1998
[Standard disclaimers apply]
"So," he sighed, eyes downcast and resigned. "This is how it ends."
His gaze skimmed over the control panel, yet not seeing the gauges and the indicators that told him his gundam still functioned, still lived. Only empty. Powerless.
As empty and as powerless as he felt.
So this was how it would end, he thought, seeing the events of his past flash through his mind at a speed too dizzying to grasp; a past too brief to truly appreciate, yet too bitter to cherish.
He looked up, focussing his gaze on the tableau unfolding outside the monstrous metal machine that had become a near extension of himself, another body, an alternate existence. Almost as an afterthought, his fingers clicked on the triggers again, and he sighed at the empty report of the guns, the missile launchers. Why did he even try? He knew they were empty. He knew there was no more ammunition. But it was a natural, all too human reaction in desperate times. Drowning men will clutch at straws.
Trowa Barton smiled. Yes, he was human. And as any other human being, he wanted to live. But now, as a human being, he would have to die.
And his mission wasn't even over yet, he felt. Surely there was more to it than just coming down to Earth and destroying a few OZ depots and complexes. Surely there was more. But he would never know, for he would never get his next instructions, his next directive.
For today would be his last.
Outside, he could see the line of mobile suits; they stood still - as though in anticipation - waiting...
He had destroyed what mobile suits the OZ had thrown at him, had blown them to bits and shot them to pieces. And now here was a new wave. But they were definitely not OZ, of that he was certain. For they had fought against OZ with the same vehemence that he himself had shown. Although grateful for that little respite, he could not trust them.
This was war and no one was to be trusted. Those were his orders as he left L3. Those were the words his mentor left him with as he departed for the blue planet that is Earth. And those were the words he would live and die by.
He drew in a long sigh as his mouth firmed into a thin, grim line, emerald gaze slitted against the bright golden sun. The line of mobile suits facing him began to move, an almost silent ripple amongst the gigantic metal bodies, parting almost respectfully - he could almost imagine the machines bowing - making way for...
Once again, Trowa Barton inhaled sharply, his hissing breath loud in the stillness of the Gundam's cockpit. Another mobile suit emerged from behind the line of silently waiting mobile suits. The new mobile suit stood taller than the rest, prouder. It was a different model, he could see, and not one he had not seen before.. Of a more sophisticated build, and from what little of its actions that he had managed to catch a glimpse of during the fray, it was more deadly and much, much stronger than its companions. Strangely, the dusky coloring blended well with the sunlight, turning it almost golden. That same sunlight glinted off the two blades secreted on its back, hinting at their deadly presence but not once revealing the deadly half-moons until their master called upon them.
Shifting to the fore, almost reluctantly assuming command of the mobile suit army, his new adversary paused, silently assessing. It reminded him of his own Gundam, his own Heavyarms. But, Trowa mused, if it was anything like his mobile shell, then his time on Earth would be that much shorter.
As though in answer to his thoughts, the monitors flared, displaying visual analyses of the newcomer. And from what he could see, it was indeed as he had feared. Here was another Gundam, and here was probably where his gravestone would lie. Well, he thought, gripping the controls firmly, no sense delaying the inevitable. He would die but he would die fighting.
As though on cue, a shuttle blasted off into space from among the ruins of the recently ravaged OZ base, distracting the other mobile suit. With a cry of anger, Trowa Barton pushed Gundam Heavyarms into action, grabbing a chance too good to waste.
It was to have been a simple mission - a straightforward seek-and-destroy outing. No different from the last few missions he'd had assigned to him ever since he arrived on this blue planet.
Earth...
The very name invoked memories. Some he'd rather forget. Some he cherished too much to taint with the hopelessness that had taken up residence in his consciousness. But then, that feeling was normal for him, wasn't it? It was one he'd deserved. A man with no past did not deserve a future. Still, he was barely a man, Trowa realised. But there were times when he felt much, much older than his years - times when he felt that he was just a misplaced spirit in a body too young; a body that felt so foreign to him. Even his name wasn't his own...
There were times when he'd felt like just exploding from the sheer frustration of living. But those emotions would not escape the confines of his heart. It wasn't that he hadn't tried. He had. But his physical self had lost the ability to smile or cry a long, long time ago.
He had thought - a little misguided, perhaps - that coming to Earth would herald a new start, a new beginning. Perhaps even a new lease on life. At the very least, it would be a chance to end it in a way that he had been too cowardly to contemplate. If he had to die, let it be for a reason...And let it be by another's hand...
For all the disappointments life had handed him, deep inside, he still cherished it.
Trowa Barton smiled grimly as he manoeuvred Heavyarms to strike the other Gundam with a gigantic metal fist. He swung out with the short beam blade but somehow the dusky golden Gundam managed to avoid it.
"Damn it! Stand still and fight!" the youth hissed. Or at least, use your damn scimitars, his mind yelled.
A crackling ensued from the speakers as Heavyarms locked fists with the other mobile suit, distracting him momentarily.
"Yamero...kudasai..."
Trowa blinked in surprise. This was not the voice of an enemy. Something in that voice brought back visions of a day long ago - so long ago. A time when a little girl gave a little boy a golden cross...
"It will protect you," she had said, softly pleading with him to take it. The tone was similar to that voice coming from the speakers. The same emotion seemed to flutter among the words - the same desperation. The cross had indeed protected him then. Ironically, that cross had let him live when he should have died. He didn't know whether to thank her or to curse her at the time. But he had left her alive, and would never know how it might have turned out if he'd stayed. Where was she now, he wondered? The girl who would kill to live; the girl who would let others die that her loved ones might live. Where was she, that girl who had cared too much to let him die?
And now the voice was back. Again, offering life...
Trowa Barton stopped.
"Why?"
He couldn't understand it. Why had the other mobile suit let him live?
Heavyarms stood locked in the grasp of the alien Gundam, the one that so resembled itself. A more detailed run through his sensory programs confirmed what he already surmised from earlier readouts - that the new mobile suit was indeed a Gundam. Yet, if this was indeed another Gundam, was it on a similar mission? Had its pilot received similar orders? And if he did, why did he disobey them so blatantly?
Why was he not killed?
Who was this person that would let him live, knowing that he would have killed him in an instant, given the chance?
Who was this pilot that trusted so much?
So many questions, Trowa sighed.
Today his life had been spared. At least, for a little while. Perhaps those questions would soon be answered.
The hatch of the other mobile suit - Gundam - yawed open and instinctively, Trowa reached for the handgun by the control panel. Unconsciously he checked the gun and grunted in satisfaction when he found it loaded. There was no point taking chances. He had his orders. Kill or be killed. His fingers played along the edges of the panel that hid the self-destruct switch, itching to flip it open.
But...
"Only as a last resort," he whispered to himself.
Trowa gripped the handgun and unbuckled the harness. If this was an OZ trick, he would be ready.
He sat, leaning back into his seat, waiting for the pilot of the other gundam to emerge.
"Please stop..."
The other pilot's voice still resounded in his ears.
"This isn't right..."
Such talk did not belong on the battlefield, Trowa smirked, remembering the words uttered mere moments ago. Who was this innocent that had uttered them?
A golden-haired boy emerged from the hatch, his hands weaponless - held up as though in surrender. Smiling. A man-child like himself.
"Sou..." the Heavyarms pilot exhaled, his fingers dropping away from the handgun, his body rising from the seat.
"No wonder..." Trowa muttered under his breath as he opened the hatch of his own gundam. "No wonder he sounds so innocent..."
He was an angel.
-owari-
Shirin
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