Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ World on Fire ❯ Genesis ( Chapter 1 )

Heavyarms. From his earliest days as a nameless mechanic for the Barton Foundation, this towering machine of war had captured his imagination. His own life, the lives of others; they all meant nothing to him now. There was only Heavyarms, pure in design and completely focused in purpose. It was perfect; there was no hate, no malice in this machine, no emotion other than the awe it invoked in those that viewed it.

When most children his age were reluctantly at school or playing with friends, fourteen year old No-name was learning all the intricacies of the machine, entirely ambivalent to the ultimate purpose of destruction. It had not been about the end goal to No-name, just the perfection of the machine itself. Until the day the pilot of the machine, the real Trowa Barton, had been shot. Shot by a mechanic and the man who would become his trainer, Doctor S. He had taken on the name and role of Trowa Barton on that day, becoming the good doctor's weapon of rebellion against the Earth. It was a rebellion he cared little about, like Heavyarms he was just a tool to be used.

All that mattered was that he be allowed to pilot the machine and finally he had the opportunity. The original Trowa Barton had been part of a massive plan of genocide, to drop one of the orbiting colonies down to Earth, not only killing all those living in the colony but everyone on Earth as well with the colony's entry causing massive ecological damage to the planet. So others on the project had killed that man and now, here he was in his stead, drifting in space ten thousand miles above the Earth and waiting for an innocuous series of numbers that would tell him that Operation Meteor had begun.

Trowa grabbed the dimming lantern from its perch on one of the many maintenance panels that covered Heavyarms, winding around the stiff dynamo with an annoyed grunt until the damned thing brightened enough so that he could see what he was doing. Not that there was much to illuminate in this dead husk of a spacecraft, he could count the inventory of the transport on one hand. One towering machine of death, check. One command console, check. One mattress, check. One inebriated teenager going insane of boredom, check.

The only thing that had made the first weeks tolerable was because he spent half the time drunk, but then the vodka ran out. He'd starting servicing Heavyarms once, twice, then when four times seemed too many he started checking the release mechanism that would propel both him and his mobile suit into Earth's atmosphere. While on that project he only just began realise that all the systems were powered down to avoid the transport being picked up on sensors, so he wouldn't be able to boot up the computers to check that everything was working after his little tinkering session. Sessions. Weeks. Wasn't the definition of insanity doing something over and over again and expecting a different result each time? Not the actual definition of course, but it was catchy enough and it fit.

Pulling his head out of the maintenance panel, Trowa grabbed a torque wrench and in his frustration threw it at the wall, the tool bouncing off the wall of his prison with a lonely and sad 'clang'. The thought that he would go stir crazy had never occurred to him when they were planning this stage of the mission, he had always considered himself a very patient person. Certainly it would surprise any that knew him that the quiet boy would be so restless, but all his life he had been doing something, fixing or fighting but never fidgeting. The concept of boredom had not been introduced to Trowa Barton's life, and to his surprise he found it did not sit well.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Trowa's heart jumped a little as the computer bathed the otherwise dim transport in a pale blue glow. Closing and locking the maintenance hatch on Heavyarms' leg, he drifted over to the incoming message.

42 95 27

That wasn't the code he was expecting. Furrowing his brow, he opened up the drawer next to the computer and pulled out the codebook.

*

“Hey Howie!” Duo called out as he strolled along the deck of the massive ship, “Have you found those new targets yet?” He had ignored orders (Duo preferred to think of it as “reinterpreting”) to stay in orbit and had hitched a ride with a civilian transport down to Earth. Another one of his Sweeper contacts had introduced him to Howard, the owner of the carrier and someone who was pretty high up in the Sweeper organisation. Howard had been sympathetic to either Duo or to his cause - he wasn't sure which one it was at the moment, and there was definitely something the old guy was holding back - and had offered to let Duo use his ship as a base of operations, including help with repairs and parts. Since Howard was allegedly a genius engineer, he was also hoping he could wrangle a few upgrades.

“A few,” answered the grey haired man, who had so far seemed to be perpetually clad in a Hawaiian shirt and board shorts, despite it being the middle of winter. “Mainly just refuelling stations, but hitting them would make it impossible to deploy suits in the region to search for you.”

“Nice work for an old guy.” Duo laughed and gave Howard a wink, the gesture returned only by a neutral look over the top of his sunglasses. “I'm going to head back to `Scythe. Put in the data and I'll plan my first strike.”

Howard just sighed and shook his head as he watched the youth go.

*

Landing a week early had its advantages, the best of which was having time to make a few more… luxurious modifications to the mobile suit. Not only had he managed to fit the chair with some rather expensive and very soft leather, but the cockpit was now housing two small fridges - packed to the brim of course with some delicious sugar filled drinks.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Duo stared blankly at the little light flashing red on his console. It was the Master Caution Alarm, but what the hell could it be warning about now? He fired the Gundam into life, bringing all the systems online just as the first shock-wave hit.

It was invisible, a rippling and churning line in the sea the only visible evidence of the destructive wave that slammed into the side of the carrier, bending steel and breaking glass as the unseen force tore through the bowels of the ship. Duo clung on for dear life as Deathscythe capsized, knocking him about the cockpit like a ragdoll as the uncontrolled suit fell gracelessly to the ground. The force of the fall ripped Duo's grip from the chair, falling uselessly until his head smashed into one of the side displays, leaving his body in a growing pool of blood and display fluid.

*

“Do... copy... arms... repeat... Wing... copy...”

Heero Yuy stared at the command console... the computer readout was usually just a simple display, but now all sorts of readings and graphs were popping up in the task manager as the computer frantically tried to process the message. He was picking up an encrypted, weak transmission that was being directed at him from somewhere in Earth orbit. It couldn't be Dr. J, from the protocol they had established he would only send messages through text, and the scattered bits of conversation put it at a young - about his age - male voice. He had a choice here, his standing orders were to remain electronically silent, but this was definitely directed at him. He imagined he even heard “Wing” in the transmission. There was only one way to find out: tapping a few commands into the keyboard, he extended the aerial of the transport and boosted the signal.

“Please respond. Gundam Wing, this is Gundam Heavyarms. Do you copy? Repeat. This is Gundam Heavyarms.”

“This is Wing.” Heero replied into the radio, weary about giving away too much information. He had not been told of any other Gundams, but then again he had always been told very little by J. It would certainly make tactical sense to send more than one operative on this operation, especially if they were isolated and independent.

“Wing, have you had any reports from your controller?” Came the even reply. There was something that seemed… no, it wasn't familiar; but there was a certain business-like quality that resonated with Heero.

“Negative, Heavyarms.” Heero responded, “No contact.”

“I received a `Hold, retreat and regroup' order along with a list of four other Gundams and their secure channels. I'm not sure how to take it.”

Heero ran his fingers down the row of buttons on the side of the console, a nervous gesture if nothing else. His mind was busy playing through the conversation, vigilantly searching for any hidden meaning or signs of threat. “Did the message say anything else?” Heero queried, concluding that there must be something that this Heavyarms was hiding. If he had received such a mysterious message he wouldn't take the risk to contact the people on it.

“There was… a message from my controller.” The voice uttered after a pause, undeniably shaken. “I'm uploading it to you now.”

Wordlessly, Heero accepted the transmission, noting with a certain amount of apprehension that all the security codes were valid.

This is Doctor S. If you have received this message, then it is likely that I and the other scientists working with me are dead. If they are not, then you are to take orders from any one of my colleagues. If you receive no contact immediately after this message, you are to assume they are dead and are to carry on our fight.

As you are likely now aware, you are not the only pilot in this operation. It was a heavily guarded secret in the event that any one of our projects was discovered. In the absence of orders from myself or my colleagues, you are to co-ordinate with the other pilots in your missions. This transmission will contain the secure communication codes to contact them.

The transmission stopped abruptly, reinforcing that this Doctor S was just as insistent on keeping a facade of cloak and dagger bullshit as J was. Heero wouldn't be shedding tears for any of them, it was not as if J would have shed any for his own death.

Turning back to the communications console, Heero replied to his new found ally. “Heavyarms, do you have a plan?”

*

The past five minutes had been a blur to the young Quatre Winner. He had been playing his violin, the gentle strains of the instrument filling the small transport when he was interrupted by an alarm from his communications equipment.

“I don't know.” Quatre sighed, shaking his head as he conversed through the radio. “I don't have a way of contacting my controller.” He ran a hand through his disheveled bangs, worrying over the direction the conversation was going. If H had been captured or killed, could that lead back to his family? Should he go and help them, or would showing up with a mobile suit only make things worse?

“We have to decide on our own.” The voice of the pilot that had identified himself as Heavyarms came through. Both of the other pilots had fairly emotionless voices, but this one seemed... slurred? “We haven't been able to reach Deathscythe or Shenlong, so it's three of us for now. We should land in Western Europe, close to Switzerland.”

“Middle East.” Quatre cut in, not allowing Heavyarms to finish his plan. “I have contacts there that can help us hide, it will be easier for us to strike quickly and evade pursuit in the desert. They can get us access to fuel and repairs.”

“I agree with Sandrock.” Wing commented, causing Quatre to gain a childish smile as his plans were taken seriously. “The Middle East isn't well patrolled and is close to supply lines from Africa.”

“Middle East it is, then.” Heavyarms relented, “I hope your contacts are trustworthy.”