Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Deadly Beautiful ❯ A History Lesson ( Chapter 36 )

Disclaimer: All I want for Xmas is the rights to Gundam Wing. Or maybe just some clothes. I guess.

 

Deadly Beautiful - Chapter 36

 

by danse

 

- - -

 

Quatre sat on the edge of the desk, sipped at his coffee and glanced at the clock for the third time in ten minutes, when the curtain at the door was pushed aside to reveal Trowa. He was dressed in loose, tan trousers and a white, long-sleeved shirt, which he'd only bothered to button up halfway. He also had coffee in hand, and looked very tired.

 

Quatre grinned, feeling a wave of exhaustion and confusion coming from his friend. “You're kind of late,” he said.

 

“It's kind of the middle of the night,” Trowa replied. “I was asleep.”

 

“You'll get used to it. I'm up from six in the evening until ten in the morning, every day. On the plus side, it tends to keep away the jet lag when I have missions.” He'd suggested the day before that Trowa keep the same shift of wakefulness as him, so that they could work together on the OZ issue easily. Today was the beginning of Trowa's nocturnal conditioning, and Quatre had roused him from a nap to come discuss things at three in the morning.

 

Getting right to business, Quatre slid off of the desk and turned to the laptop that sat open upon it. Leaning forward to read the screen, he found his file of OZ locations and turned the computer so that Trowa could read it. Taking a sip of coffee and wincing at the consistency, Trowa looked through the long list quickly, noting that the locations that had already been hit were marked as such by Quatre. “And this entails what?” he asked, pulling out a chair from the conference table nearby and settling in it.

 

Quatre sat across the table from him, turning the laptop on the desk again so that it faced them. “We've hit only approximately ten percent of the OZ installations worldwide. At our current pace, the time it'll take to finish the job will be measured in years.”

 

“I highly doubt that we have years,” the sleepy agent replied. “Looking at this kind of coverage of the globe, I'd be surprised if we have a full year.”

 

“We're on the same page, then,” Quatre said, feeling pleased. “I think we'd also agree that we therefore have to pick our targets and pick them carefully. We have limited people, limited time, and limited resources, and we need to strike where it's going to hurt the most.” Receiving Trowa's nod, he continued, grabbing a printout off of the desk. “That being said, I've compiled a list of targets that take into account location, size, and apparent importance to their cause, based on the info we have. It represents a bit less than half of the total number of facilities, but that cuts down our work time.”

Trowa took the paper and perused it, flipping pages with a blank look on his face. Although Quatre could feel occasional sparks of interest and a wisp of thought from his friend (he rarely got more than that from people), he still felt nervous about how his ideas would be accepted. Finally, Trowa set the paper down on the table. “You got a pen?” he asked.

 

Quatre tossed him one, which he caught deftly before bending over the second page of the hit list. “I think we can actually cut down this list a little more,” he said as he twirled the pen. “It looks here like there's a large facility that deals with...” he read the sheet, “... `Leo ground units'... on every populated continent. Look.” He drew arrows next to seven facilities on the list. “Actually, there's two in Asia. One in western China and one in North Korea.” He drew arrows next to several other facilities as he continued. “Also, I suggest we target these couple of facilities that have unique purposes, because they might be significant. The `Pisces' operation in Côte d'Ivoire, and the `Cancer' one in Micronesia, and a couple others. Here.” He pushed the sheet back at Quatre.

 

The Arab spy looked at his colleague's choices, and nodded thoughtfully. “Pen,” he said, and Trowa put it in his hand. “Also this base here, and this one.” He drew arrows, and looked up at Trowa, who had raised an eyebrow. He pointed at the sheet with the tip of the pen. “Look at the commanding officers,” he said. “A general at one, and two Lieutenant-Colonels at the other. Take out the high-ranking officers.”

 

Trowa nodded as he pulled the list back. “That brings us down to... fourteen targets.” He looked up and grinned. “Quite an improvement.”

 

Quatre smiled back. “Hopefully it's enough to get the point across,” he said. “We're going to have a hard time amassing the resources to carry this off as it is.”

 

Trowa leaned back in his chair, drinking his coffee. “You're rich. I'm sure all five of us get paid a fair amount for what we do. Between us, we might have the resources. Time is still an issue, though....”

 

Quatre stood up. “I'll send out the word. Which one shall we attack first?”

 

Trowa had already been thinking about it, evidently. “I'm between Argentina and the Congo,” he said. “Both are these big `Leo' facilities.”

 

“I'll ask for a vote,” Quatre said, and left the room.

 

Trowa stared at the sandy ceiling as he put down his coffee cup. Things were really moving now; he hoped the first team mission would work without problems. Thoughts of Catherine entered his head for what felt like the millionth time. I hope I don't die, he thought.

 

- - -

 

Wufei was sitting under a tree, doing his daily meditation ritual, when his pager suddenly went off. Cursing, he looked at it and saw the message that Quatre had been instructed to send when he wanted contact. Eyes widening, Wufei aborted his routine and raced for the secure land line in O's hideout, which was only a few blocks away. When he got there, he dialed the number Quatre had given and heard a familiar voice on the other end. “Wufei?” Quatre asked.

 

“Yes. What is it?” Wufei wished the phone cord was longer so that he could pace the room; he felt very agitated, not having expected any communication for weeks, if ever.

 

“Would you rather try Argentina or the Congo this year?” Quatre asked laughingly.

 

“What are my choices?”

 

“They're the same kind of facility, but Argentina is the only major one in South America, whereas there are a few places of note in Africa.”

 

“Argentina, then,” he answered. “Where and when?”

 

Quatre hesitated. “We're not sure yet,” he said finally. “We have an action plan, but not a time line or any resources, as of yet. I was thinking of a meeting to discuss what we plan to do about those things.”

 

Wufei glared at the wall in frustration, wishing to set the wood paneling on fire with his eyes. “Well, then let me know when you've figured something out,” he said, and hung up. Growling at his erstwhile team's lack of organization, he went back outside to finish his meditation.

 

- - -

 

Even after several days of regular classes, Relena still didn't have any real friends. There were girls who she sat beside or would share a smile or greeting with in the hall, but the language barrier was still too much to get over. She attended beginner German lessons with one of the English-speaking teachers instead of taking German class with the rest of the girls, and she could communicate on a basic level already, but it wasn't nearly enough for conversation. She muddled along in classes as much as she could, finding Math the easiest German-language class to work in.

 

She sat in the cafeteria one day at lunch, occupying a small, two-person table by herself as she ate and read a book, when she saw someone else set down a tray on the table. She looked up and saw a girl from her Math class. She was pretty, with long, pale blonde hair and exotic features. She had strangely forked eyebrows, though.

 

“Is this seat taken?” the girl asked in perfect English.

 

Relena shook her head mutely, caught off-guard by this strange and unexpected interruption to her routine.

 

Tossing her hair behind her shoulders, the girl sat down in the other chair and extended her right hand. “My name is Dorothy Catalonia. You're the Friedenskraft heir, just transferred here.”

Relena nodded, even more bewildered. Since she'd been going by the name Darlian here, she had no idea how this Dorothy person could know her real name. “Um, my name's Relena,” she said after a second, shaking Dorothy's hand awkwardly over their food.

 

Dorothy nodded in acknowledgement, picking up her fork and digging into her spaghetti. “Relena....” She took a bite, chewing in a way that was simultaneously ostentatious and still polite as she stared Relena in the eyes. “You want to know how I know who you are, don't you?” she asked after swallowing.

 

“Yes.”

 

Dorothy shrugged. “New girl arrives, the palace closes most of its tour route at the same time. You get picked up by a limo, which isn't exactly uncommon, but not everyone here is that rich. Also, I've seen that portrait of the royal family in the palace. And I remember faces when I see them.” She smiled in a not altogether reassuring way, and Relena got a sudden, chilling feeling that this girl was not to be underestimated.

 

The conversation that Dorothy continued between mouthfuls of pasta basically added up to verbal fencing. Every sentence that came from Dorothy's lips poked at Relena's guard, and the poor girl was sent reeling every time, unable to patch together some kind of defense against the assault of conversation.

 

“So do you follow in your illustrious family's footsteps?” Dorothy asked.

 

“Pardon?” Relena responded.

 

“A staunch lover of peace and pacifism? Against war in all of its forms? Prepared to lie there and take it to the last breath?” If the girl had possessed a tail, it would have been lashing around merrily as she spoke.

 

“I-what-....”

 

Dorothy twirled her fork idly around her fingers as she looked across the table at her quarry. “The Friedenskrafts have been known for generations as being easy to walk all over, if you're after something of theirs. That's how the last king died-he let his subjects overcome him because he was too weak to do anything about it.”

 

“My father was not weak!” Relena burst out finally. “He was a strong, caring man, who would never allow his people to suffer in any way! They didn't overcome him because he was weak; he let them choose their own paths!”

 

Dorothy gave her a pitying look. “We study this country's history in this school, you know. Right up to the present day. Everyone knows the basic story: assassination, overthrow, and how the children both vanished into thin air, presumed dead. Obviously we have a slight correction of that tale sitting right here. Who knows, they might find Anastasia of the Romanovs shopping at Macy's next week. But there are a few people who know more about that story than the textbooks and the general public, and apparently, even you, Your Highness.” She used the term mockingly.

 

Relena leaned forward, her eyes narrowed, and hissed menacingly, “And I suppose that you know all about it, don't you Dorothy?”

 

Dorothy leaned forward until their faces were inches apart. “I do.”

 

The heir to the throne of Liechtenstein burst out laughing. “Who do you think you are, anyway, Dorothy Catalonia?”

 

Dorothy sat upright again, the picture of haughtiness. “Does the name Dermail mean anything to you?”

 

“No,” Relena responded bluntly.

 

Dorothy scowled and gave her a condescending look. “Old European money, my dear. My grandfather, the Duke Dermail and head of the Romefeller Corporation, my father, General Catalonia of OZ, and all of the men in the family before them were rich, influential in European politics, and proud to do battle for the family's honour.”

 

Relena raised her eyebrows. “And what about you? Do you have brothers upholding the name?”

 

“I'm an only child.” Dorothy tossed her head again, making the blonde shimmer of her hair move like a wave. “I endeavour to follow in my family's illustrious footsteps all the same, though.”

 

Relena sipped her water. “So you advocate war, then? Is that what you're telling me?”

 

“It's a necessary step to achieve peace, and to obtain goals for the good of the nation.”

 

“But do you enjoy fighting?”

 

Dorothy's eyes began to hold a spark in them, a positively joyful glow that made Relena feel sick. “What isn't to enjoy about battle? So fierce, so simple and complicated all at once! The clash of weapons and minds, trying to outwit your opponent or die in the attempt! To live your life on the edge of death, and when you die, not to fade away but to burn strongly in the memories of the world, winning honour for yourself and your kin by proving your valour and bravery! There is no greater high.” She was enraptured by her own words.

 

Relena stared. “That's absolutely horrifying!” she cried.

 

The glow on Dorothy's features faded, but the snarl that replaced it was quickly wiped away by a crafty smile. “Your father tried to stop the uprising,” she said softly. “At the very end, he used every resource at his disposal to try and defeat the revolution. Unfortunately for him, it was too little, too late. I hear he and your mother begged for their lives at the end.”

 

Either she was making it up, or the Dermail family's influence spread to governments of small countries, too. Relena suddenly wondered why the granddaughter of the Duke Dermail would end up attending a girls' school in Liechtenstein, of all places. Possible answers to the question tickled the back of her brain in ways that made disturbing amounts of sense.

 

The bell rang, signalling the end of the lunch hour, and Relena sat in her chair and stared into space in disbelief as Dorothy picked up her school bag and left the cafeteria.

 

- - - - - - - - - -

 

A/N: DB turned 2 years old on November 22nd. *dons a party hat* Hopefully we get another post in before Christmas, but if not, have a good one, everybody.