Gundam V, Episode I

Gundam V
Episode I: The Shooting Star the Girl Saw
by BlackRose, 2000

Spoilers: All VC through TVA. Gundam Wing the television series.

Standard Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is owned by Bandai and a few other folk, whom I'm obviously not, and no infringement intended. Also, no infringement intended on the copyrights of Lestat de Lioncourt, David Talbot, Knopf, Random House, or a certain author who's name isn't Ayn Brice.

Rose's Disclaimer: I wrote most of this at work. I don't have my VC books. I don't have my GW tapes. I've got a fan translated script of the episode, courtesy of www.gundamwing.org, and an overactive imagination. All flaws, plotholes, poison plot bunnies, character bastardization and errors are entirely my fault, and I'm obviously taking a lot of liberties. Comments or constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. ^_^

Warning: For anyone who's read this far and has some idea what I'm babbling about - the first few episodes, necessarily, will be a lot like the episodes of Gundam Wing they're being based on. All bets are off in subsequent episodes, as the characters are going to start changing the plot. ^_^ I mean, come on, otherwise I'd have to kill Lestat by the end of it all, and Sybelle would be Queen of the World... O.o "Subsequent episodes", btw, obviously means if anyone has any interest in seeing them after suffering through this one. -_-'

Last Chance to Bail Out: If you have no idea what a Gundam is... hey, this is the intro episode, so finding out stuff like that is what it's all about. *g* Just be patient while reading - our familiar vamps are everywhere, but they might seem OOC for awhile and some of them are going under pen names for personal reasons. ^_^ On the other hand, if you're coming from the opposite direction and have no idea who Lestat is, you may need to stretch a little farther. -_-' Just think 'vampire' really hard, 'k?

Generations ago, with the dream of a great future, mankind departed the planet Earth to seek a life in outer space. But as time went by the United Earth Sphere Alliance, using its military power, seized control of one space colony after another in the name of justice and peace. The year is After Colony 195, the beginning of Operation Meteor. In a daring rebellion against the Alliance, several colonies plot to smuggle specially camouflaged weapons to the Earth. However, the Alliance headquarters catches on to this operation..

Gundam V, Episode 1
The Shooting Star the Girl Saw

- Earth Observation Satellite -

A soft beep sounded from the bank of controls. A man bent over them, reaching out automatically to silence the noise. The display flashed to life, lurid green in the dim light, the glow of it picking out the man's frown.

Another man approached, bending to catch sight of the display. The first glanced up at him. "Moving object confirmed at Lagrange Point A-X , moving in the G-Y direction," he reported crisply. "The object will reach the Earth's atmosphere in 600 seconds."

The second man looked sour. "It's not just one, is it?"

"No, sir," the first replied. Reaching out, he pointed to a scroll of information flickering up the side of the screen. "The radar reports five metal objects approaching Earth."

Sighing, the second man straightened. "It's probably just broken pieces of an old satellite... Report it to Lieutenant Marcus, just in case."

"Yes sir!"

- Alliance Military Carrier, Oz Specials Division -

The young soldier tore loose the sheet of hard copy as it spewed forth, turning at once to offer it to his superior. "Lt. Marcus, a report just came in. It's regarding some meteors the observation satellite spotted."

The man seated in the command chair pushed himself to his feet and stepped forward to take the report. Tall and well built, he wore the deep red dress coat of his rank as though made for it. White blonde hair fell loose across his shoulders in defiance of military uniform code, but it was his face which always drew those around him up short. Where one expected to see a handsome guise, there was only blankness - the polished, glittering metal of a half mask that covered eyes and expression, leaving only the firm line of pale lips and a strong jaw to interpret. The young soldier had learned early in his posting to neither stare nor flinch - he had heard all of the rumors, from hereditary disfigurement to hideous scarring sustained in the line of duty, but the truth was simply thus: Lieutenant Marcus Caesar was never seen without the shield of that mask.

Taking the report, Marcus glanced down at it, the lights of the small bridge glinting across the opaque eyeshields of his covering. Snorting softly, he shook his head. "The crews on the observation satellite are practically blind," he said, his deep voice disdainful. "They really think a meteorite would ride a perfect course to enter the Earth's atmosphere?"

The soldier swallowed nervously. "Then... it's just what headquarters warned us of..."

Marcus nodded, a bit impatient. "Yes. Operation M." There was a small tick in his cheek, the only visible sign of any emotion. "How many of those objects can this ship intercept?"

"Just one, sir," the soldier replied. "The one headed for Eastern Eurasia."

"That's all we need." A humorless smile tugged at the Lieutenant's pale lips. "There's no reason for soldiers in the front, like us, to be overworked for meaningless honor."

Startled, the soldier half turned towards his superior. "That's a very frank statement, sir."

The smile broadened a little more, showing the barest glint of strong white teeth. "As I've always said... I'm just a soldier."

- Unregistered Craft 01 -

The voice was muffled by the necessity of helmet and suit, echoing oddly in the cramped cockpit, but the mission log recorder blinked contentedly as it filtered the background noise from the records. "All areas functioning. Commencing operations in seven minutes."

The sharp whistle of an alarm broke across the calm voice, drawing a soft sound from its owner. Glancing to the side, dark eyes caught the sudden flash and dwindling flare of starlight on metal. A display came to life, flickering information forth.

The dark eyes narrowed. "A civilian shuttle..."

- Commercial Shuttle -

The cabin of the shuttle was quiet but for the soft, constant hum of the engines, the recirculated air kept cool and with the peculiarly too clean smell found only on commercial vehicles. The passengers - all two of them - had exchanged no words during the trip and the sudden muted chime as the intercom came on was almost painfully loud.

"Mr. Dorlan, the shuttle will soon be entering the Earth's atmosphere," a clear, polite woman's voice announced. "Please be sure to fasten your seatbelts and remain seated."

The young girl seated by the window gave a little sight. Watching, the man seated beside her echoed the sentiment silently. "What's the matter, Sybelle?" he asked gently. "Aren't you glad to be going home to Earth?"

The girl turned more firmly towards the window, seemingly engrossed in watching the steady lights of distant stars. "No," she said sulkily. "Not a bit."

The man looked away, his jaw tightening. Sighing, he raked a hand through short blonde hair that was shades darker than the girl's long tresses. "I'm sorry I couldn't spend more time with you," he said at last.

Wide, ice blue eyes flickered away from the window, glancing towards him. "Oh, Father," Sybelle said softly, relenting. Impulsively she turned and reached out, laying one pale, slender hand against the dark fabric of his coat sleeve. "I know it's your job," she said soothingly. "But..." she paused for one breathless moment, her pale eyes bright, a pleading note creeping into her voice. "But try to schedule more time, won't you?"

A sudden bright flash glimpsed from the far window caught her eyes. Leaning forward, she peered around the man's shoulder, her hand tightening on his arm. "Father... what's that?"

- Unregistered Craft 01 -

A hand reached out, moving easily across the instruments of the cockpit. "Position to target. Speed confirmed: 01545." Farther back in the craft, keen ears could pick up the deep whine and heavy click as weaponry locked into place. "Auto-lock engaged. Ready to shoot the obstacle down."

Again the whistle of the alarm sounded, drawing the pilot's attention to it. This time a breathed curse greeted it. "An Alliance patrol..."

- Alliance Military Carrier, Oz Specials Division -

"We've caught up to the target," the first soldier announced. "I'll bring it up on the monitor."

Marcus placed one hand on the back of the man's chair, leaning forward as he studied the display. "So that's it. Their so called 'battle seed', all prepared to sprout into war."

The dark haired soldier seated across from the first pursed his lips slightly, breathing out a soundless whistle. "Operation M."

Marcus jerked his chin, indicating the monitor. "There's a civilian shuttle ahead. He'll have to reduce speed."

Worrying at his lower lip, the first soldier studied the display. "Do you think he might shoot the shuttle down? To clear the way?"

Marcus straightened, the tight lipped smile making a reappearance. "He can't afford to. He must know we're here, and this is supposed to be a secret mission for them."

Information flickered across the display and the soldier leaned forward, reaching for his controls. "He's entering the atmosphere. We'll follow."

"Good." Marcus turned back to his seat, dropping down into it just as the first wave of re-entry hit the carrier, vibrating violently through the craft.

Abruptly, the first man jerked up, startlement written across his face. "Sir! The fighter has changed its course!"

"What?" Marcus' voice rose in disbelief. "That's suicide!"

The second soldier was swearing softly. "He'll burn the evidence up in re-entry."

"He's trying to break away from us," the first countered sharply. "He's increasing speed."

"That's impossible! Nothing could survive the heat of re-entry at that speed!"

Marcus leaned back, braced against his chair as the atmosphere buffeted the craft. "Maybe not," he said flatly. "It looks like our enemies possess some advanced technology."

- Commercial Shuttle -

The girl was watching, her pale eyes huge, as the bright flash became a ball of flame. "An atmospheric re-entry capsule?" she mused softly.

Her father was tense, lips pressed into a thin line as he, too, watched the flaming trail of the object. "Operation Meteor," he breathed.

Startled, Sybelle turned back towards him. "Hm?"

- Alliance Military Carrier, Oz Specials Division -

Across the monitors the image of the capsule was a blazing point of flame - flame that burst and shattered, the burning pieces tumbling away to expose the gleaming shape beneath.

The first man caught his breath. "Lieutenant Marcus... What...?"

Marcus was leaning forward, eyes intent upon the screen. "The enemy's new weapon is a fighter."

Eyes wide, the younger man swallowed. "It moves like a bird..."

The second man kept his eyes to his instrument. "We're reaching atmospheric cruising level, we can engage the enemy. Do you want to fire a warning shot?"

There was no answer for a moment and, unable to resist temptation, the first man turned to glance at his superior. He could not see the Lieutenant's eyes beneath the mask, but the man's visible expression had turned still, almost distant - it was something those who served beneath the man came to know, the moment of introspection before the Lieutenant would take command with unerring predictions of the enemies actions.

Pale lips abruptly pressed thin, the strong jaw tightening. "It won't listen to any warning shot. Shoot it down!"

Shocked, the soldier half turned to him. "But, Lieutenant..."

"We were told the enemy was smuggling a new weapon to Earth," Marcus ground out through clenched teeth. "But it's not the fighter. It's the pilot inside. Shoot it down!"

- Unregistered Craft 01 -

Suit gloved hands were steady on the cockpit controls as the craft flipped through the air, the darkened sky of Earth's night spinning dizzily across the screens as the carrier's fire raked through the space where the craft had been. Cursing had been abandoned, the pilot's voice calm and clear for the recording log.

"Enemy ship is an Alliance carrier, probably with three Oz mobile suits on board. Changing speed to intercept me. Logging change in orders: I'll turn and shoot the carrier down."

- Alliance Military Carrier, Oz Specials Division -

"Sir!" The second soldier barked. "The enemy craft has reversed its course and is heading towards us!"

Marcus was already on his feet. He paused, his hand on the controls for the door of the bridge. "Is Leo ready?"

The first soldier turned toward him. "Yes... but you're going after him in a mobile suit?"

The lights of the bridge slid across the silvery mask as Marcus glanced back towards them. "You guessed it," the Lieutenant growled.

"Then..." The first soldier hesitated, then hurried on. "Isn't Aries more suitable than Leo? The Aries is much faster, and it's made for air battle."

The cold glance of the mask turned towards him, making him shrink back. "My Leo is fast enough," Marcus said. "Besides, if it's a fight he wants, I should honor the request with my best."

- Atmosphere over Eastern Eurasia -

The huge frame of the Leo mobile suit tumbled artlessly from the carrier as it was released, buffeted by the wind. Inside the cockpit, the man known as Marcus Caesar took a firm grip on the controls, wrestling the massive bipedal war machine into alignment with his own body, and that body into a stable position, by sheer force. The Leo, built for ground battles, had only a limited maneuverability in the air - and only for so long as the free fall down should last, the venting jets far too weak to keep the heavy bulk of the mobile suit suspended from gravity on its own.

The men were right. An Aries suit, designed for such aerial dog fights, would have been the better choice. But the Leo was his personal machine, outfitted to his own specifications, and in truth, it suited his sense of irony. At the disadvantage, it made the two of them, pilot and suit, match.

Weaknesses were meant to be overcome.

The radio frequency crackled to life, the young voice of the carrier pilot coming to him. "Lieutenant Marcus, I'll send backup with the Aries as soon as they're ready."

Backup. Babysitters. Pale lips curled into a disgusted sneer across sharp teeth. "Roger that," Marcus replied coolly, then thumbed the radio back off.

A buzzing alarm erupted into the small space, drawing his eyes upwards to the screen beside it. "What� above me!"

Swearing soundlessly, he pulled the Leo around, cursing, as he always did, the limited reaction time of the great machines. The enemy craft was there, arrowing towards him, the weaponry system flashing red across his primary screen as it tried to secure a lock on the target. Snarling, Marcus brought the Leo's arms up, bracing the massive beam rifle as he would a gun against his shoulder, and trusted his own reflexes to do what the weapons system couldn't.

The shot missed, flashing bright in the night sky, but it forced the enemy craft to veer away and the sleek fighter plummeted past him, the close wake of it flipping the Leo back around. Marcus took the shot offered, firing down at the now receding craft, and was gratified at the subsequent billow of an explosion and the sharp plume of smoke that erupted from one of the fighter's wings as it spiraled down.

- Unregistered Craft 01 -

The alarm was going off insistently, the damage light flashing bloody red across the cockpit. The pilot spared a glance for the information scrolling across his screen, an unwilling smile ghosting over his lips. "Left drive system malfunctioning... he's good."

- Atmosphere Over Eastern Eurasia -

The radio was crackling to life again, the carrier pilot's voice jubilant. "Good shot, Lieutenant!"

Marcus narrowed his eyes, watching the descent of the fighter and the thick trail of smoke. "Is that it? That was far too easy."

The two Aries had joined him, hovering around the Leo. The silvery blue suits were, in Marcus' opinion, inelegant - bigger than the Leo, heavier and thicker through the body and limbs, ungainly upon the ground and only dimly resembling the human form they were modeled after. But the wings and engine packs stretched forth from their backs made them vastly more maneuverable in their primary function, air combat. The pilot of the lead suit was paging him.

"Sir, should we take you in, or chase the fighter in our Aries?"

Marcus watched the retreating fighter. The rear engine continued to billow smoke, obviously out of the pilot's ability to control. They were, all of them, he reflected grimly, at the mercy and fallibility of the materials around them. "Let it go down," he told the other two pilots. "We'll capture it on the ground. It will be the opportunity to find out the plans behind Operation M."

The second Aries' pilot spoke up, deferentially. "Do you think he might self destruct?"

Marcus smiled, the humor in the expression distinctly dark. "No. He's come all the way to Earth - he won't die before at least setting foot on it." And not, he thought to himself, unless the pilot's death would take his enemies with him.

- Unregistered Craft 01 -

He had performed the maneuvers countless times, until he could have done each movement in the proper sequence even in his dreams. It had, he noted dimly as his hands moved the controls into place, reaching up to jerk and slide the proper levers, a different feel to it now - Earth's gravity, he decided after a moment's thought, versus the looser feel of the controls within the free fall of space. The previously unused panels and screens of the cockpit sprang to life, the transition sequence flashing across them at a speed too fast for a man's eyes to catch; he looked them over almost leisurely, assured that the sequence was correct and that the deep, vibrating rumble of shifting machinery was just as it should be.

- Atmosphere Over Eastern Eurasia -

The movement caught their eyes first - not the out of control tumble of a disabled fighter plane, but the twist and shift where such a thing should not be. It began slow and then progressed at speed, a smooth slide and shift of unfolding parts and interlocking pieces. The smoke was quenched as the engine itself was moved, folded inwards, the fire put out, and in its place the massive metal shape of limbs took shape.

Marcus caught his breath, staring. "It transformed into a mobile suit!"

It wasn't unheard of or impossible. There were early models of mobile suits that had been designed to change from air craft to suit and back again - but the designs had all had their share of flaws, not the least of which was the stress put upon the machine itself, dramatically weakening it. The idea had been abandoned in favor of the suits themselves and Marcus could not, immediately, recall how long it had been since he had seen one of the prototype models.

And this, most certainly, was no clunky, snub-nosed test model. The mobile suit, still falling away from them, was slim lined and articulate, gleaming white and sleek of shape, the great wings stretched from its back resembling less the standard jet wings of the Aries and more the smooth span of some great bird of prey.

The second pilot's voice was almost breathless, his youth - gods, they were all so young - painfully apparent. "Lieutenant Marcus... What kind of machine is that?"

The truth was the only thing he could reply. "I have no idea." And he hadn't, he admitted to himself, thought that any besides the Alliance and Oz itself had the technology any longer to create mobile suits.

Marcus felt the Leo shudder as one of the Aries moved closer, pressing a suit chute against the Leo's back where the automatic clamps locked it into place. "Lieutenant, leave him to us!"

Marcus hesitated, knowing the inevitable outcome already and knowing there was nothing he could do about it. Swearing, he reached out and activated the chute, feeling the sharp, bone jarring jerk as the great billow of silk flared out, catching and slowing the Leo's descent. "Do it."

They left him at once, both of the Aries plummeting downward to give chase. Marcus could only sit back, watching, finding himself holding his breath as he did. Foolish children, dead children, but what else could be done? They saw the advantage, two against one, and they took it, overconfident and sure of themselves. And he... he knew the truth, and he found himself once more reaching out, trying in vain to catch some glimmer of what the pilot of the enemy craft would do. Only the silence of thick, impenetrable shields met him, and that alone told him all he truly needed to know.

There wasn't a man amongst those who served under him who could have taken him down in battle. Faster, stronger, moving always one step ahead - 'The Lightning King', they had nicknamed him, for not a one, no matter the advantage of their suits, could match the speed he coaxed from his. And now, though they did not know it, they faced one capable of the same.

Their only hope was the first strike, a lucky blow against the downward facing mobile suit's back. They took it without hesitation, flares from a beam rifle and the glint from homing missiles. The enemy suit never veered from its course and more then one shot struck home, exploding in bright flashes of destruction.

Nothing.

Marcus let out his breath as he watched the smoke clear, seeing for himself the undamaged gleam of the enemy suit. "Gods... So strong... It can't be!"

Closer to their target, the Aries' pilots saw the movement first. "He's turning!" the second warned, but the lead pilot's voice cut across his.

"Never mind. Just keep shooting!"

Turn it did, not the free fall tumble of the Leo or the darting swoops of the Aires, but a graceful, controlled turn upon an axis, effortless and simple. The rifle in its massive hands was twice the size of the Aries' beam rifles, larger even than the Leo's, and it held it, not braced, but extended out as though it were naught but a hand gun. Marcus wished he could turn away, his teeth clenched so hard that they hurt, but in the end he watched it all.

The single shot blast was devastating, wide sprayed, lighting up the night sky as bright as day. It engulfed both of the Aries, the explosion of their destruction billowing out in a massive, surging fireball.

- Unregistered Mobile Suit 01 -

He was laughing softly to himself, the sound echoing wildly through the cockpit. So simple, so deadly, easily simple... Turning his eyes upward to another screen, he smiled. "One more to go..."

- Atmosphere Over Eastern Eurasia -

"No!"

His hands were in motion before the word left his lips. The beam rifle was discarded, tumbling away towards the distant darkness of the ocean below, the chute ejected loose. Caught by gravity, the Leo fell, and he opened up the vents to add even more speed to the plummet. The pressure in the cockpit threw him back against his seat, a discomfort he ignored as he brought the suit around; a living missile aimed at the enemy.

- Unregistered Mobile Suit 01 -

The unexpected move as the Oz suit cut loose from its chute threw the aim of his shot, sending it wide. Clenching his teeth, he brought the buster rifle up again, re-aiming it at the suit arrowing towards him.

One shot and the last enemy would be cleared, the Oz carrier left defenseless. Two shots, then, and his mission path would be cleared, his first goal completed successfully. Just one last shot and one last enemy.

One shot, and one faceless, nameless, unknown member of his family gone. Forever.

It didn't matter, and it wouldn't be the first time. The pilot of the other suit was an enemy, and that was all he needed to know. His hand tightened on the controls, thumbing the fire button.

- Atmosphere Over Eastern Eurasia -

The blast barely missed him, sending the Leo's alarms into overdrive, but Marcus ignored them all. The suit was still functioning, still maneuverable, and as the enemy's fire skimmed past him he brought the arms up, reaching for the thermal blade clamped behind the Leo's shield arm and bringing it to flaring, blood-red life.

Gravity, for once, became his ally. It added the speed, the momentum, that gave him the edge. Before the other pilot could react he was in range, the blade flashing down, and only as the last moment did the enemy manage to block the close range blow, massive hand catching the Leo's arm. By then, though, it was too late - the bulk of the Leo had slammed into the other suit, sending them both falling out of control, the Leo's limbs grappling and locked with the other's.

It was like moving in slow motion, waiting the heartbeat it took for the cockpit cover to slide back, the outer shield wall to unclamp. Marcus was free of his harness and out at once, a strong leap carrying him free of the falling suits to where the wind snatched him up and blew him away, deafening loud as it whistled past his ears.

For one instant, one moment, he was deathly tempted - the glittering velvet of the ocean spread below him, the clear bright stars above. The winds toyed with him, holding him at their mercy, but once they would have held him aloft, the open sky limitless...

The temptation was there, at a price he couldn't afford. Snarling, he closed his eyes and jerked the cord of his own parachute, letting it catch him and send him drifting.

The sound of the carrier's pilot over the tiny earphones of his helmet was desperate. "Lieutenant Marcus! Sir! Are you all right?"

Sighing, Marcus swallowed, working to keep the emotions from his voice. They were just children, he told himself firmly, and there was no need to frighten them. "Yes," he said aloud, letting the microphone that rested against his throat catch the words. "Sorry to worry you. I did what I could."

There was a pause and then the youth's voice came back. "Yes sir. We have a data analysis from the Leo."

"And?"

"Judging by the strength of the other suit's armor, sir, it has to be made from gundaniam alloy."

Marcus opened his eyes, glancing downward. Far below, the enemy craft and the Leo, still locked together, hit the distant waves of the ocean. A tower of black water shot up, and even over the wind and the rustling snap of his chute he could, dimly, hear the roaring splash. "So that was a Gundam," he mused. Raising his voice once more, he spoke again for the microphone. "The mobile suit might be undamaged, but the pilot won't be."

"Lieutenant - the Alliance Marine flagship is offering to search for the unregistered mobile suit."

The news brought a laugh from him, harsh sounding and disdainful. "Let them do as they wish," he instructed. "Tell them it sank in the J-A-P point of the Asia area."

"Yes, sir."

Sighing, Marcus closed his eyes once more. "And soldier... Get a line to Colonel de Lioncourt. I'll need to make my report to him immediately."

COMMERCIAL BREAK

- Military Spaceport, Europe -

Sybelle kept her eyes cast down, watching as she carefully placed her feet upon the moving tread of the escalator, her skirt whispering against her ankles. Behind her, her father took the next step, his firm presence at her back reassuring. All around them were the clamor of voices and the too bright lights of cameras, but a quick glance up showed her father, face expressionless, looking neither left nor right. Sybelle quickly ducked her head again, letting the pale strands of her hair cover her cheeks. Her father hated to draw her into his work and she had learned to keep her profile low when he was caught like this.

One reporter was leaning over from the adjacent escalator, a microphone outstretched. "Mr. Dorlan, Mr. Dorlan!"

Another, the light of the cameraman behind him almost blinding, was waving his arm to draw attention to himself. "What was discussed at the Colony summit? What are the Colonies' demands of the Alliance?"

They clustered around as close as they dared, the questions flying quick, overlapping. "Any comments, Vice Foreign Minister Dorlan? The concern here on Earth is when the Colonies might attack..."

Standing so close to her father, Sybelle could feel the wave of disgusted irritation that rolled off of him. /Vultures,/ she thought savagely, her full lips pressed thin in anger.

"What do you have to say, Mr. Dorlan? It's a hostile situation with the Colonies, isn't it?"

"Mr. Mael Dorlan?"

The firm voice, so unlike those of the reporters, made her turn as she stepped off the escalator. Less then a heartbeat behind her, her father moved at once to place himself between her and the three men in the crisp, olive green uniform of the Alliance who were waiting for them.

The lead man, his shoulder braid declaring him a Captain in the military, bowed slightly. "We've been waiting for you. A military car is waiting outside. Please proceed this way."

Sybelle watched her father hesitate and inwardly heaved a sigh. He had promised... but work came before promises, and he was an important man. She was proud of him, but it didn't keep her from feeling the keen stab of disappointment.

"Right now?" her father asked. "That won't do." Startled, Sybelle glanced up, but she couldn't see his face from where she stood. His voice, however, was brisk. "I have some things to take care of first for my daughter's birthday."

Sybelle clasped her hands together tightly, struggling to keep her delight from showing on her face when the pack of reporters was still hovering around them. The Captain's glance flickered towards her, then away again, dismissing her. "I'm afraid this can't wait," he said firmly. "I'll arrange a separate car to take your daughter home."

Oh, this wouldn't do at all. Squaring her slender shoulders and putting her own feelings firmly behind her, Sybelle stepped forward, her slim chin defiantly raised. "Please don't trouble yourself about me," she said quite clearly. "I'm perfectly capable of finding my own way home." It was a wonderful gesture for her father to make, but even she knew that these were not the sort of summons to be ignored. All around them the cameras were flashing - it was the first clear shot of her they had had, and certainly the Vice Foreign Minister having to miss his only daughter's birthday because of the current 'crisis' was a nice human interest story neatly wrapped up and handed to them.

She had meant to make it easier for him, to give her father a gracious way to back out of his promise and do what he had to. But when she glanced back to see his expression he had the stony tension in his jaw that meant he was angry, his blue eyes thunderous as he glared at her. "Sybelle," he hissed, the whisper soft and meant for her ears alone, but iron firm and just as chilling.

Sybelle shrank back before that anger. Her father, mouth set in an unpleasant line, turned his glare out at the clustered reporters and then shut his eyes. Dimly, from the corner of her gaze, Sybelle saw the sudden absence of flash as a camera went dead, the cameraman swearing as he shook the device and reached for a spare battery. Her attention was on her father, however, and on the small line of tension and pain that was carving itself between his brows.

She reached out and touched his arm lightly, concerned. "Father?"

It took a moment for his eyes to open and she could see the lines of pain around them. "It's nothing," he told her sharply. "Re-entry headache. Sybelle, I need you to go directly home." He drew a breath, straightening, and Sybelle thought that to anyone else he would have appeared as himself, all business and crisp formality. Only she could see the sudden tiredness in his eyes. "I'll be home in time for your party."

"Of course, Father," Sybelle said gently. Leaning up on tiptoe, she pressed a quick kiss to his cool cheek. The military men were clearing away the reporters and Sybelle clung determinedly to her father's arm as the Captain lead the way to the waiting car, feeling the slight tremble in his touch and wishing she could will some of her own strength into him - he was so obviously tired, and military meetings could stretch on for hours.

"Straight home," he reminded her when he left her at the curb, dropping one of his rare kisses atop her fair hair.

"Yes, Father," Sybelle replied meekly. The impatient Captain was waiting by the open door of the car, gruffly reminding her father that General Septum was waiting. Her father gave her a little affectionate push, then turned to get into the car.

Sybelle stood by the curb, watching as the car pulled away. It was close to midnight, the spaceport walkways less crowded then during the days, the whole of it lit in bright, falsely cheery yellow lights. Sighing, she watched until the car carrying her father was out of sight, then turned to find her own way home.

Despite her promise, home was not quite where her wandering feet lead her - at least, not directly. The night was pleasantly warm and the spaceport was on the shore, more then half of its landing strips and satellite terminals creeping out across the dark waves on massive piers. Outside the port there was a paved, lit walkway that wound alongside the beach, home to joggers and bicyclists. So late at night Sybelle had it much to herself, her lone footsteps clicking quietly against the pavement as she walked.

Knowing there was no one there to see, she indulged her temper and stamped her feet, giving a little cry of frustration. "Oh Father, why does your work always have to get in the way?"

Nothing answered her except the rhythmic rush of the waves against the sand. Sighing, she wrapped her thin arms tight around her chest. "And on my birthday," she lamented with another little sigh. "If this were a movie, or a book, I... I'd run away!"

It wasn't and she never would, but the absurdity of saying it made her feel a little better. The deep bass roar of a low flying plane distracted her and made her glance up; it was a heavy bellied military carrier plane, lifting off from the port and climbing out across the ocean. She made a face.

"Military planes," she said, making the words sound like the worst sort of language she knew. "If it wasn't for them, this would be a normal spaceport." And, she added to herself, she would be out in the city with her father, shopping for things for her party the next evening. And maybe he might hint at what he had gotten her and play at making her guess, as he had when she was younger, before his work had stolen so much of his time; she thought it had been when she was very little, the memory dim and hazy with age.

Instead, her father was who knew where, having meetings with god only knew who, and it was anyone's guess if he really would be able to make it home in time for her party or not. She supposed, she told herself, that she ought to be used to it. Sighing one last time, she shook her head. "I guess I should head home."

But as she was turning something down on the beach caught her eye - a dark shape in the surrounding darkness, only dimly picked out by the edge of the lights on the walkway. A shape sprawled out across the sands, half washed by the incoming surf; the shape of a body, legs trailing in the water, laying upon the beach as though it were naught but a rag doll thrown down carelessly by some child.

"Oh my god!" There were stairs leading down to the beach and without thought Sybelle ran to them, gathering her skirt in one hand as she slid down the sand covered steps. The dry sand at the base of them gave beneath her footsteps, spilling grit into her shoes, but she didn't notice. Running down to the wet, surf washed sand, she found her steps unwillingly slowing until she completely stopped, a few arms lengths from the figure. It was a man in a waterlogged containment suit and helmet, face down upon the sands, looking as though he had half crawled and half been washed up onto the beach from who only knew where. "A military uniform," she whispered. "He's a soldier!" And, from the looks of it, quite possibly a dead one... Sybelle raised her hands to her lips, pressing them there, with no idea what to do.

The figure itself decided her. Unbelievably, it began to move, the man slowly and painfully trying to push himself up on his arms, his fingers digging weakly into the sand. Gasping, Sybelle took a step back. "I'll get help!" she called urgently, and turned to dash back up the stairs, to one of the pay phones that dotted the walk.

- Opera House, Europe -

"You're saying that three of your mobile suits were shot down?"

It could rarely be said that Colonel Lestat de Lioncourt was anything other then calm and perfectly prepared to deal with whatever came his way. This was no different, Marcus thought, suppressing a rather grim little smile. Despite the small touch of disbelief in the other man's voice, no great look of surprise touched the Colonel's face other than to gently lift one blonde brow. The room behind the man was too dark to make out on the communication screen, but he thought he could, faintly, catch the sound of classical music.

"Yes, sir," he replied flatly.

Lestat leaned back slightly from the screen, one immaculately white gloved hand rising to press rather ruefully at the bridge of his nose. "It's unlike you to be so careless," he said with a hint of disapproval which Marcus ignored. "It's going to cost me quite a few headaches to calm down the Alliance big shots."

Marcus ignored that as well, continuing with the heart of the report. "We were up against a mobile suit made of gundanium."

He could see Lestat pause for a moment before the other man lowered his hand, turning the full brunt of his gaze back to the terminal screen and to Marcus. The other man's voice was dry, the tone that of one who suspects a practical joke. "You're jesting."

"It's true," Marcus replied. "Just imagine - if it was actually built on a Colony..." He paused for a moment, then, making quite sure that the breadth of his shoulders shielded the conversation from the soldiers in the bridge behind him, he soundlessly breathed the next words, letting the slight movement of his lips speak alone. ::Is this private?::

Lestat straightened at once, expression tightening. ::Yes,:: he mouthed back silently. Aloud, he answered, in a voice tinted with frustration, "This would never have happened if Oz had been in place earlier."

"Operation M has brought Gundams to the Earth," Marcus said sharply. And then, voicelessly, his eyes behind the shield of his mask locked to those of his superior across the communication screens, he added ::And more. The pilot was one of us.::

Now there was a break in composure, a moment of breathless shock in those piercing grey eyes. "You're sure?" Lestat breathed, the whisper of sound hissing from behind clenched teeth.

Wordless, Marcus slowly nodded.

Whatever the man said next was said silently and in profile as he momentarily turned away from the screen, but Marcus was willing to wager that he personally knew how to swear in more languages then the Colonel did and he deciphered the vivid curse with a small smile. Lestat turned back after a heartbeat, the composure on his face bought at the cost of small lines of tension around his expressive mouth. "This is certainly quite the mess," he said, the words bitten off a little more sharply then usual. "The Alliance should have paid closer attention to the Colonies."

"I won't argue that," Marcus replied. "The Alliance Marine is trying to recover the downed mobile suit."

Lestat nodded, a quick jerk of his chin. "I'll tell them we'll take care of it. I'll have a special under-sea unit sent in. You'll be in charge."

"Yes, sir."

"As you know, time is of the essence. Don't do anything that would anger the Alliance," the Colonel warned.

"I'm aware of that, sir," Marcus replied drily. He reached out to disconnect the call, but a gesture of Lestat's hand stopped him.

"Be careful," the other man said firmly.

"I always am," Marcus declared.

"You are when it suits you," Lestat said. His lips barely moved, forming a single word without a breath of sound. ::Marius.:: Seeing that he now had the other man's full attention, the Colonel let the barest hint of a humorless smile touch his lips. "Right now, Lieutenant, it suits me. Be careful."

Marcus snapped to a painfully rigid attention, his salute sharp, perfect, and blatantly disdainful. "Yes, sir. Understood, sir." Before Lestat could utter another word the call was disconnected, the screen falling dark.

Letting out a slow breath, Lestat leaned back in his chair. The opera was a quarter through the second half, an entertainment he would now have to forgo. Swallowing, he closed the screen of the portable terminal with a small snap, his hand resting for a moment on the smooth case.

Gundanium. Mined only in the weightlessness of outer space, amongst the Colonies. A Gundam. Created in those same Colonies.

A pilot from their family, from the Colonies.

From those bare few scattered among the Colonies, a number he could count on the fingers of less than one hand, whos names and faces he could call up from memory.

Sinking his head into one hand, he raised the other to fumble at the layers of crisp linen at his throat. It was buried there, beneath shirt and cravat and uniform coat, slipping easily to his fingertips as he drew it forth - the simple chain with its plain gold band strung upon it and a round charm, no larger than his thumbnail. Thumbing the small catch, he pried the locket open, his eyes picking out the details of the inner portrait without difficulty in the dim light of his private box.

It was starting to wear with age, the edges darkened to nearly black, but the image was still there. A dark haired man with a quiet smile, head cocked as the camera caught his likeness, dark eyes filled with a solemn mirth.

Closing his hand over the locket and ring, Lestat made a fist, tugging gently until he could feel the chain bite into the flesh of his neck. "Louis," he breathed.

- Federation Military Base, Europe -

The conference room was as plain and utilitarian as military minds could make it, only the furniture making some concession, by dint of price and theoretical comfortableness, to the rank of those involved. Lestat eyed it all in silent distaste, one hand sweeping aside the folds of his cape in a graceful gesture from a bygone era as he seated himself at the long table. All eyes were on him, most narrowed with an irritation that amused him. He met their gazes with a small, pleasant smile. "I'm sorry I'm late."

He might not have bothered with the common niceties of politeness, as the assembled men certainly didn't return it. One heavyset, florid faced man leaned forward, glaring, his bass voice sharp. "Colonel de Lioncourt, is it true that one of your men lost three Mobile Suits while tracking the atmosphere re-entry of a capsule?"

Lestat tried to supress a small wry smile, knowing he was only partially successful. It was one thing for him to chide Marius for the loss - another thing entirely for a pack of armchair generals to do so. He kept his tone smooth, affecting a quiet surprise. "Yes. Is that a problem?"

Septum was the one to answer him. The thin General had always reminded Lestat rather of a weasel of some sort - sharp faced and bright eyed, with a thin black mustache and a singularly unpleasant nasal voice that was now raised in outrage. "You wasted three of our Mobile Suits for one measley spy!"

Tilting his head to one side, Lestat kept his expression unruffled. They were like a pack of wolves, baying and nipping at his heels, noses lifted at the slightest scent of a perceived weakness.

And like wolves, they were just as easy to dispose of.

The thought made his smile impossible to hide. "But because of that, we successfully prevented the enemy's conspiracy," he pointed out mildly.

Septum was on the edge of his seat, hands clenched on the table, a blotchy sort of flush creeping up his sallow cheeks. "I'm not talking about the result right now! Your men are wasting the precious resources of the Federation!"

He was such an easy man to bait, the results so enjoyably predictable; Lestat had fallen into the habit of the game and his response was nearly automatic, polite with just the right hint of naivette. "Precious resources? Excuse me, but do these 'resources' you're talking about include military personnel as well or do they simply refer to Mobile Suits?"

The General surged to his feet, scowling. "Damn you! Don't get smart with me!"

A voice from the end of the table cut between them. "Now, now... No one is saying that. Sit down, General, please. Colonel de Lioncourt, next time, tell your men to be more careful."

Sighing, Lestat carefully schooled his expression into quiet compliance. "Yes, sir," he replied with proper crispness. Septum, still glowering, slowly sat down.

An older man leaned forward, elbows propped against the edge of the table. "Very well, then. Let's move to today's agenda: how to prevent the colonies from forming a new alliance..."

- A Beach in Southern Europe -

Sybelle caught her breath as the catch on the helmet gave way beneath the soldier's fumbling fingers, the seal releasing with a sharp pop. Dropping to her knees in the wet sand, she reached out to grasp his shoulder. "Don't move! The ambulance will be here soon..."

The hands reached up, knocking her arm away and dragging the helmet off. Dark masses of damp hair spilled forth, black in the moonlight. Sybelle gasped. A woman?

But then the soldier drew a deep breath, raising a pale face to the light. Thin boned and delicate, yes, but it wasn't a woman's beauty. Sybelle raised a hand to her lips, feeling her heart give a hard, painful start of surprise. 'He's just a child,' she thought, wondering. 'A little boy'.

But there was nothing of the child in the hard, dark eyes that fixed upon her, pinning her in place like a mouse beneath the gaze of a cat. And there was nothing at all boyish about the flash of burning anger that twisted his expression, his voice a hoarse rasp of hate. "You!"

For one moment she felt unexplainable fear. Icy cold, it blossomed in her throat, spreading chill fingers down her spine. Then, in the next, the rising wail of the ambulance siren cut between them, the flash of red and white lights as the vehicle pulled up to the head of the steps streaking crazily across the darkened beach.

The soldier ripped his gaze away from her and Sybelle found she could breath again, the fear vanishing as quickly as it had come. The boy scrambled to his feet, too quick for her to catch. "Wait...!"

It was like something from an action video and she, in her sheltered life, had never seen the like. He moved nearly too fast for her to see, flinging himself towards the stairs even as the EMCs emerged from the ambulance. An elbow caught one across the throat, flinging the man back like a broken doll with a sickening crunch. Hands caught the second, easily tossing the larger body down the long slick length of the stairs to crumple at the bottom. Swift, silent and utterly deadly. Sybelle froze, unable to breath, eyes wide.

She heard the shatter of glass as the boy thrust a hand through the window of the ambulance, and though she squeezed her eyes shut she could still hear the sharp crack as the driver was tossed aside as well. And then the engine was gunned, the siren blaring, and when she gasped and opened her eyes the ambulance was speeding away.

Stumbling to her feet, Sybelle half ran to the foot of the stairs, shying past the body there. "Wait! Oh god... wait..." But the siren was in the distance, long gone, and there was only the wash of the waves and the bodies and her.

She caught herself against the gate at the head of the stairs, leaning against it. She thought, if she looked, she could just catch the glimmer of the lights in the distance. "I don't know who you are," she whispered, wide eyed. Somehow, that fact seemed dreadfully important, more than the bodies of the ambulance personnel, more than anything else. "I... I'm Sybelle. And you are...?"

But her words were lost in the night, unheard, unknown and unanswered.

- Alliance Military Carrier, Oz Specials Division -

The young soldier slipped off his cap, scrubbing a hand through his sandy hair before quickly putting it back on. "What's taking the under-sea unit so long?" he demanded irritably. "They said they'd be here in two hours."

His companion made a disgusted noise. "What? They're taking a break?"

The sound of footsteps behind them made both guiltily half turn. Lieutenant Marcus Caesar gave them a small half smile, his lips beneath the silvery edge of his mask turning up. "Relax," he advised them gently. "That Mobile Suit isn't going anywhere. Besides, this sea trench is deep. It's going to take some time for the Navy to do a thorough search." The smile faded away as quickly as it had come. Leaning forward, Marcus dropped a handful of printouts on the console between the two men. "Besides... I have something interesting here."

Frowning, the second man picked up the topmost printout, studying it. The picture was grainy and taken at a distance, but the forms were mostly recognizable. "This is..."

"Taken by an OZ surveillance aircraft," Marcus said smoothly. One gloved fingertip tapped the print out. "What do you think? It looks just like the one we fought, doesn't it?"

The first soldier swallowed, leafing through the other printouts. "So there's another one?"

"That's not all." Marcus' voice was matter of fact but his tone held a chill to it. "The reports have been coming in; two major OZ facilities, a Mobile Suit factory and a recovery unit like us looking for a fallen object have been destroyed by unknown enemy units."

The men's eyes were wide and growing wider. "There are four more?" the second asked.

Marcus nodded slightly. "And the one that fell into the sea... altogether, there are five."

The first man looked from the printouts to his superior, face pale. "Five? Five Gundams?"

The Lieutenant's smile held no humor in it at all. "I guess we were lucky. We seem to be the only ones who encountered a Gundam and lived through it."

- University, Europe -

The evening crowds on campus were only slightly smaller than those of the daytime students, bright lights above the paths illuminating groups and clusters of young men and women as they went from building to building in the after dinner hours. Familiar, safe, utterly sane. It was as though she had never left. Sybelle shifted her purse against her hip, fishing in the depths of it to find a clip for her hair. A voice calling out made her look up; "Sybelle!"

She waved to the trio of girls, all her own age. Finding the clip, she hastily pinned back part of her hair, securing it away from her face. "Good evening."

One of the girls smiled, showing off an attractive set of dimples. "Good evening, Sybelle. It's so good to see you. We weren't sure if you'd be back in time - did you really get to go to the Colonies over holiday? How exciting! And your birthday is tomorrow..."

Familiar chatter in familiar voices, as though nothing at all had happened. Nothing. Sybelle smiled and hooked one slender pale arm through her friend's, letting the girl's voices soothe the lingering doubts in her heart.

The small lecture hall quieted some as the professor entered, and still more when an unfamiliar face followed the man, standing quietly beside the podium. The professor cleared his throat for attention, gesturing to the young man. "Everyone, we have a new face in class. He just transfered from another University."

Sybelle looked down and felt her breath cut off in her chest. Thick masses of wavy hair framed a pale heart shaped face, shining with auburn glints beneath the bright lights of the room. Dark eyes slid across those assembled, but when they came to her she felt herself freeze, everything darkening but for those two cold, black eyes.

It was him. It was him.

She lost the next words of the professor, catching only the final end. "...introduce Armand de Morte. Armand, there's an empty seat next to Sybelle. Why don't you sit there? She can help you if you have any questions."

Sybelle bit the inside of her lip, not daring to draw breath. Without a second glance the boy climbed the stairs to take the seat beside her, sliding gracefully into the desk. When he wasn't looking at her the sensation eased some, letting her draw a small gasp and, tentatively, glance at him sidelong. His face, in profile, made her heart pound in her chest. He was the same. The same boy, from the beach. The soldier. She was positive of it.

Wetting her lips, she forced her quiet whisper to not squeak, no matter the tightness in her chest. "Hello. My name... my name's Sybelle."

But the boy never glanced at her, never once showed that he heard, his gaze focused on the professor below as he ignored her completely.

She caught up to him after the class, on the steps in front of the building. He had been up from his seat before she had even gathered her books, forcing her to push her way through those leaving. "Armand! Armand, wait!"

He heard her, she knew he did. Pausing at the foot of the stairs, he glanced up once, the look shooting a thrill of ice through her.

One of her friends tugged at her wrist, eyes wide. "Oh, Sybelle, what are you..."

Ignoring them, Sybelle stepped forward. She didn't know, herself, what she meant to do - only that she had to speak to him. Something about him drew her, even as he made her shiver. But there was no reason for it... standing there on the steps in a neat sweater and pressed slacks, tendrils of auburn curls fluttering across his cheeks in the breeze, he was beautiful and maybe... maybe that was reason enough.

That, and the three bodies of dead men left upon a beach, where he had crawled from the ocean in the uniform of a soldier. That secret hung between them, and she wondered if it was that which chilled her when his eyes touched hers.

Breathless, she stopped before him. Reaching into her bag, she took out an unmarked linen envelope, presenting it to him. "This is for you." His eyes flickered to it momentarily, letting her draw breath enough to continue. "I'm having a birthday party tomorrow."

Behind her, she could hear the excited whispers of her friends. Those who knew her were all hoping for an invitation, for the chance to attend the party of the Foreign Minister's daughter. She pressed the envelope into the boy's hand. "I hope you can come."

The boy glanced up again, his eyes locking to hers. Sybelle held her breath. A pale hand lifted the envelope, turning it idylly between slender fingers. Then, very deliberately, the boy ripped it in half, letting the pieces drop to the ground to be gusted away by a breath of wind.

Shocked, Sybelle felt tears well up in her eyes. Never, in all her memory, had anyone refused one of her invitations. "Why..."

The boy reached out. Sybelle flinched, but his cool fingertips only brushed her cheek, gently wiping away the tear in an intimate gesture. Hesitantly, she ventured a smile. He returned it, but the small movement of his lips never reached his dark eyes.

As he stepped past her, he leaned closer, his whisper meant for her and her alone. Smooth and cold, his voice wrapped around her, the words quiet and deliberate. "Voi uccider�."

Stunned, she made no move as he walked past her, down the stairs and away. Her friends were speechless, but they had no idea of his last whisper. Only she had heard that, and it was, she was certain, meant for her and her alone, spoken with a hatred she couldn't even comprehend that chilled her to the bone. "Dear god..." she whispered helplessly, "who is he?"

[End, Episode 1]
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