15-Mar-2001
Hello all! Sorry it's been so long--this part just kept growing, and growing, and growing... Hope everyone still remembers my lil' ol' epic, but for the newbies in the crowd: this is a crossover with Gundam Wing and Xenogears, a truly great RPG from Squaresoft. I hope y'all enjoy this part--it has a scene that I'd been planning to write for ages!
Anyway--on to the fic!
Title: The Longest Dream, Part 14 - Aftermath
Author: Hope of Dawn
Feedback: C&C appreciated!
Archive: GW Addiction at http://www.gwaddiction.com/
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?
Warnings: Some violence and AU. No real angst (for a
change!). OOC-ness is entirely in the eyes of the beholder!
"Well. I must admit, Sandrock, I never imagined we'd be playing Atlas today," Quatre remarked grimly as his Gundam's over-stressed hydraulics continued to screech in protest. In his effort to support the unrelenting weight of the massive stone wall, he had diverted all the resources he could towards Sandrock's load-bearing systems. Unfortunately, the crushing weight of the cathedral was more than his Gundam had ever been designed to handle, and his efforts were met with only limited success. Quatre was amazed it had lasted this long--his old Sandrock would have crumpled under the weight long since. At least the aerial bombardment had stopped, thanks to Trowa's insanely impressive shot. If the enemy general was any kind of tactician at all, his forces would be retreating right about now.
Unfortunately, he couldn't do the same.
It was a classic no-win situation. If he stayed and used Sandrock to buttress the load-bearing wall of the cathedral, his Gundam would be slowly crushed under the weight. But if he stopped, the multi-story cathedral would collapse on top of them before they could get clear; crushing his Sandrock, and injuring or killing both himself and the refugees still trapped inside. Not acceptable.
With the slow screech of crumpling metal, Sandrock's right elbow joint collapsed in a sizzling shower of sparks. Quatre shifted Sandrock's feet minutely, calling on every ounce of piloting skill he'd ever possessed in order to maneuver with precise care. Under his hands, Sandrock shifted its weight in achingly slow increments until most of the falling section now rested directly on the structures of the main torso. Finally after a few tense, endless minutes, the stone, mortar, and metal above him finally settled back into a precarious balance.
Quatre sighed, both relieved and frustrated. So far, so good--but he could only keep up this balancing act for so long, and no backup was in sight. Trowa was on his way, he knew--but the Gundams were spread across the city, too far away to help anytime soon, and the only other source of assistance was the Aveh Gears. Unfortunately, Dr. Uzuki wasn't responding to his hails, and without Heimdal to act as a communications relay, Quatre had no way of contacting them.
With no other alternatives available to him, Quatre focused instead on the business of supporting the heavy masonry wall as long as possible. If he died in this place, saving these people, then so be it. It would be a far better end than dying slowly, entombed and discarded.
{{... ?}}
Quatre almost missed it at first, his attention on monitoring Sandrock's precarious equilibrium. It was barely a fluttering of intent; a dim echo of emotion barely sensed by his uchuu no kokoro. But it was enough to snag his attention.
{{... !!}}
He shifted his attention inward as the communication grew stronger, unfolding like a brilliant rose in heart-hued shades of {{worryadmirationreassurance}}. Quatre clutched at the unfamiliar empathic linkage, scanning the area as despair changed into a sudden, desperate hope.
Moments later, a Gear charged unerringly through the smoke and dusty rubble, heading directly to where his Gundam was pinned. Vaguely feminine in shape, with a deadly looking club/rod in one hand, the Gear was much smaller than his own. Nonetheless, its assistance was more than welcome as the Gear maneuvered up against the wall and added its strength to Sandrock's efforts.
"Thank Allah," he murmured, relieved; then reeled from the powerful emotions he could sense from the small Gear's pilot. A enfolding wave of intense concern and grateful acknowledgement flooded over him, its meaning as clear as if it had been shouted aloud. Tentatively, Quatre tried to get a deeper understanding of what he had sensed, stretching out inquiring mental fingers towards his rescuer. He was answered with a near-identical questing response; one that bloomed into a flurry of wordless communication.
{{questioning? thankfulness query?}}
{{surprise!! happinessrelief... concern... }}
{{reassurance... allwillbewell... comfort}}
{{gratitude... reassurance echoing... meetinganticipation!}} Quatre shook himself out of the oddly familiar rapport, shivering with excitement. How strange. He'd never connected with another so effortlessly.
In a sudden intuitive leap, he grasped the meaning behind the reassurances that the other pilot continued to broadcast even after Quatre had withdrawn his own mental touch. Obviously he--or she--was trying to let him know they'd called for backup. He watched, relieved to see his hunch prove correct, as a soot-smeared Aveh squadron emerged out of the smoke and headed in their direction.
After a brief conference, they set to work. Those Gears that could fit their way into the areas clear of rubble stepped forward, helping to support the weight of the wall while others began hauling in scavenged beams and trusses to begin setting up additional support. For the first time in what seemed to be an eternity, Quatre allowed himself to breathe easily, relieved that the weight of the world no longer rested only on him.
The day had waned into the long golden shadows of late afternoon by the time the last support had been placed and the wall pronounced stable. Unwrapping his hands from Sandrock's controls, Quatre rubbed at tense shoulder muscles, trying unsuccessfully to ease the knots created of hours of strain.
Shoring up the cathedral had been a long, painstaking process. The engineers from the Yggdrasil had been forced to build around Sandrock, even as Quatre continued to make the minute adjustments necessary to compensate for the uneasy shifting of the stone blocks above. With no way to extricate his Gundam from underneath the wall until real reconstruction could begin, they had settled for weaving a cage of supporting beams in and around Sandrock to stabilize the stone and relieve most of the crushing weight. Thirty minutes ago, the smaller Gear that had first come to his aid had finally been waved away as they placed struts in its place--and now that the immediate work was finished, Quatre looked eagerly forward to his own freedom.
With a final cursory glance, Quatre locked Sandrock into place and shut down all systems. He took a deep, welcoming breath of air as he slid down the lift-line, leaving his Gundam to continue supporting the wall. Even tinged with the scents of ash and fire, it was heavenly. As he hit the ground, almost stumbling in his eagerness, Quatre froze as he met the intent gaze of his rescuer. The young female pilot smiled, tucking back a stray lock of red-gold hair, and stepped gracefully over the piled rubble to meet him. After a self-conscious brush at her grimy white uniform, she extended a welcoming hand.
"Hello, I'm Elly--Elhaym Van Houten. It's so nice to finally meet--" She gasped as Quatre took her hand, and an electric thread of communication leaped like lightning between them. {{excitementsurprisejoy!}} "--you! I was right... I *can* feel you... do you feel it as well?"
Quatre tightened his hand around hers reassuringly as he tried to deal with the simultaneous impact of both verbal and purely empathic communication. "Yes... " {{stunneddelight}} "... how amazing. I've never felt anyone like this before. It's like--"
"--I *know* you... that I've always known you!" Elly said, excited and disturbed. "How strange! Like a childhood friend I'd once known... a memory or a--"
"--dream," Quatre whispered. {{disturbedpeaceful... happy... }} "One that I could never quite remember. A dream that lasted... "
Stunned, she finished his sentence. "... forever..."
Citan blinked dizzily. A slow sliding trail of liquid trickled down the side of his face, sluggishly warm as it dripped past his temple and into one ear. As he struggled towards awareness and comprehension, a shrill cacophony of alarms pounded relentlessly against his ears.
" ...*sskkkkt* come in, Citan. Do you read me?" Sigurd's voice, even broken up by static, was a welcome relief from the unrelenting mechanical screams of his Gear. Citan shifted, attempting to sit up in order to answer his friend's plea. He listed queasily as his stomach twisted and his vision broke apart into a flurry of silvery spots. Gasping, he let his head drop and tried to ignore the throbbing ache in his ears.
After a few long moments, the nausea ebbed slightly, and he cautiously lifted his face from where it was mashed against a cracked and bloodied monitor. The slow movement still caused his head to ache and whirl dizzyingly, but not unbearably so. In a sense, the discomfort was reassuring; after all, he was reasonably certain that one did not feel pain if one was dead. Of course, if he was alive, that meant he still had duties to attend to--and despite feeling like the fourth day of a three-day pass, Citan supposed he'd better get up and start attending to them.
" ...03 to Uzuki. *shhhkkt*... come in, please." Well, at least the com-link he'd jury-rigged to communicate with the Gundams seemed to be holding. He tried to reach forward, intending to brace an arm on the console above his head and push himself forward... then recoiled with a hiss of pain. Okay--in addition to what felt like a concussion, that arm was definitely out of commission. Probably a dislocated shoulder. Citan squinted, trying to get a good look at any other potential injuries, and realized that he was hanging awkwardly face-down from his safety harness, his hair pulled forward by gravity to hang loosely around his face. Where it wasn't matted by blood or wedged against the console next to his head, that is.
Apparently Heimdal had crashed facefirst into something. Citan dimly remembered throwing his Gear forward, tackling that Deus-damned idiot of a Gundam Gear away from the enemy fire that threatened to obliterate them both, and then... nothing. He frowned. Since he was normally blessed with a preternaturally sharp memory, that was probably where he lost consciousness.
" ...Doc, you still with us? Come on, answer me. . " Fei sounded alarmed, which was probably a good indicator of how much damage Heimdal had sustained. Much as he appreciated the concern of his friends, however, Citan wished crankily that they'd be quiet long enough for him to concentrate on the task at hand.
A quick visual check failed to penetrate the the dim, red-lit darkness of the cockpit, alleviated only by the staticky snow hissing over Heimdal's fractured visual array. Wincing as yet another alarm joined the chorus around him, Citan bent his attentions towards finding out what they heralded. A system diagnostic flickered online after a few keystrokes, ready to give him the answers he sought.
"Begin full systems check," he ordered hoarsely, licking dry lips. Coughing experimentally, he spat blood from a cut lip. " ...and display full damage report."
The reply didn't take long.
"Warning--fuel reserves at critical. Reactor damaged, remaining function at .06%. Stabilizers offline. Long-range sensors offline. Short-range sensors offline. Channel relays broken, communications offline. Armor breached--rear torso plating integrity at 23.6%, front torso plating integrity at 33.2%, power plant plating at 12.4%, lower... "
He winced as the computer continued to obediently list off a depressing litany of damages. Heimdal would take *months* to repair--and that was assuming they could easily find replacement parts, which was unlikely. It was times like this that made Citan wish he had the power of his Omnigear at his disposal--Fenrir would have shrugged off the cannon-fire that had crippled Heimdal. Citan shook his head, flinching as the motion sent a fresh spike of pain through his temples. Wishful thinking was not going to alleviate the situation.
Interrupting the computer's continuing tally, Citan began entering in one-handed commands to shut down the damaged systems, rerouting around the broken power couplings and conserving the minimal amount of fuel left. The insistent alarms were silenced one by one, their accusing red eyes fading to less ominous yellow or green hues. Heimdal's damaged communications, on the other hand, required more creativity. Hindered by his awkward position, it took a good twenty minutes of jury-rigging in order to reply to his friends' insistent queries.
Surprisingly, the channel to the Gundams came fully online first. "--ou read? 03 to Uzuki, do you read me?" Trowa's voice was concerned. Given his own recollection of the events just prior to unconsciousness, Citan mused, the lanky pilot was probably justified in his concern. After a few false starts, he managed to toggle open his end of the channel.
"Uzuki here." As damaged as his Gear was, there was no possibility of either sending or receiving any visuals. Though given his current battered state, it was probably just as well.
"Status?"
"Nominal at best, I'm afraid. It appears I lost consciousness for a short time," Citan replied. Another quick survey of his damaged cockpit, and he added dryly, "And as far as damages go, I'd have to say that Heimdal and I are a veritable matched set. You?"
"Damage to Heavyarms is minimal. Your Gear took the brunt of the attack." Trowa paused as Citan heard the unspoken thank you. He continued working, trying to reconnect the rest of Heimdal's communications array as Trowa continued. "The Kislev forces have begun to retreat, and Wufei and I are working with some of your people's mechanics to get you out of your Gear. Unfortunately, a great deal of Heimdal's armor was fused together by the attack. We didn't want to risk moving your Gear and possibly aggravating your injuries, so we're cutting through the hatchway door of the cockpit. It's a difficult angle to reach, however, so it will take us some time."
"Understood." Citan finished a final bypass and toggled open the Aveh channel. "Yggdrasil, do you read?"
"Citan!" Sigurd's reply was immediate and relieved. "I'm glad to see you're still with us."
"Likewise," Citan replied. "What is our current battlefield status?"
"We've beaten Kislev back rather decisively," Sigurd reported. "They've lost about a third of their Gears, several of their cruisers, and one of their heavy airships. The cathedral is damaged, but still standing, thanks to Trowa--and thanks to you, Heavyarms didn't sustain any real damage in the process. It looks like destroying the cathedral was their final gambit; they started to fall back almost immediately afterward." Sigurd paused, his voice muffled as he responded to a barely audible query from one of his officers. After a short, indistinct conversation, he turned back to address Citan.
"Much as I hate to admit it, though, Nicklay is one hell of a general. He's managing to hold them together for an organized retreat instead of an all-out rout. A few of our aerial squadrons wanted to harry them all the way to the border, but Nicklay's surviving airships are providing covering fire for the rest, and it wasn't worth the risk." Citan raised an eyebrow at the grudging respect in Sigurd's voice. "Standard Solarian tactics, for the most part, but beautifully executed. Straight out of the Gebler tactical handbook."
"Indeed." Citan analyzed the information carefully, undeterred by the myriad of aches and pains that did their best to distract him. "We would be wise not to underestimate him."
A crackle from the other open channel interrupted his musings. "Dr. Uzuki--we've cut through the last layer of armor, and about to cut through the cockpit shield itself. Can you shield your face?"
"Certainly." Citan tucked his chin protectively into one shoulder, holding his undamaged arm over his eyes as the crackling whine of a plasma cutter increased in intensity. Sweat trickled down his face as the temperature rose rapidly in the small confines of the cockpit. He sighed in relief as the sound of the cutter stopped after a few minutes.
"Almost there, Dr. Uzuki." Citan lowered his arm cautiously and watched as a single, massive, red-armored finger carefully inserted itself in the opening left by the cutter. The armor plate shrieked as Heavyarms tore away the reinforced titanium with careful precision, and Citan blinked dizzily at the bright light streaming through the newly-made hole.
A shout came from below. "Sir! Are you all right?" The head of an engineer popped up into the new opening, accompanied by a flashlight that played over the darkened interior. Silhouetted against the hole, Citan could see the soot-marked face grimace. "Oh boy... that doesn't look good. Stay there, Dr. Uzuki. Medic!!" The man ducked out of the way as swiftly as he had come, to be replaced by a white-uniformed field medic.
"Well, Dr. Uzuki... you seem to have gotten into a bit of a mess," the medic remarked with morbid cheerfulness, even as she squeezed her stocky body into the cramped confines of the cockpit. "How are you feeling?"
"Do you want the full report, or just the highlights?" Citan asked dryly. Reattaching her flashlight to her shoulder, the medic gave him a sardonic smile as she began a preliminary exam.
"Well, normally I don't let my patients tell me what's wrong--but for you, Doctor, I'll make an exception. Major problems?"
"A probable concussion, dislocated or broken arm, and probably a few cracked ribs. No spinal or internal injuries immediately apparent, thankfully," Citan replied, wincing as the medic manipulated the arm in question.
"Uh-huh. Minor problems?"
"Other than severe nausea, vision problems, and blood loss from hanging this way so long... no."
"I see." She prodded his shoulder, and nodded thoughtfully as he grunted in pain. "Well, Doctor, if you can help me, I'm going to try to cut you out of your harness and get you out of here." At his nod, she sliced through the supporting straps of his safety harness, carefully supporting his weight as it sagged forward. He was bundled out of the cockpit and onto Heavyarms' waiting hand with dizzying efficiency, and the Gundam slowly lowered them to the ground as the woman's partner, a dark-skinned man with tight-cropped brown hair, trotted up with the rest of their kit. He immediately began bandaging the worst of the cuts as the female medic inspected Citan's arm with a concerned frown.
"You were right, sir--it's dislocated. We're going to have to put it back in." She glanced over at her partner, who nodded, then at Citan. He also nodded--he didn't have to be told that this was going to hurt. As the darker medic did his best to steady the stretcher, she straightened the arm carefully. Pain seared through his shoulder like a red-hot spike, and he bit back a groan as she gave the arm a sharp pull. She braced herself, and jerked a second time, popping his shoulder back into place. A searing bolt of pain shot through his shoulder, and Citan fell gratefully into unconsciousness once more.
Duo pulled a final piece of debris from Deathscythe's knee joint and peered at the offending shrapnel in the dimness of the repair bay, lit only by the harsh flourescent bulbs overhead and the gray predawn light that seeped through the open hangar doors. He swiped an arm against his sweaty forehead as he straightened up from his perch on the repair platform.
"Phew! Looks like that was the last of it, partner." Letting the half-melted piece of shrapnel fall with a clatter into a pile of similar debris, he propped his head against the edge of the service panel and scanned the results of his Gundam's latest diagnostic tests.
"Looks like you're as good as new," he remarked, then grimaced as his arm came away imprinted with the greasy grime of Deathscythe's armor plate. "Well... almost. Wish we had the time for a wash n' wax, old buddy. It's a damn shame you don't look nearly as impressive as you really are." He patted the Gundam affectionately as he closed up the service hatch, then wiped off his hands with a rag. "Oh well... we still kick ass either way. Right?"
Deathscythe stood, silently impassive among the chaotic bustle of the hangar bay, and Duo smirked. "I knew you were going to say that."
Throwing the rag into a nearby bin, he straightened the loose belted tunic (black, of course) that he wore and headed towards the outer doors. Wondering idly about his chances of wheedling food out of the mess cook, Duo made his way past the massive docked Gears and their attending swarms of Yggdrasil mechanics.
Suddenly his keen hearing picked up an anomaly amongst all the noise of the hangar. The sound was barely audible; word fragments that made little sense. Duo paused, trying to pin down the source even as the noise resolved itself into a steady stream of profanity. He debated for a moment--food, or curiosity?
Curiosity won out. Ducking back into the further reaches of the hangar, Duo tracked the noise back to a Gear cradle that housed a badly-damaged Brigandier, and from there to the small form next to it. A stream of partially recognizable profanity greeted his arrival.
" ...slag-biting piece of--" *bang!* "--karsted junk! I should've pieced out your skershigginer fire control systems to Deus-damned Kislev!" Bart angrily yanked another bolt out of a scorched access panel, only to have the prybar slip and fall to the deck, whacking his shin in the process.
*clank!* " ...SonuvaWELS!"
Bart continued to work on his Gear with an angry intensity, his blond braid frazzled from heat and frustration. His red jacket lay discarded on the decking amid a haphazard pile of tools. Duo paused, admiring the play of sweat-sheened muscles as Bart wrestled with a recalcitrant piece of armor paneling. After a moment, he cleared his throat.
"Need a hand?"
Bart stiffened and favored him with a glare. Inured by long exposure to the Yuy-Glare-O'-Doom, Duo was unfazed. "I'm serious. You need some help? Looks like you missed a bolt up here." He reached for the offending edge of the half-melted plate, but Bart batted his hand away.
"I don't need your karsted help!" Turning away, he dropped his prybar again. "Siiet!"
Duo shrugged and turned away. "That's not what it looks like from here. But hey, it's your Gear."
"Like you would know, piloting around in an archaic piece of crap like that. Probably couldn't handle a real Gear even if we gave you one," Bart muttered resentfully as he yanked on the stuck panel once again. "Arrogant sonuva... "
Duo stopped in his tracks, his shoulders stiffening. "What did you just call my Deathscythe?"
Bart kicked the slagged piece of armor plate in frustration, then turned. Scowling, he said, "I called it an broken-down piece of--"
Duo punched him.
It was a satisfyingly solid hit, clean across the jaw. Bart staggered back against his Gear, dazed by the surprise attack. His eyes narrowed, blue fury kindling. Then he lunged, tackling Duo around the knees. The mechanics working nearby stopped and stared in astonishment as the two young men began to wrestle fiercely on the deck.
Bart's surprise tackle gave him only a momentary advantage as Duo instinctively tucked and rolled, trying to flip his attacker over his head. Bart redirected the motion and slammed an elbow into Duo's face. Duo retaliated with several brutally precise jabs to the diaphragm, and Bart reared back in reaction. He threw another punch at Duo's face, only to have his wrist caught and twisted--grinning fiercely, Duo flipped them over again and straddled Bart's waist, keeping his arm pinned. Then he yelped in surprise as Bart sunk his teeth into Duo's forearm. Using that as a distraction, Bart twisted, wrapping his legs around Duo's head and sending them both tumbling once again.
Bart and Duo traded brutal punches, grunting and snarling. Killing strikes were pulled by unspoken agreement as fists cracked against flesh. Both the watching crowd and potential weapons were ignored completely; the two men focused only on the primal urge to simply beat the crap out of each other.
The fight, culminating days of angry tension, ended when a surprise jab to the jaw left Duo open, and Bart snaked an arm around his throat, choking him down. Wheezing, Duo tried to flip him over his shoulder, but Bart held on single-mindedly. Then, in a final, desperate maneuver, Duo reared backwards and cracked back of his skull against Bart's forehead with stunning force. Bart's grip loosened. He fell backwards and clutched his face as Duo rolled away and gasped desperately for air. The two erstwhile opponents lay on the decking and glared at each other.
"Asshole!"
"Karstein!"
They glared some more.
"You gonna apologize?"
"Bite me!"
Duo opened his mouth to retort, then stopped. He began to snicker. "I think I just did."
Bart blinked as Duo collapsed back onto the decking, giggling. A few stunned seconds later, he began to chuckle as well. Snorting chuckles soon turned into hysterical laughter as they both rolled on the ground, clutching their sides.
"Stop, stop! It hurts to laugh!" Bart finally gasped, tears streaming from his eyes. Duo pounded the deck with his fist as he wheezed and laughed alternatively. Eventually they both subsided, gasping for lack of air.
Duo pulled himself into a sitting position, and grinned at Bart. "Ya know what? I'm hungry. You?"
Bart paused at the apparent non sequitur, then hauled himself to his feet. "Actually--yeah. I am." With a matching grin, he extended a hand down to help Duo up. "Food?"
"Food," Duo said agreeably. Flipping his own braid back over his shoulder, he gave Bart's braid a friendly tug as he stood. He turned, pausing as he took in the wide-eyed crowd watching them. A crowd comprised of gaping mechanics, uneasy soldiers, and one quietly amused Heero Yuy. "What?"
Arms folded across his chest, Heero looked them over from head to foot. As Duo flashed him a cheeky grin, he cocked his head. "Problems?"
"Nope," Duo answered, cheerfully ignoring the cuts, bruises, and rapidly purpling black eye that adorned his face. He turned to Bart, who also sported his own black-and-blue decorations, in addition to a bloody and swollen nose. "No problems. Bart n' I just had to do a little male bonding, y' know? Get our issues out into the open."
Moving up behind Heero, Wufei took in their disheveled appearance. He asked disbelievingly, "Issues?"
"Yeah, issues. Very important to a man." He slung an arm companionably around Bart's shoulders, grabbing the end of his braid and waggling it at the assembled crowd. "Braid envy."
"Braid envy? But you--" Bart echoed, confused. Duo elbowed him sharply, and he grunted. "Oh yeah... braid envy. Very bad." He snagged his jacket from the floor, and grinned unrepentantly at the two other Gundam pilots. As Duo dragged him away in the direction of the commissary, Bart called back over his shoulder, "Don't worry, though--I'm much better now!"
End Part Fourteen
(:./hope/dream14)
