The Mission
Posted: Thu Jul 08, 2004 12:37 am
Read "My Heero" and "My Relena" first 
This is an experiment. It's what might have happened if the vision Epyon gave Heero were accurate - the one where Relena exploded while staring out of her Sanc Kingdom window.
The war would NOT have continued as it had in the series, and Heero never would have recovered his sanity after going mad inside Epyon.
In this fiction, the Zero system wiped out his memory, and the Earth and Colonies never came to be at peace. There is only one government, that of the Earth. It is a dictatorship, more controlling than any ever known in history.
I don't know if I'll continue it.. I'm a bit unsure of it as a whole. But, enjoy!
This room. Though it?s small, it?s a world of it?s own; segregated from everything that isn?t a part of it, enclosed tightly like a self-reliant biosphere protecting itself from the infinite vacuum beyond. But this room resembles the universe outside the glass more so than the Earth below. Just as bleak, and just as empty. It suits me well. I have no desire to fill it with things that have no use to me, and I don?t care to alter what was already here upon my arrival. My eyes flick towards the leather bound book resting on the shelf above my consul, now cracked and aged with disuse, and lightly blanketed with dust. It was there when I was issued this room. It can stay there as long as I am here for all my concern. Most likely it will rot there, or perhaps the next to occupy this room will sell it to the highest bidding fool willing to depart with credit. The word of God is popular in times like these. To most. Those here who would have found comfort at one time from the words have long since had every hope striped from them. Such things are worthless to soldiers. Such things have always been worthless to me.
I rise from the only chair, and turn towards the bunk. My step is short, which is all that is needed in a room this size. For it?s dimensions, the layout is quite efficient; the bed juts out from the wall just below the window, and can fold up to mask the glass if desired. At the foot of the bed, there is a single shelf that stretches across the entire length of one wall, empty except for the bible. I have no plants, no carpets, no murals, nothing that requires attention or shows care. This isn?t deliberate; I just have no interest in such things.
The most invariant piece of furniture, because it can?t be tucked away or shoved aside, is a simple table against the wall. The table does not obstruct despite the space it swallows, but it is large due to the fact that it doubles as a computer consul. All one must do is press a button and a screen emerges from the center; a keyboard lowers from the bottom ledge and positions itself for easy access. The machine itself is always on, and can be controlled by Central Command on Earth. There is no privacy here. Not that I give a shit.
The bed takes my weight with ease. I don?t bother with the removal of my boots. They are immaculate regardless. As I stretch out on my back, I look towards the stars. They don?t inspire within me dreams or hopes as they do others on this station, and I am not lost to Terran nostalgia faced with the vastness of space. In fact, I don?t remember much about my life before AC 193. Period. The only things I can remember are quixotic projections and imagined fillers; things I cannot prove as fact or fiction, and are therefore mistrusted and treated as false. What I can prove comes from the sparse and incomplete paperworks in my military files. The only ones that exist are the ones I?ve stolen, not that I have been reprimanded, or even questioned. Files on me don?t retain enough information to be valuable, I suppose. Small wonder why they were so protected.
The only other factual links I have to my past only occasionally come into my notice.
A heart shaped locket I wear around my neck. Despite the rarity of my awareness of it, it demands attention and contemplation because of its intimate nature. There is no photograph. Yet I can't help but be reminded of... something... every time I finger it.
The other is a plague. A soft, strange, and repetitive melody that at the most asinine of times finds its way passed my lips. The very one I?m humming now. I blink in surprise yet continue to roll the tune around my mouth.
I have no memory of where these things were established, yet they always fill me with peace and an overwhelming sense of longing? like the soft caress of a lover, perhaps, or the gentle smile of a beautiful woman. Their meaning always escapes me, leaving me cold and rigid. And alone. Where is she?
I have no way of knowing the meaning or the origin of the questions or feelings that plague me, so I do the only thing I can. I force them away, and hope for a time of reprieve before they force their way back into my thoughts. I never succeed.
Aside from these perplexing intrusions, I don?t think about my origins. When one can?t distinguish fact from what?s imagined, memories, or what exists of them, are as worthless as the bible. It would be easy. If I only knew what the hell I?m singing.
Relena..
A shrill beep just shy of annoying attempts to capture my attention. Easily I ignore it, and instead shift my weight on the mattress, raise my arms to cradle the weight of my head, and continue to gaze into the abyss of space. The quietness and peace of the blackness outside is overwhelming. It forces existence into an unwavering stillness that mocks time with false sympathy, and grips reality with cruel and greedy attention. The stars beyond the glass appear distorted and contemptuous without Earth?s atmosphere to filter their light. Beyond them, Earth herself, regal and imposing, spinning endlessly, oblivious of her children. Human life is expendable and meaningless under her constant vigil, yet we still we fight to protect her. We will all perish, but at least she will go on, even if it will be as though we were never there. We all live, we all die, we?re all lonely as hell and pretending naught, and we all need something to fight for.
What do I fight for?
The alarm fluctuates and dissolves from a constant, persisting sound into a series of static bursts. A voice finally finds frequency and crackles over the loudspeaker. Took them long enough.
?Soldier! Why are you disregarding the order to respond? You are aware that signal has been issued and you are required by USSA to answer it??
Must be a new patrol. They always sound uncertain and nervous while trying to portray arrogance and control. Wonder who he pissed off to get stationed here.
?Soldier? Command wishes respond.?
I continue to watch the void of space for a few moments before answering in the only way I care to. Blunt as hell and even more brief.
??Then respond.?
First-Rotation Rookie. He sounds green, but for his ignorance, this must be his first assignment on this base or any other. Everyone in this field after a week knows of my reputation. I don?t answer to United-Sphere Security Agency. I don?t answer to anyone.
Except her..
?The order isn?t open. Command wants the best for this one.?
I glance over toward the computer on the consul and resist the slight urge to lift my hand to flip it off. Though the reaction of the brass buttons on the far end would be mildly interesting, they wouldn?t able to see the gesture. Soldiers might not be allowed privacy, but on principle, I?m not going to make it easy to tap in on my comp. I have to manually allow access. I?m moderately curious as to why I haven?t been reproached for that, either.
?Soldier Reply!?
He sounds desperate. I can feel my lips press tightly as I finally lift myself from the bunk. The best? Yeah, well. That doesn?t surprise me. The only memories I know to be genuine revolve around mission.
I reach the consul, and hesitate before pressing visual com. I don?t know why. It?s something I?ve always done in my patchy memory. I don?t recall any reason for my abhorrence of computers; hell my training demands the ability to utilize computer systems as an extension of my brain. Zero? But with my hand suspended in mid-air, shaking like I?m on some diabolical drug-induced trip, I can?t deny it. I hate these fucking machines.
My brows lower over my eyes in aggravation, and I?m aware that my lips curl in a snarl. After liberating a brusque breath I hadn?t been aware I was holding, I force my hand to clench tightly, flex my flesh until it tingles with blood flow, and extend my forefinger purposefully to press the button.
The consul blips, and the screen flickers with the green glow of halogen. The static clears and gives way to lines of information code I will need for mission, should I chose to accept. I always accept. I?m the only one who can. I?m also the only one who doesn?t care if I don?t come back. I sit down and casually skim through the characters and symbols of encryption, familiar with the jargon enough to decipher it without translation.
STAR DATE 12.17.199 AFTER COLONIZATION : CLASS IMMEDIATE
AGENT ; TREAT CLASSIFIED HIGHEST PRIORITY :
LUNAR BASE VIA RETRACTED SATILITE :
/NEGATIVE DAMAGE NEGATIVE MALFUNCTION/
IN POSSESSION OF RECORDED EVIDENCE : OUTTER SPACE SIGNAL
/POSSIBLE NOT HUMAN/
STATUS : UNKNOWN
/TREAT AS VIABLE INVASION TO HUMAN INTEGRITY/
MISSION : DESTROY THREAT.
I read the words again. Not because it is needed. I am aware that every mission I am given results in absolute, irrevocable annihilation. That is why I was chosen. Whether or not that signal originated from any human persuasion doesn?t constitute concern. My orders are clear. There will be nothing left that can be traced. What is destroyed in the processes of mission, the adversary, the innocent, me, none of that matters. My purpose is to obliterate all obstacles. At best, return after mission accomplished, or die doing so. It?s what I do. I?m not sure for what reason any longer, or if I ever had a reason, but that doesn?t matter, either.
Where is she?
I stare at the screen apathetically. They don?t even bother to put a survival ratio any longer. I raise my eyebrow. Not important. I never read them, anyway. I put my fingers to the keys and the distant sound of tapping fills my ears. I don?t need to guide where my fingertips fall, the words I?m typing are more familiar to me than my own code number.
- MISSION ACCEPTED.
This is an experiment. It's what might have happened if the vision Epyon gave Heero were accurate - the one where Relena exploded while staring out of her Sanc Kingdom window.
The war would NOT have continued as it had in the series, and Heero never would have recovered his sanity after going mad inside Epyon.
In this fiction, the Zero system wiped out his memory, and the Earth and Colonies never came to be at peace. There is only one government, that of the Earth. It is a dictatorship, more controlling than any ever known in history.
I don't know if I'll continue it.. I'm a bit unsure of it as a whole. But, enjoy!
This room. Though it?s small, it?s a world of it?s own; segregated from everything that isn?t a part of it, enclosed tightly like a self-reliant biosphere protecting itself from the infinite vacuum beyond. But this room resembles the universe outside the glass more so than the Earth below. Just as bleak, and just as empty. It suits me well. I have no desire to fill it with things that have no use to me, and I don?t care to alter what was already here upon my arrival. My eyes flick towards the leather bound book resting on the shelf above my consul, now cracked and aged with disuse, and lightly blanketed with dust. It was there when I was issued this room. It can stay there as long as I am here for all my concern. Most likely it will rot there, or perhaps the next to occupy this room will sell it to the highest bidding fool willing to depart with credit. The word of God is popular in times like these. To most. Those here who would have found comfort at one time from the words have long since had every hope striped from them. Such things are worthless to soldiers. Such things have always been worthless to me.
I rise from the only chair, and turn towards the bunk. My step is short, which is all that is needed in a room this size. For it?s dimensions, the layout is quite efficient; the bed juts out from the wall just below the window, and can fold up to mask the glass if desired. At the foot of the bed, there is a single shelf that stretches across the entire length of one wall, empty except for the bible. I have no plants, no carpets, no murals, nothing that requires attention or shows care. This isn?t deliberate; I just have no interest in such things.
The most invariant piece of furniture, because it can?t be tucked away or shoved aside, is a simple table against the wall. The table does not obstruct despite the space it swallows, but it is large due to the fact that it doubles as a computer consul. All one must do is press a button and a screen emerges from the center; a keyboard lowers from the bottom ledge and positions itself for easy access. The machine itself is always on, and can be controlled by Central Command on Earth. There is no privacy here. Not that I give a shit.
The bed takes my weight with ease. I don?t bother with the removal of my boots. They are immaculate regardless. As I stretch out on my back, I look towards the stars. They don?t inspire within me dreams or hopes as they do others on this station, and I am not lost to Terran nostalgia faced with the vastness of space. In fact, I don?t remember much about my life before AC 193. Period. The only things I can remember are quixotic projections and imagined fillers; things I cannot prove as fact or fiction, and are therefore mistrusted and treated as false. What I can prove comes from the sparse and incomplete paperworks in my military files. The only ones that exist are the ones I?ve stolen, not that I have been reprimanded, or even questioned. Files on me don?t retain enough information to be valuable, I suppose. Small wonder why they were so protected.
The only other factual links I have to my past only occasionally come into my notice.
A heart shaped locket I wear around my neck. Despite the rarity of my awareness of it, it demands attention and contemplation because of its intimate nature. There is no photograph. Yet I can't help but be reminded of... something... every time I finger it.
The other is a plague. A soft, strange, and repetitive melody that at the most asinine of times finds its way passed my lips. The very one I?m humming now. I blink in surprise yet continue to roll the tune around my mouth.
I have no memory of where these things were established, yet they always fill me with peace and an overwhelming sense of longing? like the soft caress of a lover, perhaps, or the gentle smile of a beautiful woman. Their meaning always escapes me, leaving me cold and rigid. And alone. Where is she?
I have no way of knowing the meaning or the origin of the questions or feelings that plague me, so I do the only thing I can. I force them away, and hope for a time of reprieve before they force their way back into my thoughts. I never succeed.
Aside from these perplexing intrusions, I don?t think about my origins. When one can?t distinguish fact from what?s imagined, memories, or what exists of them, are as worthless as the bible. It would be easy. If I only knew what the hell I?m singing.
Relena..
A shrill beep just shy of annoying attempts to capture my attention. Easily I ignore it, and instead shift my weight on the mattress, raise my arms to cradle the weight of my head, and continue to gaze into the abyss of space. The quietness and peace of the blackness outside is overwhelming. It forces existence into an unwavering stillness that mocks time with false sympathy, and grips reality with cruel and greedy attention. The stars beyond the glass appear distorted and contemptuous without Earth?s atmosphere to filter their light. Beyond them, Earth herself, regal and imposing, spinning endlessly, oblivious of her children. Human life is expendable and meaningless under her constant vigil, yet we still we fight to protect her. We will all perish, but at least she will go on, even if it will be as though we were never there. We all live, we all die, we?re all lonely as hell and pretending naught, and we all need something to fight for.
What do I fight for?
The alarm fluctuates and dissolves from a constant, persisting sound into a series of static bursts. A voice finally finds frequency and crackles over the loudspeaker. Took them long enough.
?Soldier! Why are you disregarding the order to respond? You are aware that signal has been issued and you are required by USSA to answer it??
Must be a new patrol. They always sound uncertain and nervous while trying to portray arrogance and control. Wonder who he pissed off to get stationed here.
?Soldier? Command wishes respond.?
I continue to watch the void of space for a few moments before answering in the only way I care to. Blunt as hell and even more brief.
??Then respond.?
First-Rotation Rookie. He sounds green, but for his ignorance, this must be his first assignment on this base or any other. Everyone in this field after a week knows of my reputation. I don?t answer to United-Sphere Security Agency. I don?t answer to anyone.
Except her..
?The order isn?t open. Command wants the best for this one.?
I glance over toward the computer on the consul and resist the slight urge to lift my hand to flip it off. Though the reaction of the brass buttons on the far end would be mildly interesting, they wouldn?t able to see the gesture. Soldiers might not be allowed privacy, but on principle, I?m not going to make it easy to tap in on my comp. I have to manually allow access. I?m moderately curious as to why I haven?t been reproached for that, either.
?Soldier Reply!?
He sounds desperate. I can feel my lips press tightly as I finally lift myself from the bunk. The best? Yeah, well. That doesn?t surprise me. The only memories I know to be genuine revolve around mission.
I reach the consul, and hesitate before pressing visual com. I don?t know why. It?s something I?ve always done in my patchy memory. I don?t recall any reason for my abhorrence of computers; hell my training demands the ability to utilize computer systems as an extension of my brain. Zero? But with my hand suspended in mid-air, shaking like I?m on some diabolical drug-induced trip, I can?t deny it. I hate these fucking machines.
My brows lower over my eyes in aggravation, and I?m aware that my lips curl in a snarl. After liberating a brusque breath I hadn?t been aware I was holding, I force my hand to clench tightly, flex my flesh until it tingles with blood flow, and extend my forefinger purposefully to press the button.
The consul blips, and the screen flickers with the green glow of halogen. The static clears and gives way to lines of information code I will need for mission, should I chose to accept. I always accept. I?m the only one who can. I?m also the only one who doesn?t care if I don?t come back. I sit down and casually skim through the characters and symbols of encryption, familiar with the jargon enough to decipher it without translation.
STAR DATE 12.17.199 AFTER COLONIZATION : CLASS IMMEDIATE
AGENT ; TREAT CLASSIFIED HIGHEST PRIORITY :
LUNAR BASE VIA RETRACTED SATILITE :
/NEGATIVE DAMAGE NEGATIVE MALFUNCTION/
IN POSSESSION OF RECORDED EVIDENCE : OUTTER SPACE SIGNAL
/POSSIBLE NOT HUMAN/
STATUS : UNKNOWN
/TREAT AS VIABLE INVASION TO HUMAN INTEGRITY/
MISSION : DESTROY THREAT.
I read the words again. Not because it is needed. I am aware that every mission I am given results in absolute, irrevocable annihilation. That is why I was chosen. Whether or not that signal originated from any human persuasion doesn?t constitute concern. My orders are clear. There will be nothing left that can be traced. What is destroyed in the processes of mission, the adversary, the innocent, me, none of that matters. My purpose is to obliterate all obstacles. At best, return after mission accomplished, or die doing so. It?s what I do. I?m not sure for what reason any longer, or if I ever had a reason, but that doesn?t matter, either.
Where is she?
I stare at the screen apathetically. They don?t even bother to put a survival ratio any longer. I raise my eyebrow. Not important. I never read them, anyway. I put my fingers to the keys and the distant sound of tapping fills my ears. I don?t need to guide where my fingertips fall, the words I?m typing are more familiar to me than my own code number.
- MISSION ACCEPTED.
Wow. Heero's emotions are so tangible...especially the confusion involving his past. His apathy is absolutely heartbreaking and I'm ever more grateful for how the series actually ended.