Author: Karen, The Huntress

Pairings: 1+2

Warnings: Duo's POV, language, mild angst.

Archive: DHML Archive

Rating: PG

Feedback: Always appreciated.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing or its characters

Snow

A.C. 195-New Edwards Air Base.

Never snowed on L2.

The Colony's outmoded enviro-systems barely generated enough water for day to day subsistence but, if there'd been sufficient moisture, the often frigid temperatures could've produced a freakin' blizzard.

The lack of snow might have been an orphaned gutter rat's saving grace, yet it sure as hell didn't stop the ravishing effects of poverty and disease or alleviate the utter hopelessness.

My childhood hardships did force me to become street-smart, resourceful and insufferably stubborn, but it would've been nice to live like a normal kid.

Yeah, Maxwell, define normal!

Still, I suppose the dismal circumstances that put the Maxwell Church Tragedy in motion, spawned my borrowed identity and christened me the "God of Death" are memories best forgotten.

On the optimistic side, life on the L2 hellhole prepared me for war. As a guerilla fighter I utilized the same stealth for stealing food to rout the enemy. As the pilot of Gundam Deathscythe I tapped into the same tenacious determination that has kept me alive for fifteen years.

It wasn't until I stowed away on a Sweeper's ship and met the crazy old scientist, Professor G., that my talents for terror were fully appreciated. Assigned a probable suicide mission, Deathscythe and I traveled to Earth to challenge the Specials known as OZ and overthrow the Alliance's tyrannical rule.

Months later I discovered I was not alone. Four Colonial pilots, each with their own unique Gundams, also shared my revolutionary quest and, finally, my scattered rebel comrades have assembled at New Edwards.

Chang Wufei was already here when I arrived four days ago. Over the next forty-eight hours Quatre Winner and Trowa Barton drifted in. Just this morning Heero Yuy made his appearance to complete the indomitable coalition of piss and fire and pestilence.

Anyway it's 020:18 (8:18 pm civilian time)

In a dark, vacant conference room, with hands stuffed in jacket pockets in defense against the raw cold radiating off the center windowpane, I stare in wonderment at a rare sight---snow!

To the east, a portion of the security fence's protective ring, interspersed with halogen spotlights, is visible.

Reflecting the lights' bluish hue, eerily silent flakes flutter downward in random, breeze-inspired flight. Dry grass ground, stark concrete staging areas and ribbons of paved roadways are frosted, softening the landscape's austere appearance with a wintry facade.

The only signs betraying the pretense of man's desertion are boot prints left in a pair of patrolling sentries wake, but the persistent snowfall will soon obliterate those tattletale tracks.

Directly across my sightline, the maintenance hanger is also blanketed in flawless white. Inside the massive structure assorted Mobile Suits and the five mock-human warriors of Operation Meteor are sheltered from nature's pale transformation.

However, like fallen angels denied the snow's provisional purity, Wing, Deathscythe, Sandrock, Heavyarms and Shenlong must bare their true distinctiveness as demons of destruction in much the same way I'm required to confess my copious, cryptic sins.

It may be foolish to contemplate the past or wonder about what could've been and, even though the future isn't set in stone, is surviving this war an unrealistic expectation?

Perhaps I should be cynical. Maybe the Fates will indeed make cruel promises of protection they never intend to keep. Likewise will my penitence be ignored, my prays fall on deaf ears and my ragged vestiges of faith judged to be unworthy?

But for this night I am content to linger by the window. As snowflakes slither from the moonless sky to shroud this place devoted to conflict, I consider the strength of my convictions and the pledged camaraderie of my fellow pilots.

A door opens; a momentary backwash from the hall glows then the room is again enveloped in soothing darkness. Footsteps tap across the floor as a silhouette moves closer.

"Hey." I greet when Heero steps up beside me.

A moment passes as if Heero is reluctant to disturb the comforting quiet. "Want some coffee?" he inquires, holding up two tan ceramic mugs.

Grateful for warmth both from the steaming brew and Heero's company, I accept a mug. "Thanks."

Side by side, Heero and I sip and wordlessly watch the beguiling alteration.

I might not be able to sway the whims of war or resign as the God of Death but, just for tonight, I'll take solace in the snow.

OWARI

 

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