3:39:34 p.m.

The shock jolted him where he sat, the controls grasped firmly in his hands, the sweat running into his gloves. He pulled them back with a grunt, feeling the behemoth, metallic body underneath him shivering in protest. A flash of light erupted from the right, spreading a thin, blue disk of energy that crashed into the hull of his mobile suit. The machine rumbled, the harness shaking off debris and lose parts as it was hurled back. The impact hit him square in the stomach. He could feel the flow of it rushing through his veins, spilling out in a grunt he barely heard. He had to straighten the machine. Straighten it. Haul it out of firing range. He gripped the controls harder and pulled back, the fine hairs at the back of his neck drenched with sweat. He could feel it snaking down his neck, choking him as it mingled with the leather harness, plastic helmet, metal bars, chrome and steel. Flashes of blue exploded to the left and right.

“Where the hell's back up?!”

Static erupted from the radio, a face appearing and disappearing within a sea of snow and jumbled lines. He couldn't hear a word it was saying. He wanted to reach out and punch at the console, tear out the radio and fling it down into those damned squeaking tubes that spread out from beneath his legs. He wanted to tear off his helmet and see beyond the green spider lines that blurred everything. Everything. The sweat was running into his eyes. Back up. He needed back up. Where the hell was Dorothy? A forth and fifth explosion thundered across the hull, his body jerking forwards to crash against the controls. He tasted blood as he straightened, white pain shooting out towards every nerve end. White. Spinning white. Neon green pulsing lights of white. They were saying something. To him. They wanted to speak to him.

“Do you know what this is, your excellency?”

He held a bright, green orb in his hands, turning it slowly within his white gloves. Light caught in its surface and split into his eyes, mesmerizing him. It was beautiful. He passed it back to the man who had given it to him. “No.” His answer made the man smile. Dr. Darüber. Oslo, wasn't it? The spring of AC 192. He walked away from the doctor and the shimmering orb and came to stand by the window. His image looked back at him, silent and impassive. He looked bored.

“It's an MF-XG-57. It's a piloting device. If applied to your run of the mill mobile suit, it increases pilot control by 80%.” Dr. Darüber set the orb on a black box, closing the lid slowly. “We'd like you to test it, sir.”

There was a nebula outside the window. Bubble gum pink. It twirled within itself and twirled outside the window, moving on at slow, feathery speeds. His reflection smiled at it, the corners of his mouth turning up. His hand had risen to lie against the glass. It felt cool under his touch, one thousand cubic tons of plexi-glass between him and the universe. Pink, blue, deep, distant purple lights. His eyes wanted to tear through the glass. Float, drift out towards the darkness. How soon would his body be crushed? Would he feel his stomach burst from his mouth, like in that story about the equations and the little stowaway girl with the sandals...?

“Are you listening, sir? Testing would begin at 1800 hours on Wednesday...”

He had left a suit to be picked up from the tailors on Wednesday. He turned away from the window and took in Dr. Darüber, slowly moving across his equipment, standing still by the door, sitting at a console, punching in codes. Codes to whom? This was Oslo, wasn't it? February 4th, AC 181. TV news feeds running the story on the Federation Forces that subjected the city to fire for three days straight. The news had travelled to every nation on Earth, to every colony spinning out in space, to the office of Heero Yuy and the Federation's Special Forces. Mobile Armour wars. He had been five. Relena had been a new born. His little sister. The beautiful blond girl.

He shook his head. “What did you say, doctor...?”

“You need to move him slowly. His spine might've suffered in the blast.”

The lights running along the hangar pulsed overhead, bathing the soldiers pressing close an eerie, greenish blue. Nurse Zwei wanted to push them all aside. She couldn't see the doctor anymore, couldn't see the captain. She clutched her clipboard to her chest and tried to push her way through. “All of you have to step back. Please, we need you to cooperate.” An aide pushed his way through ahead of her, grunting that the stretcher would be along shortly.

“What about the mobile suit? That's a Zero System MS.”

Nurse Zwei bit her lip in annoyance. She hated soldiers. The mobile suit could burn itself to a crisp as far as she was concerned, but the pilot was still curled up inside, shivering in a foetus position. She could see his fingers twitching, blue eyes open towards the console as he smiled to himself. The man from the earth wide broadcast. The snowy blond man who threatened to destroy the Earth. Two aides were lifting him up from the controls, his legs folding underneath him.

“Christ, he's in shock.” A grunt was heard. A metal bar clattered to the floor. The left controller. “Think he could've pulled it out?” The stretcher was wheeled in, squeaking across the polished hangar floor. Several soldiers drew back. More drew closer, breathing down each other's necks. “Somebody close his eyes, he's giving me the bloody creeps.” The body was placed on the stretcher, eyes closed but smile still in place, speaking to himself. His fingers twitched once, reaching.

“Has anyone ever kissed you?”

What a stupid thing to say. He turned on his back and gazed up at the ceiling. Beside him, his commander propped himself up on one elbow. Dishevelled hair, dishevelled thoughts. He was studying the snowy blond man, snowy blond boy, as if he had never really seen him before. “Mirialdo,” he murmured, then chuckled. “What a terrible name.”

Mirialdo turned his head to look at him. He wanted to insult his commander's own name, but it wasn't proper. He had to be proper. He smiled instead. It really was a silly name, and so many documents misspelled it that he had lost count of whether he was Mirialdo, Milliard, Milialdo, Miliardo, Mirardo, Minute Maid’s Maiden of Monterey. He shook his head.

“What time is it...?”

His commander reached out for the digital clock set on the floor, drawing a purple dressing gown on before he padded out of bed. “One in the afternoon, according to this.” Mirialdo watched him step into the bathroom. Probably eager to wash everything that was him out of his skin. When the bathroom door had clicked shut, he drew the covers away from his body and looked down at himself. Nothing. No teeth marks, no blush, no imprints. Snow white. He drew his legs up and turned on his side. One day. One day his raging hormones at 12 pm would get him into trouble.

“Yes, sir, many people have kissed me.”

It didn't sound right. He knew his face, his voice, the way he walked, everything about him said that no one had ever touched him, kissed him, turned him on. He was virginal. What a damnable thing to be. “Come ‘ere,” he murmured to his commander's calico, who had padded in quietly, licking her hind legs as she watched the pale, naked man on the bed reach out for her. Mirialdo hoisted her up onto his stomach and stroked her head, smiling as she purred and closed her eyes. “You like that, huh? You beautiful thing.” He pressed his lips against her fur. She bounded off his stomach with her nails biting into his flesh.

“You like her?”

Aide Yon shook his head. “Heck no. Damnable woman. Makes my skin crawl. Did you see the way she held on to his hand? Man.”

The sound of their shoes echoed away down the hall, a door at the end sliding to let them pass. Nurse Zwei watched them leave and wished she could leave with them. The snowy blond man had been sent to the base's sick bay. He lay in a cold grey slab, fingers curling into themselves and his lips racing through several words. IV needle. Stat checks. “He's fine physically. No ruptures or lesions of any kind.” The doctor had switched off his check board and prescribed complete bed rest. “But... he's not coming to, doctor.” Yes, but he will. This is the Zero System.

A gaunt old man had stepped into the room, followed by a blond girl. She barely reached Zwei's head. She sat by the man's bed, taking his hand into her own as she stroked it, nails over flesh. “Lord Mirialdo. Your majesty.” Aide Yon had stepped out then, followed by several others. Zwei would have stepped out as well, but the doctor had assigned her to the patient. She couldn't leave.

“Can anyone get me a cigarette...?”

No one answered. The words bounced off the silver walls and came back to him. A fan spun to itself above him, creaking to itself. Salt water. It smelled like salt water, and he wanted to smoke. He drew a hand through his hair.

“They're going to crash soon,” the old man said. What was his name? Harold? The strange old man with the wrap-arounds and the bad shorts. He drew in a deep breath and turned to look at Harold.

“Hey, Harold, can I... can I ask you something...?”

The old man took a seat beside his bed, straddling the chair so that his chin came to rest over his bony arms. A skeleton man. Mirialdo stared at him in fascination. He smelled like the ocean. He smelled like old people. Like sagging flesh and urine and mothballs and medicine cabinets. He never wanted to smell like that.

“You were gonna say, son...?”

Mirialdo started. Say...? There was going to be a question...? Oh. Yeah. He looked up at Harold and felt stupid. “I was just going to... ah...” He sighed. “Why did you save me?”

“Because you looked beautiful.”

His mother's hands ran down the lapel of his dress suit, a black tuxedo. He felt awkward and gangly. “Mum, everyone'll be there...” She smiled, straightening his hair, murmuring to herself. “You have such beautiful curls.” His name. She murmured his name afterwards. His real name. His own language, not the tortured, metallic dissonance of the soldiers and the reports and the expensive, foreign tutors. “Say it again , Mum.” She smiled a dazzling kindness, pale blue eyes nestled amidst golden curls and snow white skin. “Say what, precious?”

“Say it, say my name.”

Treize looked at him in silence. His commander. His superior. His calico had clambered onto his lap, purring to herself as Treize ran his fingers through her fur. He seemed about to say something, pondering between his lips whether the snowy blond boy in the bed really existed beyond his vision or not. Mirialdo pulled the covers around his body and sat up in bed. Something was... he didn't know how... He looked at his hands. Semen stained hands. He curled up his fingers and drew them away from him. The calico had jumped down from Treize's lap, padding across the carpet as she called out to herself. Mirialdo watched her. He couldn't look at Treize. Couldn't look at him.

“You've been asleep for three hours, Mirialdo.”

He rubbed at the sleep in his eyes. A faint, metallic taste was in his mouth. The disorientation was slow in leaving him, filtering out in slow waves of nausea and a sharp pressure at the back of his neck. Persistent. He gripped the covers and looked up into Treize's eyes. Blue. Silent.

“What the Hell's going on?”

Treize crossed his legs, his night gown draping over him like a shroud. “What do you mean?”

“Where am I?”

Nurse Zwei's head snapped up, her cigarette forgotten. His fingers had twitched. Lifted from the coverlet and raced across centimetres of space. His voice died down slowly, a faint whisper she could barely make out. A breath. She stepped closer, slowly. His body lay still in its grey slab, lips settling once more into a straight line. She bent down closer. She could see his lashes, each fine hair, taut and black. His breath was heavy and hot against her cheek. “What did you say...? What did you...?”

“You have to tell me where I am. There was a doctor, Harold...”

Mirialdo sat up in bed. Treize's room spread out from beneath him, Art Deco, Art Noveau, African Masks imported from Rwanda. Caravan trails. No. Reality. He had to hold on to reality. He gripped the covers harder. Harder. The stiff cotton bit into his palms, chafing the skin. It hurt. He could feel it. Pulsing red and harsh against his veins. He could hear Treize cough and cross his legs again, silk racing across silk.

“There was a doctor?” Treize murmured. “You've been here all day. You've been drifting in and out of sleep. I thought maybe you had a fever...” He had moved to place a cool hand against Mirialdo's neck, the fingers sliding from palm to tough skin to fingernails. Mirialdo jerked his face away. He clenched his teeth.

“There was a war.”

Treize sat back in bed, his breath escaping through clenched teeth. Pushed forward. “Why are you so paranoid, Mirialdo? I don't know about any war. You've been stationed at this base for weeks now. We all have.” He moved away from the bed, the calico curling herself around his legs as he walked towards his breakfast table. Croissants, half a cantaloupe, toast, butter, a tulip in an onyx base. Mirialdo remembered. The cantaloupe had arrived last. He had asked for it. I've never had cantaloupe... Well, here's your chance to try one. Treize picked up a piece of toast and bit into it, bread grinding over teeth. Mirialdo sat at the edge of the bed, their bed.

“I was sick...?”

“That's what I thought.”

Eyelashes. Fluttering. Blue light spilling down towards him. His arms shot up to cover his eyes. What...? A voice was coming through, faintly. A female voice. He turned his head. A shape stood beside him, a slim shape bathed in half light. He tried to sit up, but gave up the attempt as waves of nausea ran up towards his mouth. Lightning quick.

“Who's...?”

“He's coming to.”

“I'm...”

Treize held him in his arms, placing him gently back into bed. Shh, he murmured. Lie back. Sleep. He didn't want to. He wanted to eat something. He placed his hands on Treize's shoulders. I'm all right, he mouthed. “Sleep.” But I'm all right... I'm all right... Treize kissed his forehead. Gently. Mirialdo gazed at his cheeks in silence. He didn't know Treize could be this kind... But I'm all right...

“Somebody call the nurse! He's coming to...”

“Treize... Can you tell me something...?”

The hands came to rest at the back of his neck. Treize looked at him in silence, waiting. Mirialdo gazed up at the ceiling. White. White on black. White lights. Always white lights. He could feel the world sliding away from beneath him.

“Why are you here... with me...?”

Treize smiled. He was going to say it. It was there, behind his eyes. Because you're beautiful. Mirialdo averted his gaze.

“Stats are back to normal. Heart rate increasing. Somebody get that compressed gas lever, that ought'a pry out that damn hatch...”

His mother thought he was beautiful. The beach, the beach thought he was beautiful. He knew better. He was narcissistic. Narcissistic sand. He wanted Treize to say it. Your eyes are mismatched. Your nose is too pointed. Your lips are twisted. Your voice are nails across underwater boards. Choked. You're choking on yourself, boy. He wanted to hear it. Hear it for himself. He placed his hands along Treize's cheeks, fingers dipping into the skin, teeth clenched. “Say it. Damn it. Say it.”

“On my count! Three, two, one! Heave! Come on!”

“Heart rate back to normal. Is that hatch open?”

The war was outside the window, mingled with the bubble gum pink nebula. He had always been inside it. White lights, exploding beyond his vision, rushing through his veins before they spilled out through his lips. Blood. He could taste blood. Faint and metallic and unreal. The metal harness bit into his body, and the war was all around him. He knew it. He had survived it. War had been kind to him. What could he see? Flashes of blue. Where was Berker with his bike and Otto with his collection of Chinese bottle caps and Noin with her yellow ribbons tied around the left pedal? Flashes of blue. Names on reports. It hit him. It pushed him onto his knees while he stood straight and saluted their coffins. The war was always around him, but never close to his skin.

“Say it, damn it!”

“That's it! We've got it! Pry it lose...”

Air escaped in a hiss, blasting into his face. He saw it come towards him, hurtling forward at the speed of atoms in collision. Nuclear bombs. His helmet lay in his hands, nestled against his hips. Waiting. Faces came into view with military urgency, pressing close. Is he all right? Sir! Give me that damned flashlight! Is he there? He couldn't smile. Not for them.

“You're not beautiful, Mirialdo...”

Their smiles were dazzling. The snowy blond man. Their relief spilled forward into him in the shape of hands and the sound of the harness as it was unhooked and he was brought forward. “They got him!” He felt the momentum drive him forward. Hero worship. In their eyes, glistening in the dim lights of the hangar. Nurse Zwei stood behind them, clipboard pressed against her chest. Smiling. Like an idiot. Smiling because he was alive. He stepped away from them.

“You're not perfect...”

An aide stepped forward, reaching out towards him. “Your MS was drifting for a few minutes. We pulled you in as quickly as we could. Quinze was—“ He turned away. He didn't want to look at them. Mirialdo. Metallic and alien. Beautiful. He caught sight of himself reflected in the hangar windows and stopped. Golden. Golden silver. Aides gathered around him. He could hear the deep ring of Dorothy's boots as she walked across the hangar. “Lord Mirialdo...” He could feel his teeth clenching. His face smirked at him. Smirked in silence and looked towards space. White flashes of light.

“Sir...?”

Treize turned on his side, smiling.

“Do you... really believe that...? It's that what you really feel...?”

“Of course.”

“Say it again...”

A white flash of light raced out across his subsconcious, jolting him forward. The controls lay in his grip, his mouth working forward towards a scream. Stop! Stop it! He flung out his hand, his fingers smashing against the console. Metal. The radio. Static.

“Quinze...?”

Treize smiled, softly, gazing down at Mirialdo's hands. “You're bony, you know that...?” He placed his hand over Mirialdo's, flesh over skin. “You're not beautiful...”

Static erupted on the screen. Quinze's face. He spread his fingers over it. Cold. Metal. The present. Here. Now. He felt his breath implode from his lungs.

“Where the Hell is back up?”

Quinze faltered into filtered jumbles of light. “... coming... north... enough...”

He sighed. Softly. Breath in his lungs. He felt his body sag. A bright blue explosion came from the left, far away. Someone else. He closed his eyes. Here. Now. He gripped the controls.

“Thank you... I'll be coming in.”
 
 
 

Author's Note

December 8th, 1999.  8.12 PM. Finished while listening to Agricantus and downloading the trailer for The Astronaut's Wife (recently out of theatres at the time of this writing). This story was born out of the realization that all of my OZ stories seemed to deal with the aristocracy... So I decided to bring surrealism into the mix. I'll probably regret that the next time around... Hmm.
 

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© November 19th, 1999 - December 8th, 1999 Team Bonet. Gundam Wing is © 1995 Sunrise Entertainment. Thank you for reading.