One thing they never mentioned in my little Gundam pilot training
classes was how often you'd end up flat on your back.
Now, I can already imagine the pictures your little gutter trap mind
has drawn, so let me assure you that I haven't been reduced to
prostituting myself for parts.
Yet.
Nah, I'm just giving my partner the basic tune-up service, every
6,000 Leos, you know. Some of this equipment is surprisingly
delicate to calibrate. It can take a full force attack with barely a
whimper but a wrong twist with a wrench can ruin an entire day's
work. Guess it's kind of like how humans have a rough time at the
dentist.
As much as I don't mind being my own mechanic, there are times that
I sorely miss Howard and the boys. It's not exactly like doing an
oil change, you know? Still, if Quatre and I are going to take our
rosy little butts into space, then you can bet our Gundams had
better be in top form. Unless they've made some big changes since I
left, there aren't any Jiffy Lubes up there.
Going to miss this little safe house though. I have to admit, Winner
has style. A terrorist with a vacation home, which includes your
basic indoor/outdoor pool, Jacuzzi, and, of course, private suites
for your standard well-to-do soldier. Now -that- is class. I mean,
hell, my bed was the size of a football field; the Twister
opportunities alone boggle the mind. It's just a damn shame that I
don't have anyone to...
OK, let's not go there, shall we? Don't pick at scabs and all that.
Quatre and I had been hanging out here for a little while now, until
we decided what to do, and I admit the guy has kind of grown on me.
After our rather abrupt introduction, which consisted mostly of me
moping around and about an hour of impromptu mattress surfing, we'd
settled down to be something a little closer to friends, and, you
know, if I hadn't been there and had the bruises the next day to
prove otherwise, I would have still bet money that Quatre hadn't so
much as had someone pinch his lily-white bottom.
Guess that goes to show you what I know.
Anyway, the only bad part about this place is that the one radio
station I can pick up out here in the rough is all cheap-ass oldies,
but I think it mixes rather well with the OZ military line I hacked
into. A combo of some perky little cheerleader who was 'walking on
sunshine' and the sound of OZies getting their asses kicked. Music
to my ears.
From the sounds of it, Zechs Merquise had gotten himself into a
little bit o' trouble. Well, well, well, OZ's golden boy is more
like a shiny hunk of tinfoil, it seems. Big shocker, there. I figure
any guy stupid enough to work for OZ deserves to get fucked up the
ass when they finally bend him over, but, hey, that's just my
opinion, and Merquise isn't exactly pounding down my door for it.
Now, not that this all isn't important, I'll grant you, but I had
other things on my mind, like making sure Deathscythe was purring
like the saber tooth tiger he is. Which is why I almost missed what
they said next.
I was so shocked that I turned the dial I was calibrating maybe a
centimeter too far, which had the bonus effect of squirting what
felt like a gallon of industrial lubricant right into my face.
OK, I can almost hear you snickering, fuck you very much, but let me
assure you that -industrial- lubricant is not the same taste
sensation as, say, strawberry motion lotion.
Even that wasn't going to stop me though, and after I'd spat most of
it out and managed to smear it out of my eyes, I scooted out of the
hatch and into the main freight compartment so fast I'm surprised I
didn't ignite, dragging my hair behind me because three feet of
oil-soaked hair is fucking heavy. All I can say is that this shit
had better wash out. Eh, who knew, maybe it was a good
conditioner...
Quatre was already there and I couldn't help but notice that he
didn't have any grease spots on -his- shirt. Pretty in pink, and
really, if I didn't like him so much I'd probably have to kill him
on principle.
We just stood there like morons, staring at the battered old radio
I'd jury-rigged to the consol as if it was going to suddenly pull a
rabbit out of a hat or some such thing. And no, it didn't, but let
me tell you, it pulled a better trick than that one.
Through the static on a hacked OZ line, we heard them say, again,
that Gundam 03 had fled from its battle with the Tallgeese...and
Gundam 01 assisted in 03's escape.
Gundam 01.
01.
Heero's Gundam.
It was like I was listening to someone babble in a foreign language,
because I could hear what they were saying, it just wouldn't sink
in. It just hung in the air, poking around my ears while it tried to
get my neurons firing again.
Gundam 01. That couldn't be right. It couldn't be 01 because I'd
seen it self-detonate. Both of us had. I'll believe in a lot of
things in this world but Casper the friendly Gundam isn't one of
them. It couldn't be 01, because it couldn't be Heero Yuy. I mean,
he's dead, right?
Most OZies can't find their own asses with both hands, a tracking
device, and a three day supply of food but their Intel at least was
usually dead on. Must have started going with the lowest bidder if
they could make a fuck-up like that, though. Unless...unless they
hadn't fucked up. And if they hadn't, if it really was 01, that
meant Heero couldn't be dead. Which meant...
He was alive.
Well, hell. I spent a whole day mourning a guy who wasn't even dead?
That jackass, I thought he was supposed to be super human! He didn't
even kill himself properly! Some perfect soldier he turned out to
be.
Then the reality of it sort of hit me all at once, with all the
subtle force of elephant on steroids.
He was alive.
Heero Yuy was alive.
Well, shit, yes, he was alive! He's superman isn't he? How silly of
me to think a mere explosion of atomic proportions could kill him!
Suddenly, the clouds parted, the sun came out and all I needed was
the Von Trapp family belting out 'The Sound of Music' to make it
complete.
Heero was alive.
I found myself with a sudden armful of Quatre Winner, and I didn't
even fucking care. We were both laughing like fools, and it did have
the bonus effect of giving Quatre a pretty good set of stains on his
shirt from the rather squishy hug he got from little old me. A
shame. Yet another one of the perks of wearing black clothes: if you
leave your stain stick at home then no one else is the wiser.
Heero was alive, and Quatre and I were...
Oh.
Uh...um...
Oops.
Heero was alive, which rather put me in the uncomfortable position
of having broken one of my own personal rules. You don't boff two
people at the same time, unless you're all in the same room. All
right, so I have a bit of an excuse. I mean, Heero was dead, right?
Mostly dead anyway, and how was I supposed to know he'd pull a
Friday the 13th style comeback on me?
It'd only been that one time anyway, and, well, I'd really needed
it. Really, really needed it. Really, really...OK, so I probably
would have survived without it. No, I know I would have. You don't
have to tell me I should have told Quatre no. I should have. Should
have, could have, would have.
Didn't.
So I'd fucked up. Shit happens, and it'll happen again, that was the
one thing in life that I knew for a fact.
But that's OK. This is still fixable. I'll just tell Heero about it
the next time I bump into him. Sure, it might be easier to just try
and hush it up. I mean, I doubt Quatre is going to buy a t-shirt
that says 'I fucked Duo Maxwell', but that just ain't the way I
operate. One thing I do not do is lie, and a lie of omission is
still a lie.
I'll just explain it all to Heero and it'll be OK. Heero's a pretty
understanding guy, right?
Right?
Suddenly, my day seemed about 100 watts brighter and I began to
whistle to the music, figuring I'd spare Quatre the latest version
of Duo Maxwell, live and in concert. Taking a moment to wring most
of the lubricant out of my soggy hair, I swear this shit had better
wash out, I crawled back into my buddy and went back to work. Space
was still out there, as far as I knew, and Quatre and I had a date
with OZ.
Even as I worked, though, it was lurking in the back of my mind,
popping out every once in a while and dancing around in my head,
making me grin like the moron I am.
He was alive.
-finis--
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