Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Iron Man ❯ Iron Man ( One-Shot )

Iron Man- by masamune

MasamuneEHS@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing, nor much else for that matter, so I hope no company sues me. I'm borrowing Black Sabbath's song, Iron Man too, so they'd better not complain either.

Warnings: Graphic violence, intense language, yaoi references (3x4)

Archive: If anyone wants to archive this or any

(lines of song lyrics are preceded &followed by --------s)

Iron Man

------I AM IRON MAN-------

I am a hero, cast aside in trash, rubble and the spit from scorning mouths that curse me.

I am wretched, suffering and turned to this by them.

I am hated. They must have forgotten who brought them the joy they have.

They make me suffer; they delight in my pain. I will make them suffer, tears of joy mixing with their fresh blood on my face, in my hair, submerging me in a calm lull of satisfaction.

I think that would be fair.

I am greater than them. They will be helpless before, their only defense, begging, pleading, sobbing uncontrollably for mercy, for me to spare them. Hah, me, spare them? Do they know who I am, how I became what I am?

I will rise again, I will enjoy scarlet vindication, I will consume their black remorse, I will roll clear tears down their cheeks and I will send them the ultimate justice, oblivion.

------Has he lost his mind?-------
-------Can he see or is he blind?-------
-------Can he walk at all,-------
-------Or if he moves will he fall?-------
-------Is he alive or dead?-------
-------Has he thoughts within his head?-------
-------We'll just pass him there-------
-------why should we even care? -------

"She didn't actually say that, did she? I mean, who would of thought that dumb floozy would ever come up with something half intel-"

"Hey man, watch the fuck out!" A voice urgently warns, cutting off the speaker mid sentence. The loud mouth stops, in mid-sentence and nearly trips over my legs, which are curled up to my chest, feet in ratty worn shoes sticking out into the sidewalk.

"Oops!" The words stupidly fall from the blabber's mouth as he jumps back, his jeans and sneakers the only part visible to me. He stops; his arms fall to his sides, pale white fingers pushing into pockets instinctively. "I'm very sorry sir." Is he talking to me? "I…I didn't see you an…"

"Shhh!" His friend hushes him shut, probably putting one finger to his chapped lips and another pointing at me. This one is simply another pair of creamy, pleated khakis; new from the nearest mall and complemented by a smart, stylish duo of black dress shoes. He's probably the one talking to the blabber who almost walked into me.

There is silence between the two, maybe a hushed whisper from the blabber that escapes my ears as a bus goes by on the street. A sharp gust of fall wind adds to the noise of people walking the streets, chattering away on phones, their needless accessories jingling and clanking as they go on with their happy lives.

The pair of khaki pants warns his buddy, "Don't talk to this dude." The loud mouth makes to cut him off, stuttering to get a few words out, but his friend keeps making interjections to keep him quiet. Nothing meaningful is said, and then the khaki pants start again, "I wouldn't talk to him if I were you. Everyone around here that knows, stays away." His voice is familiar, but then again, they all are. "You shouldn't mess with this psycho, he…"

"Hey, whoa!" The blabber starts up, his hands whipping out of his pockets, pivoting to speak to the other. "Shut up Dennis, he'll hear you!"

"No he won't, he's asleep half the time, or drunk stoned off his rocker."

At the small area where my eyes gaze out from under my wall of brown hair and over my arms, resting on my knees, I can see the blabber turn towards me again for a second. Across the street, the jingle of the grocer's store sounds and Ms. Feldman pads out, dressed entirely in white. My eyes wide open, I hardly blink as a wretched stench wafts from the nearby dump.0

"But what if he's awake now?" The incessant talker continues talking to 'Dennis'. He must be new around here. I wait for him to learn exactly who I am. "Don't be so hard on the guy. He's probably homeless and been through a lot of shit."

"Motherfucker deserves it," Khaki spits, raising his voice with venom. Blood boils in my veins, I feel it rush into my face, causing my head to tingle with the insatiable desire. This fuck knows, thinks I deserve this? I know what I deserve; I know what HE deserves. "Fucking sadist murderer, that's what he is. Damn! I wish he was homeless, that way the cops could haul him out of this neighborhood."

There's another small period of silence, broken only by a man in a suit walking by, sniffling from a stuffy nose.

The loud mouth begins to speak again, "Dennis!" He drops his voice, wary. I feel his eyes on my head, tucked into the folds of my limber arms. "If this guy's so dangerous, shouldn't you be careful of what you say near him? Who is he anyway?"

"He owns this shitty building," Khaki waves his hand, clear over my head, causing my grimy, mud colored locks to rustle. "But he mostly just sits out on this stoop, hunched over like this, or works in his basement. I hear every now and then he goes over to Madaba's, to get something to eat, but I've never even seen him move…Yo, can we just get the hell out of here?"

------He was turned to steel-------
-------in the great magnetic field-------
-------Where he traveled time -------
-------for the future of mankind -------

"You still haven't told me who he is," The gabbing boy in jeans pipes in, his voice cracking to a shrill tone.

"Trowa Barton." The answer is a hushed whisper, not to my surprise. None have scruples about insulting me, right in front of my home, but god forbid they speak my name.

"Trowa Barton?" Shock fills the blabber's voice, it squeaks again. "No way! You mean the Gundam pilot from the wars? The pro mercenary from L3?"

"Yeh, that's him. They say he's rebuilding a Gundam in his basement."

"My god…"

"Hey, can we just get the fucking hell out of here. I don't want to be late."

"Stop complaining, we have plenty of time… jesus…."

I almost want to chuckle. This boy speaks and reacts to me as if facing a legend, a great monster of epic proportions. While here I sit, not even lifting a finger, merely watching his fear of me grow. He instinctively takes a shaky step back from me. I suppress a laugh with a little less control then the amount I must apply from leaping up, squinting in the sunlight and into his pale face, awash in horror, and bludgeoning his head in. I don't even want to start thinking about what I would do to the other boy, Dennis.

"So he just sits here like this? He never leaves?" The pale, pubertising boy asks with curiosity in his voice. I must be so fucking interesting. Trowa Barton, slaughtering butcher, sitting like a doll on the stoop of a run down house, warrior, murderer, queer, demonic as I am, this boy can't get over how cool it is that he gets to see me. "I sort of feel sorry for him…"

Sort of. Sort of means he'd never say a kind word to me, never make the same mistake of nearly tripping over my feet again, never again in his life consider me like a normal human being. He's just like the others, the ones that deserve to die, he would never do shit for me, even after all I've done for him. The blabbering shit would probably not be alive right now if it weren't for me.

"Damn man!" Khaki spits again. "Don't feel sorry for this guy! Not only is he a fucking butcher, but he's queer too. It's a good thing his little fairy boyfriend is dead, otherwise AIDS would probably be rampant in this town."

My eyes are wide open, but they cloud over with red. This little bastard has no right to speak of Quatre, ever! No one knew him the way I did, no one loved him like I did, and no one fucking helped him when he was dying. I feel myself shake all over as the beginnings of tears well in my eyes. But they never come, they never do.

I don't know why, but I begin to pick my head up, out of the warm cradle of my arms. The blood rushing to my arms gives the pins and needles sensation that I've grown used to. The glare of the waning sunlight makes my eyes half close, the wind blows hard, causing me to shiver a little bit. I sit still, watch Khaki's mouth fall open, the blabber takes two more steps back, nearly knocking an old grandmother into the street. I look up at them, my eyes concealing the dark urges and feelings spinning through my head as I study their surprised faces. I imagine them, bleeding from various cuts and scrapes, as they stupidly look up at me, while I stamp their heads into the concrete until it caves in, leaking brains and dark crimson into the streets, where people watch in horror, unmoving, as if waiting for me to kill them too.

The loud mouth speaks finally, stuttering, his voice cracking multiple times, "Ummm….uh, hi sir. Don't, don't, don't mind us… we're just passing through." His friend is starting to walk away at a hurried pace. "Well, have a nice day."

------Nobody wants him-------
-------He just stares at the world -------

I walk inside my house, a rundown, three-bedroom wreck, that to me, symbolizes my life. It's all I could afford with the small amount of cash I scraped together and what Quatre left me. L4 made a law, restricting who could receive large sums of money, to prevent mad men like me from living a life of luxury or setting up a mastermind, villainous conglomerate. The place is falling to pieces, and it has a deep, brooding secret in its basement that no one knows about but everyone fears.

They whisper about me. They spit openly in my face. They fling curses and hate filled rants at me as I sleep at night, when I sleep inside, on the rickety cot that lies next to the kitchen microwave. Rocks break my windows, my doorstep bursts into flames monthly, and they shudder when they catch a glimpse of me, or even my front door.

I often wish I had never saved them. I wish I never fought in the war. The blood I spilled on my hands, the innocence I lost, the dark nightmares that fill my night, and the odious reputation I enjoy so much are all due to the war I battled for those people. And now, they scorn me, they hate me. Well,….hehehehehe…. I break into laughter, watching the two boys disappear around the corner through a half-shattered windowpane, well they'll all get what's coming to them soon enough.

------Planning his vengeance-------
-------that he will soon unfold -------

I stay up, working late into the night, and sometimes not leaving my house for days at a time. Other times, I can't bring myself to go outside and face the world, or, if I do, I just peek at it from under my tangle of hair, bent over on my front stoop. I find myself thinking less and less like I used to. I had such plans for life, so many things to look forward to, good causes to benefit. I don't even remember many of them now. I do think about Quatre a lot…

When I think about what I should do, and what I really want to do, it usually reminds me why I don't keep a firearm in my pathetic shack. I…want, more then anything else, to hurt the people that hurt me. That doesn't sound so bad, does it? But, it's the details that I imagine, the vivid colors and sounds I hear in my head, in my dreams, in my fantasies, which scare me sometimes. I've largely come to accept them, the idea of gutting a helpless lady with a rusty blade, the image of mowing down lines of families, couples and children, then sprinkling acid on the survivors so that they can suffer in their last few moments. I want to take a bomb, and throw it into a church during a wedding. I think about taking a person, holding them in my house, and torturing them for days, burning their eyes, slicing their skin off, starving them and enjoying the torment they go through.

I'm used to that. But, it's not what I take delight in thinking about. My fantasies, the things that become the brightest thoughts of my day are the most twisted and perverted ones that would get me sick in the long dead past. None could understand how I would derive pleasure from taking a small family, mommy, daddy, and two sweet little children and holding them captive in their own house, turning their safe, happy environment into a torture chamber that they'd shudder at for years to come…if I didn't kill them in a few months. I would take relatively good care of them, feed them, clothe them well, and keep the thermostat high enough in the winter. At first, I would probably have enough fun from just kicking them around in front of each other, beating them to within an inch of death while the rest cry their eyes out and stay tied down, helpless and only able to watch. I would make them go through humiliation by reading their diaries, online stories, and revealing their deepest, dearest secrets to the world. Then, I would turn them on each other. Oh...that's the part that brings a smile to my face. Twisting the love of a father for a son into venomous hate, the bonds of marriage into loathing by causing spouses to believe the fault for all the suffering was their better half. The ways I would achieve this bliss are countless, as I've gone through them in my head countless times, lulling myself to sleep at night imaging strained, choking sobs that they would cry.

------Now the time is here --------
-------for Iron Man to spread fear-------
-------Vengeance from the grave-------
-------Kills the people he once saved -------

All those lovely thoughts run through my head, but they don't nearly relieve the injury that society has caused me. I know I'll never do them, the only reason that I wouldn't is because I would almost certainly be caught. If I ever violated the pettiest crime, the people would scream for my execution. It's amazing that I was saved from the treacherous mobs that rose to tear me apart after the last war ended. If Dekim Barton, a relic of the first war, could create such havoc as he did in the Maremeia Incident, what could we Gundam pilots, relics of both wars do? But, Relena wouldn't have her Heero die. No. She vehemently protested and worked to raise support for us, but it just wasn't working. The last time I saw all five pilots was cowering in an old bomb shelter on Earth, because all the denizens of the planet that we'd saved would shoot us on sight. A scapegoat was needed, and guess who it was?

It was Quatre. He had been the one to destroy colonies. He had actually constructed the Wing Zero from the blueprints the scientists had left behind. He had the resources, as executive of Winner Enterprises, capable of raising an army like Dekim Barton did. We had openly expressed our homosexuality after the war. He had been 'artificially born', leading the people to think he was a Frankenstein of some type, brewed up in the bowels of some lab. In the end, the government had issued a decree, forbidding any attacks on us Gundam pilots, but by that point, I was the only one that needed it. The others had escaped the fervor, which had been picked me off. …And Quatre was dead.

Now, after countless hours of work and sweat, I could have retribution. As I look up at the Gundam in front of me, I see my dreams of the last few nightmarish years within grasp. It was hard work, but I still managed to scrape together the funds necessary for reconstructing the Wing Zero. I had been incredibly careful to make sure nobody caught on to my activity. The fucking blind people were so obsessed with whispering about the rumored Gundam in my basement, that they never really thought it could be a reality.

"We'll show them all," I whisper to the mobile suit, almost entirely unpainted, and in some places the insides visible. The plain Gundanium gives it a light black, almost gray color. "After all we did, they cast us to the side. Ungrateful! The insolent bastards! When none of them could have done a thing to protect themselves, we fought an entire fucking war for THEM!"

In my glory, in my brightest hour in this black chapter of my life, I notice something in the back of my mind perk up, something I had denied for a very long time. A dead piece of me resurrects itself to express pity, and hope for the people that killed it. This humanitarian side has been gone for so long, that I hardly know what to make of it. Maybe it's just a fever? But no, I drop the wrench I had been using to make the final adjustments; a part of me won't allow the slaughter. I know part of it is Quatre's influence. As much as I crave it, I still can't bring myself to sit in the cockpit and begin the rampage.

After a few days of thinking and reflecting, of sitting on my front stoop with my head actually up and looking at the world pass me by with only glances of scorn and upturned lips, I came to a decision that shocked me, I would give the people one last chance.

------Nobody wants him-------
-------They just turn their heads-------

I stagger up and down the streets of the city, holding out my arms and groaning in pain. Red streaks my left hand and my clothes are torn to ribbons, barely hanging on my skinny frame. I wretch and cough as I pass through the crowded main section of town under the morning sun. To anyone that makes eye contact with me, I gasp, and make gestures, showing them the lacerations tattooing my body. Everyone passes by, most people turn and walk in the totally opposite direction.

I fall to the ground, and a murmur rises up in the throng. Amidst the happy cries of "He's dead!" and "Look, how fitting," a few people show actual concern. A heavyset woman, dressed in gaudy clothing rushes over with a group of others and starts asking me questions. I groan and mutter a response, telling them I'm dying and need medical attention. Finally, the woman begins to pick me up, calling for an ambulance wildly. Our eyes meet, and I watch as her chubby, round face transforms into an expression that I know very well. Her hands drop me, my face hitting the pavement, causing some actual real blood to fall from my lips. I suppress a smile, as the rest of the group that came over disperses, and only give a quick glance over their shoulders.

Another minute or so passes, and I make attempts to stand which all fail. Finally, I'm aware of arms encircling me and hauling me up, and a horse, nasal voice calls out for people to make way. Looking around, I see faces turn to glare evilly at me, but I fail to catch a glimpse of the person saving me. In a daze, I don't really focus on anything until I find myself in an alleyway, slumped back against a grimy brick wall. A bald, spectacled man in a suit looks me in the face.

He asks, "Are you alright son? Do you need me to call a doctor for you?"

I'm so taken aback by this. I never thought that anyone would ever give a damn about me in a million years. Nobody helped Quatre when he was shot, bleeding to death in the middle of a crowded business district, why would anyone help me? I mutter, trying my best to sound in great pain, "Please, help me. Doctor."

The man wipes his brow; he's sweating furiously. "Just hang on! Let me call a doctor."

He turns away from me, leaving me with my thoughts for a minute while he digs through his briefcase for a cell phone. Everything I think about, all the forgotten compassion and goodness that flows back into me makes me marvel. I never knew I was capable of feeling this way, nor did I ever think a man like this existed. I wish that this man had been around when Quatre had lay, dying in my arms in an alley similar to this, while people passed by, not even bothering to hide their recognition. I'm pulled back into reality when the man asks me:

"What's your name son?" I look up at him stupidly, and he repeats, "What's your name son?"

"I am Trowa Barton," I breathe, making my voice sound weak as I lick my bloody lips.

The man's face, becomes the woman's face, becomes the face of everyone else. Without another word, he stands up, snapping his briefcase up in hand, and begins to back out of the alleyway.

"Please, you need to help me!" I cry out, reaching for him with the hand covered in fake blood.

"Nobody can help you, you bastard."

I stay seated, my head resting on the cool brick. After a long time, I push myself up, wiping away the blood from my lip again. Silently, I walk away, back to my house.

------Nobody helps him-------
-------Now he has his revenge -------

I look down; my eyes quickly dash over the control panels and all the other screens in the cockpit of the new Wing Zero. The black monster sits in the fold of infinite space, the generator humming and controls bleeping. I have some quiet time to myself, as military reinforcements won't be coming for some time. The few space Leos the colony kept for defense are all gnarled scrap metal, floating into space, littering the black void with other mobile suit remnants. It's disgusting that they never cleaned them up from the war.

The small hole I made in the colony from blasting out lies on the other side, out of my view. I would enjoy watching the people being sucked out into space, but, I am where I am. My field of vision leers directly down on the colonies main ports, where ships scramble to evacuate.

Over the radio frequency, I listen to the evacuation orders. Not to my surprise, they're making sure the well-to-do bourgeoisie make it to safety first. I've tuned out the channel from the colony headquarters. I will not have mercy on them, I will have retribution.

I smile and chuckle to myself, to the Gundam. This is resurrection in the ashes of others. The phoenix's flame envelopes me, raising me to heights I've not enjoyed since the war. It will burn the hopes and dreams of the people of the colonies, but, the fire must feed on something. What do I care if they suffer? The only reason they've been around this long is because of the war Quatre and I won for them.

The gigantic Buster Rifle hums in the Gundam's hands. I lock it onto the colony center structure with a mere flick of my fingers. Distress signals blare over the radio. Distress signals? That's too funny. The Wing Zero begins to vibrate a little, as the energy in the rifle increases. Quatre cried in distress, nobody answered him except for me. My tears and sobs were the only reply. So too will these people's cries be answered, with the tears and anguish of others.

Eyes unblinking, I fire. Brilliant white light sparks and grows; the colony disappears in it like dust in the flames.

-------Heavy boots of lead-------
--------fills his victims full of dread-------
--------Running as fast as they can-------
--------Iron Man lives again!-------

"The atrocities that this enemy of mankind has committed since the genocide at TR-4 can not go on! They can not be forgiven!" The commander stops, taking a breath and letting his fabulous words sink into the soldiers standing at attention before him. I sigh. How many times have I heard these words before? They date back far before the destruction I wrought.

"They can not be forgiven!" The general repeats. I've had these words flung at me when I was as meek and harmless as a fly. If they don't forgive, why should I? Why should I forgive Quatre's killers? Who has the right to tell me who I can forgive? I do!

"They can not lack punishment!" Some soldiers start to cheer. They obviously don't know the commander type; he has to finish with some kind of self-praising, ultra-righteous bullshit. The crowd of soldiers in perfect rows, under perfectly hung banners is a haggard excuse for warriors. Looking down on them, I lick my lips.

"They will be punished! The right is ours to bring justice down on this butcher!" These too are my enemies. They will die like every other enemy that stood before me. They made me the enemy. I begin the Wing Zero's power up. Lights illuminate the cockpit.

I bring the Gundam to a standing position, knocking over the gigantic stage lights, cracking black shadows over the swarm of soldiers that begin to shout. The general is silent; in fact, he's nowhere to be seen.

Orderly lines turn into complete chaos. Insects that resemble tiny humans run for their pathetic lives. I fire my Vulcans into the air, and watch as the swell lurches on top of itself, crushing anything underneath, seeping through the tidy parade grounds fences as some make for the hills.

Generator powerups surrounding me are merely blips on the radar. Turning, I see three yellow, solitary empty eyes glaring at me from the blackness. The mountains are lit up by the gunfire that practically bounces off of the Gundam's armor. I smile, and flaring the thrusters, am only vaguely aware that I'm incinerating all of the soldiers left on the parade grounds. Adrenaline makes me shiver, I tune my radio frequency to the common military channel. Not for any other reason other then the joy I will receive from hearing the dying cries of the enemy. Using only my machine cannons and Vulcans, the enemy mobile suits disappear rapidly. My smile fades with the embers of mobile suit armor. The soldiers died silently, but I was compensated with the acrid smell of charred flesh from the countless soldiers burned to a crisp in vernier heat.

The range is remarkably quiet except for the screeching alarms and perhaps the unheard last breaths of dying soldiers. I peer around. Inside, I feel the warm feeling spread over me. I know that what I'm doing is wretched and inhumane. I love it. I revel in it. The death of all those that wish to kill me is like a new life for me. Justice is served with every soul that is wiped out. Vindication is fulfilled with the terror and pain I inspire. Quatre is remembered, Quatre is cried for, Quatre lives on in me, in the rubble I create, in the dreams I destroy. I am reborn in the destruction of my victims.

A warning signal goes off in the cockpit. Across the mountain range, lines of enemy mobile suits rise up against me. I grin, tightly grip the Wing Zero's controls and prepare myself in an instant to be reborn again, before I rush towards those that scorned me, with fiery conviction swelling to consume them.

-owari

Well…that was different from most of my stories… feedback please!

MasamuneEHS@hotmail.com