Gundam Wing Bloopers
Written by: Pellaeon
(Author’s note: With the insanity of battle and everything that is so well known in Gundam Wing, one must not forget that this is only a cartoon. But then, what if it wasn’t?)
The vicious green blade of Deathscythe carved through another Leo as if it were putty, and an explosion ripped out from the Mobile Suit. “Almost there!” Duo Maxwell yelled, knowing full well that either Heero or Trowa were going to get the target first. Sandrock lagged far behind, caught between an Aries screen and the others, with the battle-maddened Wufei gunning for the command staff in the offshore oil platform’s control tower. The target was a series of fuel canisters that were to be shipped to OZ, and would likely fuel the constant onslaught of Mobile Suits against them.
Another Leo dived at Duo with his beam saber raised high. The American pilot raised his left arm and the saber impacted against his buster shield. The dark Mobile Suit danced back a few steps, then jumped and aimed a slash at the Leo to bisect it from head to groin...
...And it would have, except it sliced through a heavy-duty sound rig, dropping the giant microphone to the ground.
“Oops,” the American mumbled.
“CUT!!!” the director screamed. “Dammit, Duo, that’s the third one this week!!! Do you know how expensive these stupid giant microphones are?! And they’re not getting any cheaper with you slicing them up!”
He opened Deathscythe’s hatch and stepped out on the gangway. “It’s not my fault!” the American actor yelled. “You keep having your sound guy putting them too close!”
“It’s the only way we can get the damned sounds out of that Mobile Suit! They designed it to be stealthy after all!” the director shot back. He threw his hands into the air in exasperation. “All right, people. Reset. We’ll do the scene again in fifteen minutes.”
“That does it!!!” Duo heard someone scream from his left, and saw Heero climbing out of Wing. “I have had it! This is the fifth time and I am not doing it again!”
The director took off his beret. “Whaddya mean, ‘you’re not doing it again?’”
“I mean I’m not doing it again!”
“But, Heero, it’s the last shot of the episode!” he pleaded as the Japanese kid began to walk away. “Hey, where’re you going?”
He spun on his heel. “I’m going to my trailer, I’m going to get a gun, and I’m going to shoot myself for agreeing to be in this damned series!!!” he screamed, then stalked off.
“What?!” The director raised his bullhorn to his mouth. “Heero! Heero, don’t do this to me! I’ll be back directing traffic, for crying out loud! Heero! Don’t leave me hanging up here! You’re killing me, Heero! I love ya! I do!”
Duo hopped out of Deathscythe, the looked over to see Trowa huddling back against Heavyarms.
“Can someone puh-leeeeeze get me down from here?” Trowa pleaded. “I hate heights!”
Duo turned away, walking off and shaking his head as he picked up a Danish and a cup of coffee from his chair. He took a bite of Danish before sipping the coffee, then promptly spit his mouthful out. He held up his cup of coffee. “Who in the hell did this?!!!”
The immediate wave of giggling rose to greet him, and he spun to glare at Relena and Dorothy, two of his fellow actors.
He glared at them. “This is not funny!!! I DO NOT LIKE CAPPUCCINO!!! You idiot broads KNOW it makes me hyper!!!”
Dorothy giggled. “Oh, come on, Duo. Don’t get so pissy about it!”
Duo could feel the supercharged coffee begin to set in. “Pissy?
Who’spissy? Notme. I’mnotpissyaboutthis. I’mtotallycalmandfocused. Justmakesureyoudon’tdothisagain, causeyouknowIhatecappuccino...”
Relena rolled her eyes and walked off, leaving Dorothy to deal with the suddenly hyper Duo. She quickly passed some of the cameras and walked back over to her chair, sitting down and opening up the newspaper. She was about to start reading when a rose dropped into her lap. She sighed, then lowered the newspaper in exasperation. “Treize, it doesn’t matter how many times you ask me, I am not going out with you.”
The actor frowned, then walked from behind Relena’s chair and knelt beside her, taking her hand. “Oh, please? Honestly, I’m not that bad a guy. I could take you to this really nice spot downtown...”
“Treize, for one, you are so not my type, and for another, you are cheaper than a thief in a 99-cent store! Where you going to take me, huh? The Roxbury? Puh-leeze. Give me a break. I don’t care if you play a charming character. You so are not one...”
Elsewhere, two women sat in their respective chairs over a cup of coffee. “That Duo is such a klutz,” one said, her hair reminiscent of Trowa Barton’s.
“You’re telling me?” said the smaller girl next to her. “Hell, though, you’re lucky. You aren’t associated with him in a way that might imply that you’re dating him, Noin.”
“And every other person in the world thinks you’re pathetic because they think he’s gay.” She laughed. “Yeah, I get Zechs. Which isn’t all that much better. I’ve even talked with the director, the script supervisor, nearly everybody, just to make my character seem a little less obsessive. But, I tell you, Hilde, do they listen to me? Noooooo...”
A hand slowly began reaching past the two woman, aiming at a small plate of Swiss chocolates on a table between them. Noin saw it as quickly as Hilde did, and the younger girl slapped Trowa’s hand, forcing him to pull it back with a yelp. “How many times do I have to tell you, boy?” Hilde asked, glaring daggers at him. “No, you can’t have any of my Swiss chocolates!”
“But I want one,” the actor whined, standing. “I mean, what’s the big deal?!”
“The big deal is that these things cost about twenty bucks a package, and have to be imported from freaking Switzerland! You try sneaking chocolates from Switzerland! See how easy that is and stop bothering me!”
Noin frowned and shook her head. “Oh, Hilde, let him have a damned chocolate.”
Hilde held the box to her chest. “No, they’re mine.”
“Someone say chocolate?” Zechs peeked his head over from behind a flat, his mask carried under his arm. “I’d like one too, please.”
“Hey, chocolate! Kickass!” said one of the sound crew. “Lemme have one too!”
“Ditto!”
“Hey, Hilde, can I have one?”
“Hilde, pleeeeeeaze?”
“Pleeeeeaze, Miss Hilde?”
Hilde’s face turned bright red, then she stood atop her chair and held the chocolates above her head. “No, you dense, fat-headed, irritating, socially-misguided, whining little beggars!!! These are mine,” she screamed. “And I am not sharing these with anybody! You want chocolate?! Go down to a freaking Seven-Eleven, for crying out loud! But I’m not sharing my expensive Swiss chocolates with you jackasses!!!”
Noin shrugged. “Just as well, then. They rot your teeth anyway.”
“They do?” Hilde asked, then shrieked and flung the box away, losing her balance and tipping over as she windmilled her arms.
The others cheered as rare and expensive Swiss chocolates rained down on them.
Back in his trailer, Heero banged his head over and over against his makeup counter, but a knock at his door prevented his continued self-abuse. He raised his head and ran a hand back through his brown hair. “Come in,” he said.
The door to the trailer opened and Une stepped in. “Director sent me to find you,” she said.
Heero snorted. “I’m not surprised. He doesn’t want to come here and see me himself.”
Une shrugged. “That doesn’t concern me either way. He wants to know if you’re going to do the scene again.”
He rolled his blue eyes. “I told him, ferchrissake, no. How many times do I have to repeat it?!”
Une smiled wickedly. “You know, I could always tell your fans outside that there isn’t a lock on your trailer door.”
Heero quickly stood and clamped a hand over her mouth. “Are you insane? What if someone heard you?! They would storm this place immediately! Not even security can hold back a wave of my fans!”
“Mee muphthitume mo me nunular momm, mm?” Une said under Heero’s hand. When the Japanese kid removed it, she tried again. “The substitute to the nuclear bomb?”
“Worse,” Heero replied.
She folded her arms across her chest. “You go back out there and do the scene and I’ll forget about it, okay?”
Heero grumbled. “You are a tough negotiator.”
“One of the best,” Une said, smiling triumphantly.
Zechs studied the silver bird-nosed helmet under the light. “My question is this: how in the world would my character be able to become a top pilot with this damned contraption on?!”
Treize frowned, taking another sip of his Pepsi. “Ditto. I mean, how in the world is anyone going to understand a word I’m saying?! When I was doing Gladiator II some time ago, at least people knew what I was saying!”
Zechs looked over at him. “You were one of the first people to get killed in that movie. As I recall, the entire repertoire of your lines were you shrieking in absolute terror before you got dusted.”
“Hey. It still counts,” the actor said defensively, leveling a finger at Zechs. “They did know what I was saying.”
“Yeah, I’ll give you that. Screams of horror aren’t easily misconstrued.” He rolled his blue eyes. “You’re just jealous because those kids are getting all the fame instead of you.”
Treize sighed. “It’s getting to the point that I can’t even go out in the daytime anymore. Kids look at me and shriek: ‘Hey, it’s that Treize asshole! Get him!’ I’m being chased by freaking five-year-olds, man! Is there any worser humiliation?!”
“I can always go back to my music if this series flops anyway,” Zechs replied, smiling.
A light brown eyebrow raised. “Since when did hitting off-key chords on a guitar and screaming into a microphone count as music?”
“It’s all the rage now!” Zechs said, defending himself as Treize had before. He set down his helmet prop, then picked up a guitar.
Treize smiled. “You are going to die a man with no larynx.”
Zechs’ bone-crushing riposte that would likely have involved him slamming the guitar over Treize’s head was cut short by a commotion on the set. Both men peeked from behind a flat to see Quatre racing around with something white held over his head in one hand, Wufei running after him.
“Quatre!!! C’mon, man!!! Stop playing!!! Give them back!!!” the Chinese actor wailed.
Quatre laughed, still running around, waving his white trophy above his blond head. “What? And deprive the world of the question that they’ve asked for ages? Deprive them of the answer of whether Chang Wufei wears either boxers or briefs?!”
Zechs and Treize turned away, shuddering with their backs against the flat. “I don’t even want to know,” the German actor said, his face a slate of horror.
Zechs, blue eyes wild and panicked, swallowed. “Please tell me I didn’t hear that.”
“Hear what?” a voice asked.
Both heads turned to see Catherine Bloom walking up, her purse over one shoulder and a denim jacket over the other.
Treize frowned. “Believe me, if we could erase the memories, Catherine, we would.”
She smiled lightly, then frowned. “There’s Relena again.”
Treize looked over his shoulder, taking another sip of his Pepsi, Zechs folding his arms over his chest as he turned to look back at Relena, who was yelling at a caterer, likely for not having any more chocolate-covered jelly donuts.
“I bet she fought and clawed for that part,” Zechs said. “Stepped on every poor girl to just get up there.”
“No, there was a simpler way,” Catherine said, smiling.
Zechs frowned. “That being?”
She winked. “Easy. She slept with the director.”
Treize did a spit-take as soon as the words were out of her mouth, the soda in his mouth spraying onto the floor. “What?!”
Catherine giggled. “She slept with the director! I thought it was obvious.”
Treize frowned. “Well...not really...”
“Hey, I’m going to go get something to eat. Want to come?” she asked Treize.
“I’ll come!” Zechs spoke up quickly.
Her eyes narrowed at him. “Aren’t you married?”
Treize was laughing all the way to Catherine’s Porsche.
END.