Disclaimer: This story is not for profit. I don't own Gundam Wing, which is a registered trademark of Sotsu Agency Co., LTD. TM & Sunrise & under license by Bandai. Nor do I own the Centennial Edition of The Fountainhead published in 2005 by Plume, which was copyrighted by Ayn Rand in 1971. Some passages from the novel have been incorporated and adapted into this story.

Some parts of this chapter are taken from a conversation about Howard Roark's buildings in The Fountainhead.

Choosers of the Slain IV:

Against All Things Ending

by Terra

The war waged among the board of directors at Winner Enterprises Interspatial was fierce. If lost arguments were corpses, then the battlefield was littered with bloody bodies. Nearly everyone had protested Mr. Winner's decision to hire Heero Yuy to design Winner Tower on L1 – but on this subject, not one person could sway the company's chief executive officer. One board member said: "I don't like Yuy's face. He doesn't look right."

Another answered, "I know what you mean. He's the kind that don't fit in. He's not a regular fellow."

Quatre asked: "What's a regular fellow?"

"Hell, you know what I mean . . . regular."

"There is nothing regular about human enterprise," he responded. "Regular people didn't brave the final frontier of space and sweat and bleed and die to create the Colonies. Regular people didn't discover the physics required to build skyscrapers and they didn't design the first ones. I'm not building a monument to human mediocrity."

His words were met with awkward silence and darting, furtive glances between the board members; those who resented his leadership bit their tongues at the presumptions of a man young enough to be their sons; those who did not felt a welling sense of shame – these feelings became anger when Quatre looked each of them in the eye, direct, unwavering, daring them to refute him. They could not. "I see," said Quatre. The project was green-lit.

Two months before Heero's reputation changed from radical incompetent to indiscriminate terrorist, he began the construction of Winner Tower. In those weeks, Heero seldom slept more than three hours a night. There was a sharp efficiency in his movements, a concentrated frenzy that required a constant outlet; even the furrow in his brow contributed to the intensity that traveled down his arm to the hand that drew unerringly. He made alterations to the blueprints with ease as the workers encountered setbacks; he was the conduit through which the building adapted; he became more than the Tower's designer – it was an extension of him.

On the twenty-fourth of October, work was stopped on the construction of Winner Tower. The workers on site watching the ESN broadcast were stunned; they climbed down titanium girders and ran out on the street frantically dialing police and press. Their boss was a Gundam pilot – an indiscriminate killer, some said. The next morning, Dorothy Catalonia wrote in her Society column: "The Unfinished Symphony on L1," and the nickname was repeated. Strangers noticed the skeleton of an expensive building on an important street, protruding into the sky without walls or windows. When they asked what it was, people who had never heard of Heero or of the story behind the building snickered and answered: "Oh, that's the Unfinished Symphony."

Late at night before the breaking news story that would dismantle the civilian life he had made for himself, Heero stood across the street, looking at the black, dead shape left bare among the glowing structures of the city's skyline. His hands moved compulsively, adding layers of glass and concrete and metal girders, but the instinctive completing motion met only air. He forced himself to walk through the building one last time. Then he smiled, his eyes closed, and he walked away. He made himself forget Winner Tower. He left for Germany with the familiar thrum of purpose pulsing in his veins. It was wartime again.

The city of Bremen had a long, illustrious history elevated by its association with the great conqueror Charlemagne. It horded its independence fiercely, the habit of decades as a city-state. It was in Germany's oldest port city that the first aristocrats and royals gathered to forge an alliance that would become the Romefeller Foundation. In a world losing its respect for tradition, where borders melted and people connected beyond culture and origin, the leaders of a dying era banded for one last stand against modernity. A hundred years later, the Foundation's headquarters still rested behind the hallowed Gothic façade of the Bremen Town Hall.

Standing in the marketplace gazing up at the solemn structure, careful to keep moving with the milling crowds of tourists, Heero recalled that the Town Hall had been built in the Weser Renaissance style of the 17th century – a trivial fact school had drummed into him. The Town Hall was famed for its ancient wine cellar, the Ratskeller. He focused on it; as a tourist site, it would be the least-secured part of the building. He noted the guards stationed at the doors and patrolling the balconies. He would need a uniform and identification and for that, he needed the shift of a guard he had been tailing for two days to end. His eyes narrowed as he spied Benedikt Gärtner exit through a side door, his uniform bulging out of the messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

Heero followed him through the winding, cobbled streets of the marketplace until he walked into a pub – the same one he visited every day after work for hours. Heero entered and strode past his hunched over form on the bar. He sat at the other end of the counter. "Fassbier," he ordered. He nursed his draught beer for a few minutes before paying and stepping into the restroom. He dropped his bag on the floor and waited by the door. A few minutes later, it swung open and Benedikt stumbled in. Heero slammed him against the wall, twisting one arm behind his back. He kicked the door closed and locked his arm around Benedikt's neck. He clamped down hard and held his thrashing body still; Benedikt clawed wildly, his eyes wide with fear.

Gnashing his teeth, Benedikt grappled for the gun clipped to his belt. Heero released the arm he had pinned to crush his other wrist, forcing him to drop it. It clattered harmlessly to the ground. Suddenly, pain exploded in his jaw as Benedikt's freed arm smashed into his face. Grunting, Heero fell back a step; it was enough for the bulkier man to push violently from the wall, body-slamming Heero against the sinks. Once, twice, three times. Losing his grip, Heero stumbled backwards, catching a hold of the piping to steady himself. "Keine Ahnung, wer du bist . . . aber ich bring dich um, du Arschloch," slurred Benedikt, undoing his belt. He grinned viciously before pulling his leather belt loose, whipping the metal buckle against the nearest sink. It left a crack. "Mal sehen, wie dir das gefällt."1

Wiping the blood from his lip, Heero narrowed his eyes at this challenge. Crossing the bathroom in two steps, he caught the belt just above the buckle as it came down on his head and threw an uppercut that snapped Benedikt's head back. He lost hold of the belt as Heero grabbed his collar and slammed his face against the nearest stall door. It flew open and Benedikt fell to his knees inside. He shouted: "Wer bist du? Scheiße. Was willst du?"2

Heero wrapped his right arm against his neck, squeezing with all his strength, breathing hard at the effort of holding his victim still while standing. He could feel the guard's thudding heartbeat pounding against the inside of his arm; he ignored it. The other man bucked frantically, scraping against the arm choking him, fingers clawing for Heero's face. Gritting his teeth, Heero clenched the belt in his free hand for a heartbeat before wrenching Benedikt's chin up and hooking the belt underneath. Then Heero jerked back, planting one foot between his shoulder blades. Pulling the belt with him, he used his weight as leverage to throttle the flailing man. Benedikt made a gnashing sound with his teeth, the tremors in his body weakening.

Finally, he went limp. Heero cautiously released the stranglehold, leaning down to feel for a pulse. It was erratic, faint; the guard would be unconscious for a while. Heero immediately stripped and slipped on the uniform. He switched the contents of their bags before fishing the guard's wallet and ID cards out of his pocket. Then he handcuffed him to the metal piping of the toilet and closed the stall door behind him. After a cursory glance at the mirror, he exited the bathroom, heading for the back entrance. When he rejoined the crowds outside, he glanced down at the ID card, satisfied that the brown-haired Benedikt looked enough like him to pass a casual screening. It was the best he could do under the time constraints.

Heero returned to the Town Hall, swiping the card at the same side door he had seen Benedikt exit. The metal door screeched open and he entered a coolly lit hallway. Reaching into Benedikt's messenger bag, he retrieved his handheld, scrolling to the floor plan. Left, left, down and then right. Heero started walking. When he passed a group of a guards thundering down the hallway, he let his gaze sweep indifferently over them, nodding as if recognition. They passed without incident or scrutiny. Opening the door to the wine cellar, he felt a cold dankness on his face.

Quickly shutting the door behind him, he darted through the stacks and shelves of musty bottles until he found a computer terminal. He pulled out his laptop and hooked it to the terminal; it was only a registry of all the contents of the cellar, but it was connected to the closed network in the building; anyone inside could check if a bottle was in storage and reserve it before coming down to retrieve it. That opening was enough to give Heero access to the network. His fingers flew deftly over the keys, the programs he'd loaded into his computer handling most of the decryption. The anti-intruder protocol activated – but it was too late and the worms he set loose promptly shut it down.

A soft ping signaled that his backdoor into the system had worked. He was in. Heero accessed the security video files and began deleting the footage that had captured his entrance; he spliced together several frames to disguise the erasure. An incoming streaming connection caught his eye. Someone in the building was patching through a live feed from a camera outside the system. He clicked on the recording and found himself looking down from a sloping angle at a dark-haired man digging through the files on his desk. Heero was astonished when Quatre walked in and the man rose from behind his desk to shake his hand.

-

Quatre woke at dawn. He tensed at the soft noise of breaths being expelled. Then he remembered that he had asked Dorothy to stay. He looked over at her; she was still asleep, her fingers clutching the bedspread, her pale blond hair spread across the pillow; her face peaceful. There was a light breeze from a small part in the curtains that fluttered the silky strands. He savored the moment for a few heartbeats before carefully rising to his feet. Swallowing the painkillers set aside on the nightstand, he absently cradled his ribs – he only felt a dull throbbing pain now. Quatre cast one last glance at Dorothy's sleeping form, then closed the door softly behind him.

He walked across the hall into the small kitchenette. The room was barren except for a few appliances, two chairs and a table, a small vidphone on the edge. He sat down and dialed the emergency extension that would connect him directly to Une. It rang three times before Une's face flickered into view with an audible click. She appeared pale and haggard, dark circles staining the skin under her eyes; she looked at him grim, determined. "I wondered when you'd call," she said dryly, her brown eyes flitting across his face, resting briefly on the bandage. "The rumors of your demise at Larochette are greatly exaggerated."

"Despite their best efforts," he agreed.

"What do you need, Quatre?"

"I want to turn myself in."

Her lips pursed into a tight line. "I see."

"If I give the mobs a single target to vent their hatred, it will reduce the violence worldwide. They can all see me sitting in a cell handcuffed."

"That kind of appeasement won't work for long. They'll be demanding your execution before long."

"I know. I'm willing to risk it."

"Are you hoping for a trial?"

"If the ESUN wants to preserve its legitimacy in the eyes of the people, they'll have to try me or let the mobs lynch me. There's no other option."

"All right," she said wearily. "If you understand what you're asking, then I won't stand in your way. It'll be a peaceful surrender?"

"Yes. There are still a few loose ends I need to tie up, but after that, I'll let your agents take me in."

"Where?"

"Geneva. Outside the Palais des Nations."3

She nodded curtly. "Land at the Geneva base. I'll make the arrangements," she paused, "but be careful. With the political climate what it is, I may not be in power for long – and then you'll be at the mercy of whoever they appoint as my successor."

"I understand," Quatre acknowledged with a solemn smile. "Take care, Lady Une."

"You do the same," she said. Then the screen went blank.

"What's in Geneva?" asked Dorothy. He turned to face her; she stood in the doorway, glancing down at him curiously. Her expression gave no indication that she had heard his conversation, but Quatre knew from the rigid set of her shoulders that she was bracing herself for his answer.

"Andrey Kirsanov. He's an expert on the Geneva Conventions and comes recommended by my sister," he answered.

"Count Kirsanov's derelict son," she murmured.

"You know him?"

"No, but his falling out with the Count is infamous. It was over his brother's death, I believe." Dorothy glided past him, running her fingers along the edge of the table absently, before sitting down across from him. She rapped her knuckles on the table. "Alexey. That was his name. He was killed in action during the war and Andrey blamed his father for it. Romefeller politics at the time didn't allow the Count to refuse his son's desire to fight — not without losing all his credit with the upper echelons."

"My informants tell me Andrey's a stalwart pacifist."

"The Count, too." She drummed her fingers against the table in thought. "Not so, his other children. I remember Stepan was quite the war hawk. He supported the purely mechanized warfare my grandfather tried to perfect. Fortunately, he's not in any position of real power right now. Party secretary is mostly a symbolic position," she grimaced, "but he's the most irritatingly affable man you'll ever meet. Nothing fazes him. It's impossible to pin him down on any subject. The man's got a silver tongue, but he's so sincere about everything he says that you can't help believing him." She added: "His sister, though . . . she's worrisome."

"Marya Kirsanova?"

"Yes. I've met her a few times. She gave me the impression she holds Romefeller's purse strings. On paper, all the money going through her office is for development and aid – but I wouldn't be surprised if she funnels some of it for personal use. With her father as the venerated founder and her brother the party's mouthpiece, no one would dare accuse her of corruption."

"Zechs thinks she may be the Secessionists' benefactor. After she visited Mars, they became flush with credits and expanded their operations. She made it possible for them to mobilize their base; pushing through a bill declaring their intention to secede won't be too difficult."

"If you suspect the Kirsanovs," she asked slowly, "then why are you going to meet Andrey? Whatever you tell him, he could easily turn around and report back to Romefeller."

"He could. But what Romefeller wants is a trial – a bloody, public spectacle to distract the ESUN from the situation on Mars. If I don't turn myself in, then the violence will keep escalating. So long as the Preventers are spread too thinly to matter and the administration lets the economic crisis worsen, they'll get what they want."

"I'm going to testify," she said abruptly.

Quatre watched her body tremble at those words; her hands went slack on the table, unnaturally still. Her face was clean of fear, anticipation, expectation – she met his eyes calmly. "Don't do it for me," he told her.

"I won't be." Her smile was bittersweet. "I can't respect a man who wants to be protected, who needs my protection. I won't degrade myself, or you, with the presumption. I want to see how much pain I can take. I want to find that certain point you seem to think exists. I want to know how deep the pain has to run before I become impervious to it – or cripple myself trying."

"Dorothy . . ."

"No. Don't say anymore. Let's just be . . . like this." She glanced at the stove, her expression bemused: "What's for breakfast?"

Quatre enfolded her hands in his, brought them to his lips. "Anything you want," he said.

"Sausage," she responded, leaning back against the chair with careless, insolent elegance. Quatre laughed.

By noon, he had been waylaid by Rashid twice, each time calmly rebutting his protests. He had bid Commander Sadaul a solemn farewell and told Auda in no uncertain terms that had he not intervened in time, Quatre would be dead. Dorothy disappeared while a nurse changed his bandages; he thought he heard her jet taxi down the runway, the supersonic takeoff splitting the air with a roar; by the time the piercing sound reached him, she was already gone. He wondered if the next time they faced one another, it would be across the unbridgeable length of a courtroom or bulletproof glass separating her from him and a firing squad; but he had no regrets.

Quatre departed for Geneva in Zechs' plane. He made a layover in Rabat, Morocco and transferred onto a waiting Winner corporate jet stalling in a private airfield. He greased the palm of the lone air traffic controller and told the pilot, a former member of the Maganac Corps and a man he trusted, to enter Preventer airspace. It was early afternoon when he stepped onto the Geneva base tarmac. With Une's authorization disguising him as a special diplomatic envoy, he encountered no obstacles as he disembarked and hailed a car to take him to Palais des Nations. He was early for his appointment.

"Mr. Winner," announced the wavering voice of the secretary, darting furtive glances at him, holding the door ajar to Andrey Arkadyevich Kirsanov's office. The brown-haired man immersed in the papers on his desk looked up in surprise. He had a youthful face, startled blue eyes and thin, querulous lips. Andrey exclaimed: "I had no idea you'd be coming in person."

Quatre bowed formally. "You came highly recommended to me, your Excellency."

Andrey reddened, but his eyes were bright, pleased. "Please . . . call me just Andrey. Any relation of Talitha's is a friend of mine," he said hastily. "Please, have a seat."

Quatre shook his hand and sat down. "It's my understanding that you can help me with a legal defense. How soon do you think the ESUN will press charges?"

"Any day now," he shook his head, "it's a troublesome situation. I mean – well, not troublesome, far worse than that for you. I mean . . . what I'm trying to say is that — it's quite complicated and unprecedented," he amended hurriedly. "I've heard rumors that Hadrian Kaiser is fighting to be appointed the Prosecutor."

"The solicitor general," murmured Quatre.

"That's right. And I can tell you – the man's absolutely vicious. Hasn't got an ounce of mercy in him."

"From a legal standpoint, what's my status?"

"Well, it's tough to say." Andrey frowned, studying the ceiling with casual attention. "Generally, interstellar law and the Geneva Conventions apply to states at war. Under the original articles, you'd be classified as an unlawful combatant. As I understand it, you acted largely on your own?"

"If you mean did I ever act in the representative capacity of the Colonies — no, I did not. Any actions I took, any battles I fought with the Gundams – none of it was ever officially sanctioned by L4 or any of the Colonies."

"Then that's the heart of the problem. Had you been part of a militia or armed force, even tangentially related to a legitimate government, the ESUN would have no choice, but to recognize you as a lawful combatant. However, as it stands . . . ," he shrugged helplessly, "I've been trying to read up on your - your case, I suppose you could call it. All my research turned up very little information. All five of you were quite successful at remaining the Eve Wars' greatest secret."

"Our numbers were too few. Absolute secrecy became necessary. From the moment we landed, the Alliance and OZ hunted us ruthlessly."

"Yes, I see that. I'm afraid I don't know any way around the label of – of terrorist," Andrey's voice lowered to a hush, "since your tactics were unorthodox, to say the least. Civilian targets, ambushing military installations and assassinating government officials, engaging in guerilla warfare. Kaiser will use all of that as evidence that, well . . . that you committed war crimes. Considering the civilian death toll, he won't hesitate to charge you with committing crimes against humanity."

Quatre's eyes hardened. "We were trying to overthrow an entire regime."

"Yes, I know!" he reassured. "I'm one of the few Gundam sympathizers in this administration. The only strategy I can advise is making the case that you were a freedom fighter for the Colonies."

"One man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist."

"True. But in the end, you Gundam pilots fought for the Earth. You banded with us against the White Fang. You probably," he said eagerly, "my god, you probably saved billions of lives."

Quatre smiled self-deprecatingly. "And how many people know that? How many know how close the Earth was to extinction?"

"Not many," admitted Andrey. "The public is frothing at the bit right now, because the media's painted you as extremists. And as terrorists, who murdered indiscriminately and brought about the Eve Wars. I think the official death toll is over a hundred thousand. That's not easy to overlook."

"We were the symptoms of the disease – but it began long before us. OZ assassinated Heero Yuy and the Alliance systematically destroyed every pacifist stronghold in the Earth Sphere. We had no choice, but to rebel."

"And now, you just have to convince the thirteen judges of the Supreme Court of that."

-

Heero traced the video feed to an office on the top floor. Hacking into the terminal, he remote controlled the system to check for activity. Whoever planted the bug wasn't currently watching the feed; the computer was programmed to silently download the video and store it into a separate memory unit. He tried to access the database, narrowing his eyes when he realized that it wasn't connected to the rest of the mainframe, not even wirelessly. He returned to the window showing him the security footage and clicked on the cameras in the office. It was empty. He set the cameras on the floor to a loop before running a program to delete the digital footprints left by his forceful entry.

Satisfied, he disconnected his laptop. This called for a new plan. He would have to manually connect his laptop in order to break the encryptions sealing off the unit. Flipping open his handheld, Heero charted the safest route. The freight elevator outside the cellar was the nearest access point. His eyes roved over the dusty wine bottles. He selected the oldest vintages on the racks and loaded them into the small cart by the door. Wheeling it cautiously in front of him, he made his way to the freight elevator. He slid Benedikt's ID through the card reader and the doors creaked open, the tracks blunted by rust. He tensed as the metal cage clanged in its slow ascent.

On the top floor, Heero abandoned the cart. The hallway was vacant. At the end was Stepan Arkadyevich Kirsanov's office, the gold-plated placard on the door gleaming ostentatiously. Heero retrieved his handheld and pulled out the small jack, inserting it into the electronic panel; he ran the unlocking sequences until he was prompted for a fingerprint. His program recalled the last scanned print as he pressed his thumb against the touchpad. The lock clicked open. Inside, Heero ignored the computer humming on the desk. It was too obvious. He reached into his jacket pocket for his thermal-imaging glasses. He slipped them on and turned the knob on his watch.

His vision became gray, excepting several objects that pulsed red – the computer, the fish aquarium, the light strips lining the ceiling. He scanned the walls until his suspicions were confirmed. The eastern wall behind the fish tank blazed hottest. Heero felt along the edges, the tank, the Byzantine paintings spanning the wall; but he couldn't find the catch switch. He turned to the desk and focused on the computer. A few keystrokes later, he was logged in. He opened the activity log, searching for the most recent inputted commands. "Madonna" caught his eye and he swiveled to see a Russian icon on the wall depicting Mary and a baby Jesus. He reran the command.

With a soft whir, the aquarium sank into the wall and the hidden section of floor below it rose revealing another computer. Heero slotted a cable from his laptop into the terminal and dedicated all its computing power to infecting the system. Ten minutes later, his worm program bypassed the encrypted firewall and he had full access to all the files. He was canceling the recording of Quatre when he suddenly noticed that the cameras he had programmed to loop were functioning normally. It was taping the office, and the elevators and hallway, in real time; outside, a black-haired man rode up in the elevator. If he was Stepan Kirsanov, then Heero had only a couple minutes at most.

He called up the last accessed file. A dozen windows appeared. "Project Romulus," he read silently as he downloaded the entire file to his hard drive.4 His eyes flew from window to window – from financial records of credit transfers from ESAID to Mars to schematics of mining rovers to a chemical analysis of a compound called Aresium. He glanced at the security feed again and saw the man exit the elevator. Heero unplugged his laptop and logged off. The computer plunged back into its depression in the ground and the aquarium slid back out.

He had just enough time to email the stolen files to Duo and activate the self-destruct protocol that would fry his hard drive when the door opened. "Mr. Yuy," said Stepan Kirsanov pleasantly. "I thought I might find you here one day."

"Is that an admission of guilt?"

Stepan smiled, stretching his handsome face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. "How do you mean?"

"You breached the Preventer mainframe."

"Not personally," he said, lingering in the doorway. Then he let the door drift closed and moved past Heero to his desk. He sat down and glanced idly from the smoking laptop to his flickering screen. "It seems like we're overdue for a security upgrade," he commented.

Heero drew his gun and aimed for Stepan's head. He returned Heero's hard stare calmly, watching him with eyes that were a queer shade hazel, amused and pleased. "You'll pull that trigger someday, but it won't be today."

"Give me one good reason," he replied brusquely.

"It won't make any difference, for one. There are things that have been set in motion that will go on – with or without me. Killing me today would be pointless — and will only damage Mr. Winner's chances for a fair trial. You've noticed, of course, that the cameras on this floor are still running and streaming to another server. Shoot me and the video will find itself on every news channel in the Earth Sphere."

Heero didn't lower his weapon. "What are you after?"

Stepan's laughter was rich and roiling in genuine mirth. "You'll think I'm mocking you."

"Try me."

"All right." He laced his fingers together in front of him, training his murky gaze on Heero. "World peace," he said earnestly.

Narrowing his eyes, Heero turned off the safety with an audible click. "Try again."

"I told you. You don't believe me . . . but it's the truth." Stepan added contemplatively: "Men are brothers, you know, and they have a great instinct for brotherhood – except when they gather into groups. Then other instincts take hold. Like the need to differentiate, to identify one's in-groups and derogate the out-groups. It doesn't matter where or when; it's inevitable. Have you ever seen children squabbling in a playground? They'll categorize themselves for the most arbitrary reasons – and then they'll do almost anything to assert their superiority."

"What's your point?"

"Simply this: if we could learn to think less like individuals and more like human beings, brothers of one great race – think of the possibilities."

"Was that supposed to make sense?"

"No. I'm afraid you aren't ready to hear it yet," he replied regretfully.

Heero jerked back as he heard pounding footsteps in the hallway; he aimed his gun at the door. Stepan continued good-naturedly, "I'm a salesman, you know. A good one, but I have nothing to sell you. So we'll just say that you're going to walk out of here unharmed – and we'll let it go at that." When the door burst open and guards poured in, guns drawn, he ordered: "Lower your weapons. This man is my guest."

The guards shifted uneasily, parting hesitantly for Heero as he walked through the doorway. No one stopped him on his way out.

-

Quatre let the first Preventer agent handcuff him and the second push him into the backseat of the squad car. They never turned on the siren, but the urgency in every turn as they careened down the winding streets belied their anxiety. When they pulled to a stop, Une opened his door and said acerbically, "You just missed the announcement. The President declared a state of emergency . . . and there's a warrant out for your arrest."

"Just mine?"

"No, all of you. But so far, you're the only one in cuffs. I haven't seen Wufei since he released Dorothy and I'm assuming the rest are in hiding."

"They are," he confirmed. "So what now?"

"I do my civic duty and lock you up," Une answered sardonically.

Quatre followed her through the station, silently enduring the accusing stares and the scattered cheers, his face carefully blank. She led him into an interrogation room where a young woman, her face framed by soft blond hair pinned back, was already seated. She looked up when they entered and Quatre caught wide, mercurial blue eyes and a seductive mouth before she stood and held out her hand. "Mr. Winner, my name is Mideleine Une. I'll be representing you."

"Middie is my second cousin," explained Une. "Before you refuse, you should know she's a Judge Advocate."

"You're in the JAG Corps?" he asked, shaking her hand.5

"Yes." Middie resumed her seat, watching him curiously, taking his measure. "This is a military matter no matter how loudly Hadrian Kaiser insists that you're a civilian."

Une released the shackles around his wrist and he rubbed them absently. Une warned: "In here, the law makes me your enemy, Quatre. This is all I can do to help you. From now on, I'll have no freedom of action where you're concerned. Remember that." The door shut firmly behind her.

"This trial will ruin your career," he said.

Middie smiled, crossing her arms loosely on the ascetic metal table. "You let me worry about that, Mr. Winner. My first concern is your safety. My cousin assures me that you'll have your own cell – away from the other inmates. I can't stress enough that you're never to be alone with any of them."

"I'm a Gundam pilot. I'm not in here with them. They're in here with me," said Quatre.

She looked pleased. "All right then. I'll worry about the inmate left alone with you."

"Tell me something. Why are you helping me?"

"Do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

She leaned forward until he could feel her breath on his skin. "Need to know. Need to have all the answers."

"When it's possible," he answered.

She laughed. "I think I'm going to enjoy getting to know you, Mr. Winner. Think of me as your partner. Although . . . if we're going to be honest with each other – I'm the only thing standing between you and the gallows."

"If we're going to be honest with each other, you won't change the subject again."

Her wide-eyed stare was shrewd. "Was I?"

"I asked why you were helping me."

"If you must know — I'm on the cusp of twenty-six. I may be a rising star, but I'm only starting to make waves. I don't want to be just another face in a sea of attorneys. This is going to be the case of the century and I wouldn't miss it for anything. There . . . ," she spread her hands palms up on the table, "that's everything out in the open. Your turn now."

"I don't believe you, but I'll accept that answer at present. You should already know that you're defending a guilty man," he said. "But I don't intend to throw away my life."

"That's interesting. I've heard you're a righteous and moral man. You don't find that incompatible with the idea of cheating justice?"

"That depends on whose justice you mean."

"It's not incongruent with your sense of fairness?"

"No. Given the same choices, I would make them again. There are . . . some things I regret, but I can't and won't regret taking up arms to fight."

Middie threaded her fingers under her chin, cocking her head to the side in cool contemplation. "Good. The hopeless ones are my favorite clients."

-

Mariemaia traced the spines of the books stacked on Dorothy's bookshelf. She remembered her cousin once telling her that she never read again a book she loved. It hurt her too much to think about how many had desecrated the book before her and how many would mar its pages by reading after her. Glancing around Dorothy's bedroom, she noted that it was spacious, almost vacuous in its austerity; there was only a bed, a nightstand and a lone set of drawers. What struck Mariemaia most vividly was how unlived in it felt; the only personal touch was the painting Dorothy had won at auction – Brueghel's Landscape of the Fall of Icarus, hanging alone on the barren wall.

A soft cough caught her attention. Clarice knocked softly on the door before announcing: "Countess Marya Arkadyevna Kirsanova to see you, ma'am."6

"Me?" she asked, mildly discomfited. "Don't you mean Dorothy?"

"No, ma'am. She asked specifically for you."

She hesitated for a moment. "All right. Have her wait in the parlor."

"Yes, ma'am." Clarice's skirts rustled as she rushed to do the bidding of her mistress's beloved cousin.

Mariemaia entered the parlor a minute later. The red-haired woman sitting primly on the sofa smiled warmly, rose to her feet and clasped Mariemaia's hands in hers. "Lady Khushrenada, I have wanted to meet you since you were seven."

"Countess," she answered stiffly. "That's kind of you to say. What can I do for you?"

"Please. I shall always be Marya to my friends. Do I have your leave to dispense with meaningless, cumbersome titles?"

Trapped by decorum, Mariemaia replied simply: "Yes."

"My dear, I have some wonderful news for you . . . but I wonder if you've heard it already," said Marya, her large, expressive blue eyes lit with cunning.

"No, what is it?"

"My good friend Hadrian has finally charged that loathsome Quatre Winner with war crimes – or something liked that," she said dismissively, brushing its importance out of the air, "and I just heard on the news that the Preventers have him in custody!"

Mariemaia stiffened. "What made you think I would be happy to hear that?" she asked sharply.

"Well, darling . . . ," Marya looked endearingly confused, "they were your enemies during that conflict all those years ago, weren't they?"

"I was only a child then. I was taught to believe that was the case. I was wrong."

"But they were your father's enemies, too," protested Marya. "How can you just turn your back on him?"

"You knew my father?"

"Oh, yes. Who didn't? He was a great man. A true hero, not a mass murderer like those – those Gundam pilots," she finished disdainfully.

"Why are you here?"

"You know that I have only the greatest respect for you." Marya added triumphantly: "I've come to give you an opportunity to redeem your father's legacy."

She couldn't completely mask the anguish in her voice: "What?"

"It's not our function, as noblewomen, to be a fly swatter, but when a fly acquires delusions of grandeur, the best of us must stoop to do a little job of extermination, don't you think? There's been a great deal of talk lately about the illustrious Mr. Winner. He was entrusted with an extraordinary responsibility to the public – and what does he do? He commits the equivalent of spiritual embezzlement. To think that one of the best minds in the Colonies and an upstanding entrepreneur would be hiding such a dark secret. Imagine our trust being so misplaced!"

She clenched her fists. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Why everything, of course! The arrogance, the audacity, the defiance of such a man to stand against all of us and believe that he has the right to take any life he deems unworthy. He ought to prostrate himself before us, confess his sins and beg for forgiveness. It would be sacrilegious for those of us who can do something to simply sit back – and refuse to have any part in his trial."

"You want me to testify against him?" she demanded, outraged.

"Don't think of it that way if it bothers you, darling. You'll be upholding the will of the righteous and humble, protecting them against a megalomaniac who dares mock the people so insolently. Mariemaia, it's your duty to tell the world everything about Operation Meteor – all the atrocities the Colonies wanted to inflict on us."

"How do you . . . know about the original Operation Meteor?" she asked slowly.

"I have my ways. But surely you agree with me that it's simple decency, our Christian duty really, to let the world know the truth? If you don't come willingly," her voice became hard as steel, "Hadrian will have to subpoena you and drag your name through the mud again, if that's what it takes."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Heavens, no! Why should I have to when I know you'll help us?"

There was a heavy silence; it dragged for almost a minute. Mariemaia struggled to keep her composure while Marya merely looked on serenely. Finally, she said dully, "Yes. I'll do it."

-

Duo heard the beep on his phone, signaling a new message, a second before a loud crack rent the air and the ceramic pot beside him exploded into shards. Cursing, he fell into a crouch as a second bullet tore a hole through a tent to his left. The bazaar was packed with booths and shoppers and venders. The narrow street swelled with people screaming, scrambling to push each other out of their way as they broke into a run; he had enough time to register a man standing on the roof of the tallest building in the area when a third shot tore into his shoulder with deadly accuracy.

Gritting his teeth, he began shoving against the crowd, ignoring the burning sensation in his bleeding wound, fighting the mob to reach the sniper. He shoved his uninjured shoulder against the wooden door of the building like a battering ram. It caved in and he charged up the sloping stairs, gripping his gun tightly, winding around and around until he crashed through the gate onto the roof. Another bullet narrowly missed his head, carving a cut across his face. He dove out of the way as the man took aim again. Rolling to his feet, he fired twice rapidly in the assassin's direction.

The attacker threw the sniper rifle at Duo, who batted it out of the way. The rifle rattled on the ground, but Duo lost sight of the man for a second; he charged up and dropkicked Duo, the momentum of the movement jolting the gun out of his hand. Duo crouched to avoid a roundhouse kick and unclipped the pocketknife fastened to his ankle. He released the blade and swiped it against an incoming jab, slicing cleanly through the man's knuckles and he screamed. Duo dropped to his knees and sweep kicked his legs out from under him.

He slammed into the ground inches from Duo's gun. As the assassin fumbled for it, Duo flipped to his side and reached for the discarded rifle, clenching his teeth against the gushing pain in his arm. He caught the handle with his bloody hands and whirled around in time to pump the trigger at point-blank range. The attacker flinched as the bullet tore through his collarbone; with a yell, he fired shots uncontrollably as he staggered backwards. The backs of his knees hit the ledge and he fell screaming over the side, plunging to the pavement below.

Coughing, Duo stumbled down the stairs to the street, ignoring the gaping bystanders. He knelt down beside the body to root through his pockets. He found a phone and a wallet. The ID card said "Osman Yilmaz" and the last message on the phone was from an unknown number. The text simply read: "Yggdrasil." Duo pocketed the phone and hired a cab to the nearest hospital. After several hundred credits exchanged hands, the doctor sewed up his wound without question. Duo refused morphine; he needed to be alert in case any more assassins arrived, gunning for him.

Reclining against the cot in his single room, a rare luxury in the filled-over-capacity ward, he examined his own phone. He had received a bulky email from Heero before the attack. "Project Romulus," he muttered. "What the hell is this?"

Scanning through the files, he followed the bank statements linking Romefeller to the accounts of key members of the Secessionist movement on Mars. He paused, puzzled at the diagrams detailing new mining and prospecting equipment. Then his jaw clenched in realization; Romefeller was digging for something on Mars. Duo reached the last document entitled, "Aresium" – it described the chemical composition of a mineral. At the bottom, the page was incomplete, cut off at the end of a sentence that would've explained its uses.

But the purpose of the so-called Project Romulus seemed clear to Duo. Whatever Romefeller was after on Earth, it was connected to their operations on Mars. He switched his cell phone off and concentrated on breathing through the pain. He had fled all the way from Davos to Istanbul, but somewhere along the way, someone caught his trail. Duo didn't know what "Yggdrasil" meant, but he was willing to bet it was the handiwork of the same people who had exposed their identities. He was suddenly glad he had handed over the reins of command to Howard.

Without his special contracts with Winner Interspatial, canceled in the wake of his and Quatre's roles in the war, he wondered how long the Sweeper Group would last. After the war, he had worked in an L2 scrap yard for years, learning the menial and entrepreneurial aspects of the trade. He would be damned if he lost three years of relentless backbreaking work, because of the incorrigible greed of aristocrats. Duo had expanded the Sweepers from a loose group of petty scavengers into a conglomerate of scrap yards and space junkers, who cleaned up the dangerous debris in Earth's orbit – the remnants of dead satellites and a graveyard of broken mobile suits.

In nine years, he had never heard of Aresium – and his specialty was finding new uses for metal scraps. Whatever they were developing on Mars, it was somehow related to the impending interstellar war. Coming to a decision, he dialed by memory the special frequency that had once enabled five men piloting war machines to communicate.

Duo said: "Wufei, meet me on Mars."

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1German for "I don't know who you are . . . but I'm going to kill you, you asshole." "Let's see how you like it."

2German for "Who the fuck are you? What do you want?"

3Palais des Nations is located in Geneva, Switzerland and is one of the headquarters of the ESUN government (the home of the United Nations in the real world).

4In Roman mythology, Romulus is one of twin sons of Mars, the god of war. He slew his brother, Remus, and founded the city of Rome.

5The JAG (Judge Advocate General) Corps is the special legal branch of the ESUN Armed Forces, which includes the intelligence agency, the Preventers. They represent those who have been court-martialed and must be tried under military law.

6In Russian nomenclature, everyone has a patronymic. In this case, Marya, Andrey and Stepan are all the children of Arkady and therefore, the men's is Arkadyevich and Marya's is Arkadyevna. Marya's surname (Kirsanova) is the feminized version of the family name (Kirsanov).

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A/N- As promised, this is a long chapter with lots happening. And we finally meet the Kirsanovs! What did you think of them? Comments and constructive criticism would really be appreciated this chapter as things start steaming full speed ahead.

In the next part, the trial begins with opening statements, surprise witnesses and Relena pays Quatre a visit in jail. The next chapter will be entitled: Cynosure.

Valhalla will next update on Tuesday, April 28th.