Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ An Ancient War Renewed ❯ Chapter 3 and 4 ( Chapter 2 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: the Humble Scribe 
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Classic | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 04.03.2006 | Updated On: 04.03.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 2.0K | Visits: 164 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Classic | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 04.03.2006 | Updated On: 04.03.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 2.0K | Visits: 164 | Status: Completed
3
“At long last, the viper reveals himself. His head shall be mine!” was the last thing several of the Leos heard in that lush valley. Within a moment, two Leos crumpled upon themselves in pools of blood and a third fell as ashes after a flash of flame. The line of Leos convulsed in shock as a true artifact flung itself upon them, swinging the jade-tipped rune trident with the force of righteous rage. Another Leo fell before the trident, torn asunder with two slashes, with others looking on in bewilderment. Only after a strong female voice rang out to form squads did the Leos take up some kind of positive action. The captain of the line charged to the true armor, only in the subconscious admiring the red breast-plated, glaive-bearing, green-upon-white armor with the trident of glowing jade tips. She held her charge, baring her battle axe while lining her shot with her crossbow, but in a moment her charge was halted. The true armor she charged used its free left hand to strike with a snake-like fanged motion, seizing her shoulder and stopped her with a shudder. The captain swung at the left hand, which produced a twitch from her opponent and soldered her left shoulder in a blaze. She screamed aloud from the pain, and her opponent dropped her suddenly and fell again upon her men. She could not stand, but she continued giving orders with all she had until she passed out from the pain. Her last sight before unconsciousness was of her men falling upon each other, crumpling in puddles of red, or becoming each his own funeral pyre.
When she awoke, she arose from her armor, easily done through the new gash that presented itself. Her company was none other than the true armor that slaughtered her men. She lunged for it with her bare hands, and was batted away with nary a thought. As she rose again, the true armor glanced upon her and cocked its head with an air of dismissal.
“You are a weak soldier.”
Before she could retort, he ran through the valley and charged the next battalion. She fell to the dirt, letting her short, midnight blue hair remain matted with mud and sweat. She did not even have the strength to cry, but she would if able. Her men, all dead, and she left alive by an act of cruel dismissal. Did he have to be so hard on her? He put her through enough already, with slaughtering her squadron…like cowards and children. Her training, all of that training, and her men fell that easily; no wonder that true armor so easily dismissed her. Exhaustion finally overcame self-pity and grief, and she again passed out.
Chapter 4
Within the free city of Chai’dou, the rumor of a Westlander admiral’s arrival reverberated through its busy, frantic streets. The Dockyard Westward roared and con-vulsed in excited chaos as an armada of Westlander men-o-war formed a line opposite of the docks and fired a row of warning shots upon the waters in front of the docks. This procedure was common as of late, with the Westland making ever more frequent demands for Chai’dou to return to Westland control. Now, however, the armada was massive in size and flying blood red flags of war alongside the black background, gold eagle in silver starred field banner of the Westland Alliance. This was Chai’dou’s last warning.
The young governor of the free port, Director Duo Maxwell, surveyed the situation from the shadows east of the docks. In his black-on-white armor with a charged jade scythe and a supernaturally jet black cloak, he was invisible to the armada now training cannons upon the dockyard itself. He saw a line of attack to take, but he knew that the navy was employing some new copy armor known as the Pisces. These armors were rumored to be able to fight either on surface or under the waves, which probably meant that Duo had to take them first so the Chai’dou Free Navy (CFN) could strike the men-o-war with little impediment. His eyes searched for skimming Pisces, and found five marks diving and rising sharply to conceal their presence without sacrificing reconnaissance. Duo flared his cloak which concealed him as if he were a ghost and broke into a superhuman sprint, skipping upon the ocean with barely a wake to betray his presence or direction.
Within two breaths of the frantic Chai’dou populace, one of the Pisces armors erupted in ocean spray and blood, and the others broke from the objective and circled the fallen, searching for the executor. In that moment, another Pisces was flung into the air, head flailing in an unnatural manner. The remaining three scouts fired their handgun harpoons in a wild panic, with a friendly fire incident as one more Pisces shuddered from a fellow’s harpoon to the shoulder. Amid the curses of the wounded, a ripple in the air seemed to come down upon him and he capsized in red and white spray, and the remaining two fired upon the position of the ripple. This was a slow reflex, and the ripple charged between the two Pisces and a flash arc of green cut those two down. The Pisces scouts floated up, one by one, then sank to the ocean bottom with trails of bubbles and blood.
Duo searched for any more Pisces, then charged the men-o-war, signaling the CFN corvettes to begin their own assault. The agile corvettes weaved through the enemy line and fired upon the men-o-war, bringing down a rain of wooden splinters and planks. The men-o-war, unable to cope with the new development, simply fired wildly and hit each other or water. The firefight took over two hours, but the corvettes sailed away from the wreckage that was an armada with only gunpowder stains upon hulls and sails. The victory sealed, Duo returned to the dockyard, shed his armor into the waiting arms of local craftsmen, then strolled back into town. The townsfolk broke into wild celebration, cheering the returning navy and the “God of Death” that had come again to Chai’dou’s aid.
Director Maxwell appeared in the crowd, feigning ignorance of the “God of Death” for but a second until several elder women in the crowd simply reminded him “Yes, Director, we know,” and brought the boy to blushing. He tried to keep his identity as the armor-bearer of Death scythe a secret, and he was able to for about one hour after his arrival six months ago. When he was referred to as the “guy with that weird armor” upon disembarking from the frigate, his charade was blown away as the winds of rumor coursed through the city. The elder gossips always reminded him of that faux pas whenever he feigned innocence.
So, with his identity revealed again, he accepted a hoist upon several men’s shoulders and was paraded down the main street. He was not carried back to the Directory as he may have wished, but upon the orders of the elder gossips (who seemed to control the city while Duo just played the part), he was hauled into a local tailor shop and placed upon the raised chair in the middle of the rundown shack of a store. After receiving a set of Western-style gentry clothes, he was asked to change into them and return with haste to the Directory. He did as such, and returned to the Directory and greeted an tall, blond-haired man in full military regalia, obviously a lesser general as told by the four eagle buttons upon his collar. He was probably an ambassador from the Westland Alliance, but why would he arrive on the heels of the invasion attempt? And what did he have to say that convinced the town guard to allow him passage? The tall, regaled visitor’s face was concealed under an ornate silver-steel mask, and he was appropriately gloved with white gentleman gloves, so Duo assumed he was dealing with some minor noble until a spy ran to his side and whispered information concerning the guest.
“Director, this man calls himself Zechs Marquis. My network reports that he is a very capable general, but he is not registered as a noble.”
“Why the gloves then?” a gruff retort whispered back, “they don’t hand those to common folk, no matter how good they are.”
“This man seems to be the exception. But he is here on nobility’s business, oddly enough.”
“To demand our surrender?”
“He didn’t say, Director. Only that he carries the will of the Alliance, and showed me a seal as proof.”
“Alright,” Duo blurted to the patiently waiting Zechs, “Why are you here?”
The reply was dispassionate and cold, bearing a noble’s sound, “The Westland Alliance seeks a different arrangement, Director. Perhaps the city of Chai’dou would be willing to simply allow our forces passage, so that we may stop this pointless war. We are willing to hear your terms…”
“We take goods freely. That’s it, pal.”
“Your forces have been successful to this point. Not one death on your side, we hear. How long will that last?”
“Until you stop trying to invade, I guess.”
“Or until we actually attack appropriately. Your escapades against scouts and neophyte commanders may be impressive for your own, but the Alliance cares little. However, you will have one more chance to prove your courage. Do me a favor, would you?”
“What?”
“When you die, do so with dignity. Preferably, without your face freezing in regret.”
“I have no regrets. But I’m not ordering that tombstone, either.”
As Zechs left, Duo held a gaze of contempt that traced the false noble down the street to the dockyard. Upon his approached the shoreline, Duo shifted his gaze to the bubbling froth circle in the water twenty feet into the ocean. The froth exploded, erupting as a mist over the shore and sea. The shadow arising from the mist appeared eight feet tall or more, at least a head taller than Deathscythe, and twice as thick overall. The mists descended as a translucent curtain to reveal the white plated Wagnerian caricature, wielding a ballista strapped, along with several clutches of varying ammunition,
to the left forearm. These were sheathed by a white buckler, one-inch thick by eight shelves of plate. The right arm braced a sword more suitably called a polearm if held by a lesser armor, as well as a second sheath buckler that could house the sword or simply protect the extended arm.
Duo could only look on in awe, fearful and terrible awe. If the Alliance had procured a true armor, the resistance could be simply beyond his strength to carry. But he sighed in relief when he saw the absence of “the glow,” a vibrating song that coursed through all true armors. His armor had this vibration, he could feel it every time he entered Deathscythe as the armor attuned to his very spirit. This was a good imitation, but no true armor, and therefore not an insurmountable threat. As Zechs entered the monstrosity and glided to the horizon upon red-hot levitator boots similar to his own, Duo prepared himself for the next grim defense, whenever that comes.
“At long last, the viper reveals himself. His head shall be mine!” was the last thing several of the Leos heard in that lush valley. Within a moment, two Leos crumpled upon themselves in pools of blood and a third fell as ashes after a flash of flame. The line of Leos convulsed in shock as a true artifact flung itself upon them, swinging the jade-tipped rune trident with the force of righteous rage. Another Leo fell before the trident, torn asunder with two slashes, with others looking on in bewilderment. Only after a strong female voice rang out to form squads did the Leos take up some kind of positive action. The captain of the line charged to the true armor, only in the subconscious admiring the red breast-plated, glaive-bearing, green-upon-white armor with the trident of glowing jade tips. She held her charge, baring her battle axe while lining her shot with her crossbow, but in a moment her charge was halted. The true armor she charged used its free left hand to strike with a snake-like fanged motion, seizing her shoulder and stopped her with a shudder. The captain swung at the left hand, which produced a twitch from her opponent and soldered her left shoulder in a blaze. She screamed aloud from the pain, and her opponent dropped her suddenly and fell again upon her men. She could not stand, but she continued giving orders with all she had until she passed out from the pain. Her last sight before unconsciousness was of her men falling upon each other, crumpling in puddles of red, or becoming each his own funeral pyre.
When she awoke, she arose from her armor, easily done through the new gash that presented itself. Her company was none other than the true armor that slaughtered her men. She lunged for it with her bare hands, and was batted away with nary a thought. As she rose again, the true armor glanced upon her and cocked its head with an air of dismissal.
“You are a weak soldier.”
Before she could retort, he ran through the valley and charged the next battalion. She fell to the dirt, letting her short, midnight blue hair remain matted with mud and sweat. She did not even have the strength to cry, but she would if able. Her men, all dead, and she left alive by an act of cruel dismissal. Did he have to be so hard on her? He put her through enough already, with slaughtering her squadron…like cowards and children. Her training, all of that training, and her men fell that easily; no wonder that true armor so easily dismissed her. Exhaustion finally overcame self-pity and grief, and she again passed out.
Chapter 4
Within the free city of Chai’dou, the rumor of a Westlander admiral’s arrival reverberated through its busy, frantic streets. The Dockyard Westward roared and con-vulsed in excited chaos as an armada of Westlander men-o-war formed a line opposite of the docks and fired a row of warning shots upon the waters in front of the docks. This procedure was common as of late, with the Westland making ever more frequent demands for Chai’dou to return to Westland control. Now, however, the armada was massive in size and flying blood red flags of war alongside the black background, gold eagle in silver starred field banner of the Westland Alliance. This was Chai’dou’s last warning.
The young governor of the free port, Director Duo Maxwell, surveyed the situation from the shadows east of the docks. In his black-on-white armor with a charged jade scythe and a supernaturally jet black cloak, he was invisible to the armada now training cannons upon the dockyard itself. He saw a line of attack to take, but he knew that the navy was employing some new copy armor known as the Pisces. These armors were rumored to be able to fight either on surface or under the waves, which probably meant that Duo had to take them first so the Chai’dou Free Navy (CFN) could strike the men-o-war with little impediment. His eyes searched for skimming Pisces, and found five marks diving and rising sharply to conceal their presence without sacrificing reconnaissance. Duo flared his cloak which concealed him as if he were a ghost and broke into a superhuman sprint, skipping upon the ocean with barely a wake to betray his presence or direction.
Within two breaths of the frantic Chai’dou populace, one of the Pisces armors erupted in ocean spray and blood, and the others broke from the objective and circled the fallen, searching for the executor. In that moment, another Pisces was flung into the air, head flailing in an unnatural manner. The remaining three scouts fired their handgun harpoons in a wild panic, with a friendly fire incident as one more Pisces shuddered from a fellow’s harpoon to the shoulder. Amid the curses of the wounded, a ripple in the air seemed to come down upon him and he capsized in red and white spray, and the remaining two fired upon the position of the ripple. This was a slow reflex, and the ripple charged between the two Pisces and a flash arc of green cut those two down. The Pisces scouts floated up, one by one, then sank to the ocean bottom with trails of bubbles and blood.
Duo searched for any more Pisces, then charged the men-o-war, signaling the CFN corvettes to begin their own assault. The agile corvettes weaved through the enemy line and fired upon the men-o-war, bringing down a rain of wooden splinters and planks. The men-o-war, unable to cope with the new development, simply fired wildly and hit each other or water. The firefight took over two hours, but the corvettes sailed away from the wreckage that was an armada with only gunpowder stains upon hulls and sails. The victory sealed, Duo returned to the dockyard, shed his armor into the waiting arms of local craftsmen, then strolled back into town. The townsfolk broke into wild celebration, cheering the returning navy and the “God of Death” that had come again to Chai’dou’s aid.
Director Maxwell appeared in the crowd, feigning ignorance of the “God of Death” for but a second until several elder women in the crowd simply reminded him “Yes, Director, we know,” and brought the boy to blushing. He tried to keep his identity as the armor-bearer of Death scythe a secret, and he was able to for about one hour after his arrival six months ago. When he was referred to as the “guy with that weird armor” upon disembarking from the frigate, his charade was blown away as the winds of rumor coursed through the city. The elder gossips always reminded him of that faux pas whenever he feigned innocence.
So, with his identity revealed again, he accepted a hoist upon several men’s shoulders and was paraded down the main street. He was not carried back to the Directory as he may have wished, but upon the orders of the elder gossips (who seemed to control the city while Duo just played the part), he was hauled into a local tailor shop and placed upon the raised chair in the middle of the rundown shack of a store. After receiving a set of Western-style gentry clothes, he was asked to change into them and return with haste to the Directory. He did as such, and returned to the Directory and greeted an tall, blond-haired man in full military regalia, obviously a lesser general as told by the four eagle buttons upon his collar. He was probably an ambassador from the Westland Alliance, but why would he arrive on the heels of the invasion attempt? And what did he have to say that convinced the town guard to allow him passage? The tall, regaled visitor’s face was concealed under an ornate silver-steel mask, and he was appropriately gloved with white gentleman gloves, so Duo assumed he was dealing with some minor noble until a spy ran to his side and whispered information concerning the guest.
“Director, this man calls himself Zechs Marquis. My network reports that he is a very capable general, but he is not registered as a noble.”
“Why the gloves then?” a gruff retort whispered back, “they don’t hand those to common folk, no matter how good they are.”
“This man seems to be the exception. But he is here on nobility’s business, oddly enough.”
“To demand our surrender?”
“He didn’t say, Director. Only that he carries the will of the Alliance, and showed me a seal as proof.”
“Alright,” Duo blurted to the patiently waiting Zechs, “Why are you here?”
The reply was dispassionate and cold, bearing a noble’s sound, “The Westland Alliance seeks a different arrangement, Director. Perhaps the city of Chai’dou would be willing to simply allow our forces passage, so that we may stop this pointless war. We are willing to hear your terms…”
“We take goods freely. That’s it, pal.”
“Your forces have been successful to this point. Not one death on your side, we hear. How long will that last?”
“Until you stop trying to invade, I guess.”
“Or until we actually attack appropriately. Your escapades against scouts and neophyte commanders may be impressive for your own, but the Alliance cares little. However, you will have one more chance to prove your courage. Do me a favor, would you?”
“What?”
“When you die, do so with dignity. Preferably, without your face freezing in regret.”
“I have no regrets. But I’m not ordering that tombstone, either.”
As Zechs left, Duo held a gaze of contempt that traced the false noble down the street to the dockyard. Upon his approached the shoreline, Duo shifted his gaze to the bubbling froth circle in the water twenty feet into the ocean. The froth exploded, erupting as a mist over the shore and sea. The shadow arising from the mist appeared eight feet tall or more, at least a head taller than Deathscythe, and twice as thick overall. The mists descended as a translucent curtain to reveal the white plated Wagnerian caricature, wielding a ballista strapped, along with several clutches of varying ammunition,
to the left forearm. These were sheathed by a white buckler, one-inch thick by eight shelves of plate. The right arm braced a sword more suitably called a polearm if held by a lesser armor, as well as a second sheath buckler that could house the sword or simply protect the extended arm.
Duo could only look on in awe, fearful and terrible awe. If the Alliance had procured a true armor, the resistance could be simply beyond his strength to carry. But he sighed in relief when he saw the absence of “the glow,” a vibrating song that coursed through all true armors. His armor had this vibration, he could feel it every time he entered Deathscythe as the armor attuned to his very spirit. This was a good imitation, but no true armor, and therefore not an insurmountable threat. As Zechs entered the monstrosity and glided to the horizon upon red-hot levitator boots similar to his own, Duo prepared himself for the next grim defense, whenever that comes.