... scared of him. Ma'am." The base commander's face is stony with embarrassment and an underlying shame.
"Is that so?" I stalk forward, pinning the sweating base commander with the icy, impenetrable look perfected through years as the head of OZ intelligence. "Tell me, Commander--did this *boy* scare you too?" His expression is a classic, wordless confession. "I think he did."
I turn back to the monitor, slapping the files down on the top with a sharp *snap*. The other officers jump nervously. Unknowing of the chaos he has created, the incarcerated Gundam pilot fidgets restlessly in his cell--but still reveals nothing to my inquiring gaze.
"Get out."
"But, Colonel--"
"Now."
Military discipline prevails. They file out of the room silently, Lt. Grise escorting them out. The sharp rapping of their booted feet expresses the mingled displeasure and fear that fills the room like an acrid, biting miasma. After they leave, I shift my shoulders minutely, trying to ease the tension. Like the uniform, it is a familiar unpleasantness.
Moments later, Lt. Grise reenters the room and moves up to my side, offering her silent support. It helps--my twitchy tension eases with the simple reassurance of her presence.
"Lady?" It is both a question and a statement of concern. I tap the monitor again consideringly, drumming my fingers. Watching the captured terrorist fidget restlessly in his cell, I allow my dissatisfaction with the situation to show.
"I feel as if I am missing something here... something important."
The lieutenant doesn't reply--I sense she is just as confused as I by the situation. In the grainy monitor screen, the Gundam pilot has pulled himself to his feet, prowling back and forth between the corners of his cell. I am both impressed and disturbed. It is obvious he is injured--he limps heavily as he paces. But there is a drawn, tight expression on that pale boy's face that doesn't seem to register the pain, and a mindless intensity in the way he moves. The black-clad pilot systematically paces the boundaries of his cell yet again, that long, ridiculous braid snapping behind him with the force of his movements. It seems to twitch in reflecting his agitation, almost like the tail of a...
I draw in a breath sharply. Lt. Grise gives me a sideways, inquiring glance as I lean closer to the monitor.
It could be mere coincidence--a visual trick born of trained reflexes and a martial artist's lithe movement. That is far more likely than my sudden, irrational hunch...
And then the Gundam pilot looks up, staring defiantly at the camera with predatory, back-reflective eyes.
Beside me, my aide gives her own small hiss of recognition. "Lady... is that... ?" Her unconscious confirmation of my hunch is all I need.
I switch off the monitor, simultaneously disturbed and intrigued. "Yes." She watches me with interest--no doubt wondering how I will handle this unexpected turn of events.
"Call in the Furies."
The breeze is cool and refreshing on my body; the long shadows of the deserted motor pool a welcome concealment tonight. The small numbers on my watch glow dimly up at me--0145 hours. It won't be long now.
In a rare moment of freedom, I take off the stifling uniform jacket and sling it over a shoulder as I wait. Lt. Grise fidgets restlessly nearby, expressing silently her displeasure at this decision. I smile secretly in the darkness, the sense of recklessness firing my blood, and take my glasses off as well--folding them carefully into an inner pocket.
With my hair down and my glasses off, I feel almost... free.
It is a giddy, exhilarating feeling. But even more importantly, a reminder that *this* is what I fight for. The chance... to simply be.
The slight screeching of the outer door of the base alerts me to their arrival, just as I had planned. I step deliberately into the yellow puddled fence-light, and watch assessingly as the two guards push the smaller, bound form out in front of them roughly. There is an abortive squawk of protest.
"Oi! Watch it--I'm delicate, y'know!"
"Be quiet!" snaps a guard. I raise an eyebrow at the annoyance in her voice. This boy must have been truly irritating to make her lose her temper like that. The black-clad pilot straightens, flashing a calculated, impudent grin at his guards as they salute me and step back--then turns that glowing, feral gaze on me.
"So what's the deal, lady? You hard up for a date or somethin'? 'Cause this is really playing hell with my beauty sleep, y'know." He moved smoothly forward with barely a limp despite his injuries, smiling with more than a hint of malice. Arrogant boy--he knows full well the effect he has on people, especially this night of all nights.
"Hardly, Pilot 02." I watch his eyes narrow in recognition at my voice, and flicker to the blue coat dangling over one shoulder. "Hard as it is to believe, I am about to do you a favor."
"Colonel Une... " he breathes. His face turns flat and hard, with only the taut edge of mockery left. "I've heard about you--and I don't think I need your favors."
I continue to watch him, my disdainful officer's mask firmly in place. "Believe what you will. However, I *am* offering you a chance to escape." I incline my head at the darkened shadows of the motor pool. "Or are you telling me that a terrorist of your abilities could not escape from a isolated, lightly-guarded supply entrance?" Those glowing, wide-pupiled blue eyes flicker over the area, confirming my statement, before they return to me. His reaction does not disappoint me.
"Oh, I think I could, *Colonel*," his voice makes the title a sardonic, mocking one. "Though I doubt you would make it that easy." He walks closer, though still out of arm's reach. I feel Lt. Grise shift at my back. I remain where I am--refusing to give ground.
"I have my reasons, 02. I suggest you take the opportunity before I reconsider my decision."
The braided pilot flashes me a gleaming, white-fanged grin. His advance has turned into a slow, circling stalk. "I intend to--but I think I need to take out some insurance, first."
I give him a warning; I have no wish to kill the boy. "I doubt that would be wise." Even as the words are said, I know he is beyond listening. The rising eagerness in that small frame is readily apparent--adolescent hormones roiling with the reckless madness of the moon.
He grin widens. "Like your little guards can stop me?" He leaps almost before he has finished speaking--blurring toward me in a lethal flurry of teeth and muscle. I wait, muscles tense--then drop and roll out of the way in the middle of his leap, letting the tawny-furred form behind me tackle him. Lt. Grise leaps over my prone form and slaps him aside with a heavy-clawed paw, knocking him back into an ungainly sprawl on the stained asphalt.
I straighten, shaking my tawny hair out with fierce exhilaration as the stunned pilot tumbles backwards into the dirt, a bewildered snarl on his dark-furred face. He recovers with surprising speed, rolling to his feet smoothly. The sleek, leanly-muscled panther growls in fury and thwarted rage even as the transforming swirl of black fur covers the last bit of human flesh.
A low, rumbling growl answers him as Lt. Grise maneuvers her large, golden-furred frame between us protectively. I put a reassuring hand on her side. Rubbing my cheek affectionately along the lioness' heavy, white-edged muzzle, I turn my own reflective, amber-gold gaze to the confused pilot-turned-panther.
:To answer your question--yes. I think they can stop you.:
The smaller cat's ears flatten in confusion as he tries to come to grips with the changing situation--and he hunches defensively as the other women emerge out of the shadows in response to my silent summons. Clad in OZ uniforms, in mechanic's overalls, in flying gear--they circle him silently, golden eyes glowing in the dim light. Some come walking on two legs. Others prowl forward, sleek and golden, on four.
The panther turns in tight defensive circles, swapping ends nervously as he tries to keep his distance from them all. Then he visibly controls himself, turning his blue gaze on me. Only the twitching of the tip of his tail betrays his nervousness.
:You mean they're *all*...?:
I run my fingers through the hair and fur of my brethren--acknowledging their growled greetings and welcoming rubs even as I stare back at the panther. The other lionesses also watch him with an untroubled assurance--after all, he is the interloper here. I shake my thickening brown-gold hair-fur back--resisting the moon-call towards my other form.
:My sisters--my daughters in the moon. We Hunt together--we guard and protect each other. Humans have only whispers of what we are--they call us the Furies without even realizing the truth.:
The pilot's blue gaze narrows behind the dark muzzle. : ...the Furies... isn't that... an OZ intelligence unit? I've heard stories... :
I incline my head in acknowledgement. :They are most likely true--if not completely accurate.: I gauge his response to this revelation--watching him analyze the situation and assess this new information. Even under the screaming instincts roused by the moon-call, I am only slightly surprised to see him come to a clear, intelligent conclusion. Impressive--especially for one so young.
:Huh. You're good, lady.: The title no longer feels like a taunt. :I had no idea.:
:Neither does Romefeller.: His eyes widen at that statement, and the long black tail flips in amusement as I continue. :After all, I've had a great deal of time in which to practice the art of the Hunt.:
:Working from within, huh?: He seems to consider the idea with approval, then shakes his sleek black head. :Heh, heh... the lions of Romefeller... guarding their sheep.: He grins at me, muzzle wrinkling up to reveal strong white fangs. My sisters shift in reaction--moving instinctively nearer to me and arranging themselves into a united front. :You've definitely got balls.:
:No, I don't.: I reply dryly. :That's why they never suspect me.:
He seems a bit startled by my dry humor. The distant, haunting howl of a wolf trickles down from the hills on the warm night air, and he flicks an ear towards the sound.
:Uh huh.: His amusement colors his tone. :On that note, I think I'm gonna book. Don't wanna wear out my welcome y'know--especially since this is your ladies' turf.: He dips his head in a silent, oddly-human nod of respect. Turning away, his tail swishes saucily once, twice; and then he vanishes into the shadows between one moment and the next, leaving no trace of his presence.
I blink bemusedly. :The boy has talent... :
:Of course,: replies a deep, amused baritone. :Otherwise, he wouldn't have eluded us for this long.:
I incline my head respectfully towards the powerful, golden-maned male that paces confidently towards the pride. :I agree, my Lord.:
The lionesses rise to greet him respectfully, making him the center of a tawny tangle of bodies. The moon sings in my blood insistently, an inescapable siren's call. With no further need to prove a point, I relax and join my sisters, letting the swirl of golden fur and new-found strength envelop me. Then, pacing towards Treize, I rub my head in silent greeting against his jaw before meeting his canny, considering gaze.
:It also makes one wonder if the rest of the Gundam pilots are similarly--talented.:
:An interesting idea, my Lady.: Treize gave a low, considering rumble in his throat. :And something that definitely bears investigating.:
The rest of the statement remains unspoken. Treize knows that I and my sisters will take care of it, like we always have. It's what we are, after all, and what we do--and for right now, we do it for him.
Eventually, he will leave us--he is aware of the noble solitude of his walk, and so are we. For all lions ultimately walk their path alone, and when they die, they die alone. Trieze is at the height of his power, an intelligent and perceptive leader. He realizes where his journey will take him--and carries the burden of that foreknowledge with a simple masculine dignity I could never hope to emulate.
But then, I am not required to. My path--the path of a lioness--is different. No matter the outcome, I and my sisters shall remain to carry on his legacy. It has nothing to do with honor, or peace, or any of the grand emotions humans hold so dear and fight so fervently over.
It is simply the way of the pride.
~Owari~
More Writer's Notes: I couldn't resist the impulse to write a story about the lions of Romefeller--the similarities between lion hierarchy and the OZ hierarchy were too good to pass up. Does anyone else besides me notice that while Treize Kushrenada is the leader of OZ, it's Lady Une who actually does most of the dirty work, and seems to know the most about what's going on? It seemed awfully similar to the structure of a pride of lions--where despite the whole 'king of the jungle' rep, it's really the lionesses that make up and maintain the heart of a pride as the male lions come and go. The allegory really appealed to me--not to mention the fact that I really like Lady Une. She may be psychotically ruthless at times, but she's a very deep and intriguing character that I don't think gets enough credit.
If there are any military buffs in the audience quibbling over the fact that her aide-de-camp calls her 'Lady Une' instead of the more proper 'Colonel Une', I'm gonna defend myself by saying that this was a deliberate choice on my part. I had the Lt. use her civilian title to show the greater degree of intimacy between her and her 'sisters' than what she allows from everyone else...
And before anyone asks--no. Zechs Marquise is not a lion in this AU. He's something else. *evil smirk*
(:./hope/pride)
