Gundam Wing and all characters belong to Hajime Yatade, Yoshiyuki Tomino, Sotsu Agency, Sunrise, and TV Asahi. I'm not making any money off of this, so please don't sue me, it would be an awful way to waste your time.

by: Kitsune
*Damn, damn, damn!*

*Oh what the hell. Damn, shit, and fuck it, too!*

With a bloody rag pressed over his arm the man crouched behind the communication’s console. Not the best place, he knew, but the only cover in the room at the moment… if you didn’t count the guards he’d shot piling up by the door.

Long hair streamed into his eyes and he bit back another curse, wondering for the fifth time why the hell he didn’t just lop it off. But he knew the answer to that… these bastards had to pay for what they’d done, and until that day came he’d refused to cut his hair. The platinum blond locks served as a lifeline to the past for the young man, served to remind him what he was fighting for…. *Father.*

With a feral growl, Mirialdo Peacecraft launched himself over the top of the fritzed-out console and tackled the nearest officer, taking him completely by surprise. He wasn’t particularly worried about these stupid goons the Colonial Republics kept throwing at him and his comrades… they were cannon fodder, really, not worth the ammo it took to drop them, but the more enemy dead, the better.

He shook his head to clear the bright stars that had started to dance before his eyes. With a slight grimace of pain, he began a critical appraisal of his injuries as he ran down the corridor at top speed; firing shots behind him with his liberated weapon. Two broken ribs, a mess of bruises up and down his ribcage, a hairline fracture in his left arm, not to mention that rather deep bullet wound that kept threatening to bleed the colors from his world. *Treize is *not* going to be very pleased with me when I get back to the safe-house… *if* I get back to the safe-house that is….*

*Shut up, Mirialdo… don’t you ever know when to shut up?!*

He berated the rather morbid turn his thoughts had taken and swept his straggling blond bangs out of his eyes, sweat pulling them back down to stick to his face. *Speaking of Treize… where the hell is that man?!* This was supposed to have been a simple mission, break into the base, lay a few viruses and email intercepts in the computer archives, and get out.

It was not going as planned.

The entire base seemed to be aware of their presence… and if that wasn’t enough, two of those damn Preventer Special Troops were here, dammit! With their specially armed and equipped mobile suits, those fuckers were harder to kill than a fifteen year-old boy’s hard-on during an all-night porno-fest. *Damn!*

He was about to check the back hallway for security cameras when he felt the unmistakable cold metal muzzle of a pistol press against the warm flesh behind his ear. He cringed inwardly. *Treize is *definitely* not going to be pleased.*

“Look what we have here… one of the OZ rebels, isn’t it?” The sneer in that voice lingered and raped the word ‘rebels’ as the gun was pushed a little further up into his hair. Suddenly, it was gone and the heat of the body that had appeared behind him was gone, too… but he knew better than to hope the disembodied voice had disappeared. He was proven right when a pair of Preventer boots stepped around the corner from which he’s just run.

Mirialdo swept his gaze up the black boots, taking in the long slender uniformed legs before him; slowly raking in the sight of a meticulously buttoned uniform jacket, shirt, and tie, to meet a wicked smirk and a sharp violet gaze staring him down from beneath a thick fringe of gold-shot brown bangs. The tip of a long braid of hair twitched at the young officer’s hips, drawing his attention.

*Oh shit!* Mirialdo clamped down on an instinctive wave of panic, forcing his bright blue gaze hard and flat, affecting disinterest. His mind was a flurry of half-answered questions and flashes of personnel files Treize had shown the group one night… those eyes, that face, that hair… it was Captain Maxwell… but he never imagined…. *Shit! He’s younger than *I* am!*

Again, the disembodied voice heralded from over his shoulder, confirming his suspicion.

“I have him, Captain. I’ll see to it that he gets down to the brig.”

The young man… boy… young man… before him met his gaze for one long moment, drawing out the tension. The violet eyes twinkled with some strange demented light, not all together sane and yet horrifyingly cold and calculating.

“As you see fit, he’s your prisoner now, Captain Yuy.” With that, the slender hips twitched, a long rich brown braid swirled, and the officer was gone, back down the hall, snapping orders and reprimands to the foot soldiers dumb enough to let the prisoner make it as far as he had. The blond man sighed inwardly… those eyes glared at him from his mind’s eye and made him shudder.

Then he remembered the other voice, the voice which slowly resolved itself into a body that stepped around in front of him, leaving enough room between them that Mirialdo could easily be reduced to a bullet-riddled corpse should he be struck with the urge to make a run for it.

Another dark green and navy Preventer’s uniform stood before him, just as meticulously pressed and buttoned as Captain Maxwell’s. This face was just as young as the other, but the eyes were a piercing deep blue and it was all topped with a shock of thick, spiky dark hair.

*”Captain Yuy, Captain Maxwell… Heero Yuy and Duo Maxwell, two of the Preventer Special Forces squad captains. They each pilot a specially equipped mobile suit….”* Treize’s brief file on the two young officers droned on in the back of his mind in the older rebel’s husked voice, sounding distressingly far away.

He wondered if Treize and Noin had managed to upload those stupid interceptor codes they were here for, his thoughts then briefly flickered to his sister, Relena, wondering if she had at least forgiven him for siding with the rebels after their father’s death. He knew she wouldn’t understand why it was so important to him to fight this, to fight the suffocating tyranny that the Triumvirate had installed. Those five sadistic and twisted men who had the audacity to call themselves ‘doctors,’ who bled the people of Earth dry with oppressive taxes and stole her young men with frequent conscription into their brainwashing organization.

All thought fled his mind in the next instant as he heard the distinctively loud click of an automatic pistol being cocked. He looked up to meet cold blue eyes over the barrel of the gun.