Being Athrun Zala

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: as always, not mine.

Notes: let me apologise for the long delay. Let me call FFN a few names for messing up earlier. Let me thank Fledgling for, despite her busy real life, betaing this thoroughly. Let me thank you all for being patient and very supportive, especially those who offered help regarding my problem, because you know you deserve this chapter (and the left two, also). And last, let me ask for review for I so want to know what you think about this chapter—and this fic so far.

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Chapter 11

Athrun had just put the telephone back on the receiver when Young opened the door to his room and let himself in.

“Busy?”

“No. Just Dearka calling to tell me he and Yzak are going to visit me tomorrow.”

“Good then. C’mere, boss. Drink with me,” Young said, haphazardly throwing himself onto one of the chairs in the kitchen.

Young’s appearance made Athrun frown. His defender did not look very presentable with his clothes untidy and hair unruly. There was combination of dirt, grease and grass smeared on the lower half of his pants, and he had a bottle of vodka in his hand. And he smelled of something that Athrun was so familiar with.

Athrun’s face fell as the realisation hit him.

“Who did you kill?”

Young glanced down at his left arm. A smear of dark, brownish liquid with a metallic reek was there. “Oh.” He popped his bottle open, as if uncaring of his surroundings. “Good question.” He took a big swig of the vodka, waving a hand to invite Athrun for a glass. “Remember the rat trying to sneak into your room that night in the hospital? Found him. Cornered him. He tried to run away. Technically a resistance, you see. So I shot.” Young swept the back of his hand across his mouth and sweaty forehead, his smile cold and misplaced. “He’s dead.”

“How—”

“Ah!” Young waved his bottle of vodka lightly. “That's exactly the rat's name. Yeah. But now that he’s dead, his name doesn’t matter anymore, right?” Then he grew sombre, very sombre. “Yeah. Doesn’t matter anymore.”

Athrun was, in lack for a better word, aghast. So that was why Young was so uptight and did his best not to show that he was seething inside after that night in the hospital. But somehow Athrun had guessed ever since that night, something like this would happen. He just had not known why—and he hated his intuition. Athrun hated that he had finally gotten the answer to his suspicions. But worse still, he did not know how to comfort someone who had just killed his lover.

“Why?”

“That’s me, right.”

“Will.”

Young raised a hand to stop him from questioning any further. “Ne, Athrun,” he said, much softer than before, “drink with me?” He rose to take a glass from the nearest cabinet and offered it to Athrun. “I want to forget.”

Equally quiet, Athrun took the offered glass. “You know you can’t.”

“Still.” Young poured Athrun his vodka. “I want to. Even if it’s just for tonight.” He clinked the bottle against Athrun’s glass. “Cheers.”

It was the bitterest vodka that Athrun had ever had.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

“So here we go again,” Dearka drawled. “The Three Musketeers.”

Both Yzak and Athrun glared at him.

Dearka shrugged uncaringly. “Like it or not, you guys, we are.”

“Three is my unlucky number,” Athrun grunted.

“And I don’t want to be grouped in the same class with you bastards.”

Dearka rolled his eyes. “Because you’re superior?”

“Exactly that.”

This time, both Dearka and Athrun rolled their eyes.

It was their second meeting since Athrun had been released from the hospital not long ago. Orb had not yet aired anything in response to PLANT’s request to reclaim him, and the world was waiting anxiously. All over the world, the Orb Representative Council was being repeatedly criticised for delaying their answer. What is so hard after all, they said, about answering whether or not Orb has one Athrun Zala or not? Is one man’s life equal to a nation’s millions? Is one fugitive’s life equal to Earth’s billions? From this point of view, it was simply a yes-or-no situation. Orb did not have a reason to delay.

But Athrun knew that Orb’s delay was not really the problem. Most of the residents of Earth just feared the possibility of another war. Nobody wanted to have a bipolar world once again.

PLANT was also restless. Many people held demonstrations and marches to support PLANT’s Supreme Council’s request. Will we let our military body be so loose about integrity and conduct? they said. Will we ignore the past and let our children watch our mistakes repeat? PLANT had to bring Athrun Zala home. For the sake of ZAFT’s integrity. For the sake of justice.

If Fate were just playing an irony on him, he would definitely not be the one to laugh.

“Have you talked?” Dearka asked. Then he added quickly, “To Cagalli, I mean. About Orb’s answer.”

“We talked a little,” he admitted. “But she didn’t tell me anything about the Council’s answer. All I know is that it’ll be released at the end of this week.”

Yzak was frowning, and it told Athrun that Yzak might have sensed his talk with Cagalli did not go so well. He was glad that Yzak did not ask about it.

Of course, Zala, his mind mocked. To say that your talk ‘didn’t go so well’ will be the understatement of the century.

Shut up, he cursed. I hate you.

But his cruel mind went on. It’s actually easy to say, isn’t it? The word ‘hate.’ And not only to me. To her, even. I wonder what—

Shut up!

“Oi, you okay?” Dearka called. “You don’t look so well.”

“I’m fine.” He brushed off his friend's worry. “I’m just... a bit tired.”

Dearka looked like he wanted to say something more but stopped himself.

“As for the trial,” Athrun said, deciding to steer the conversation back into focus, “Young is wondering who the jurors will call as witnesses against me.”

Yzak spoke up, almost annoyed, “You speak as if there will be a trial.”

“There will be,” Athrun said. “Orb won’t risk another conflict much less a war. The damage from the previous two wars is still too vivid in people’s minds. The government won’t risk their position by playing with such sensitive issues.” He did not know why he could sound so calm when it was his life that these politicians were deciding over. “Whether it's run in PLANT or Orb, there will be a trial for me.”

“You like you are Alex Dino or Athrun Zala?” Dearka asked.

“I don’t know.”

Dearka raised a hand and looked around, as if searching for someone who would overhear. “Supposing that you're tried as Athrun Zala, will Orb defend you?”

“At least one person will.” He tried to smile, but it ended up bitter. “Will said I would have to decapitate him to stop him from being my defender.”

“And no one else?”

“And no one else.” He was not surprised. There were more than one Pontius Pilates throughout history.

But to say that it did not hurt would be a lie.

Dearka swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Well then, Athrun, suppose that you were identified as Athrun Zala of ZAFT, who will you call for as your magistrate?” Dearka asked.

In a military tribunal, summary offences that were decided by the jurors would be dealt by the accused's commanding officer who acted as a magistrate. It meant that Athrun would have to have a magistrate to negotiate with whatever result his trial would give him. The problem was that, considering the fact that his last service in ZAFT was as a member of FAITH, his superior was the Chairperson of PLANT Supreme Council at that time. It meant either his father or Gilbert Dullindal.

Young almost went nuts with the fact that they could not ask dead people to act as a magistrate.

“Oh.” Dearka’s shoulders slumped. He eyed Yzak carefully, almost as if afraid, which was strange for the Dearka Elthman that Athrun knew. “Can’t we voodoo them back or something?”

Athrun threw him a cross look.

“Kidding,” Dearka defended himself weakly.

“This is not the time for jokes,” Yzak said. “As a ZAFT officer, Athrun Zala’s last post before he went missing in action during the First War was with FAITH, under the late Chairman Patrick Zala’s authority. Two years after that, he re-enlisted in ZAFT under a patronage and was promoted to FAITH once again, under the late Chairman Gilbert Dullindal’s authority.”

“What patronage? I’ve never—Yzak, you—” Athrun did not continue. He did not like this part about a patronage or whatever else, and he did not like the way Yzak spoke as if he was reading a mere report on newspapers.

“I received a letter from the ZAFT Board of Honour. They asked me to give a testimony as a witness against you in the trial.” His eyes were serious, far more serious than they were when they stood before Nicol's grave. “But they will not have my testimony.” Yzak rose from his seat. “Because I will act as your magistrate.”

Shocked, Athrun stared long at Yzak. He was worried at first when Yzak mentioned the letter, but this was not what he expected to hear.

The silver-haired colonel stared back, challenging either Athrun or Dearka to say something before he continued. Athrun knew that if anyone had the guts to challenge Yzak, his former teammate’s reply would be more severe. Yzak Jule would not bend once he decided on something—a trait that Athrun admired and resented at the same time. For Yzak to be a magistrate would only mean one thing, Athrun realized.

Yzak would put his military career at stake—for the man whom he always considered an archrival.

“I don’t want it.”

“Just shut up, Zala,” Yzak rebuked sternly. “Do you think you can play selfless hero now? I'm not doing this for you. I just can’t let ZAFT crumble. I think you’ve long understood that shall you fall, you’ll drag others down with you.”

It sounded like a firm insult—and maybe Yzak really intended it to be one, but Athrun did not care about that right now. “They’re going to strip you of your rank.” Yzak couldn't have been so stupid as to not realize the risk.

His former teammate only gave a short, harsh laugh. “Strip me of my rank, you say? Who do you think I am?”

Dearka offered Athrun a somewhat easy smile. “What he really means is that no one—I repeat, no one—in ZAFT today is as magnificent as him. If they strip the great Colonel Yzak Jule of his rank, who will they get as his replacement? Besides, the ZAFT National Guard is the only office in PLANT nowadays that regularly cooperates with other military bodies in the world. I don’t think PLANT will be so stupid as to forgo an office that is so crucial. So the worst thing that they could do to Yzak is postponing his promotion.”

“To no limited time,” Athrun added.

No one countered that.

“It’s not your problem, so don’t concern yourself with it.” Yzak buttoned his coat up. “Now, if you'll excuse me. Dearka, I’ll be waiting in the car. I’m sick with how the people here treat someone who's saved their ass in the past.”

He stared at his former teammate’s retreating back. First, it was Cagalli. Now, it was Yzak. Twice in less than a week he had been shielded without his knowing. Shielded, he thought, seething. As if all those stunts they pulled off aren’t enough.

Dearka laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry,” he said, “for not telling you this.”

He brushed off Dearka’s hand as smoothly as he could. “I told you not to.”

Strangely, Dearka did not look offended at all. “We shoulder the same historical burden, Athrun. We all do. And that, I’m positive, is what Yzak really means. Whether it’s his mother or your father who led it all to this point, the burden—or I’d rather say responsibility—is yours and yours alone to bear.” He paused, then said, “Don’t act so fucking miserably, pal. I know what I’m going to say isn’t helping, but do you really think you’re the only one who faces this problem? Fuck, Athrun. You’re not the only one. I have to report to the ZAFT Board of Honour every month. Each and every thing I do in the whole month, imagine that. And I know a lot more who do, too. And with this sick hunt-and-kill-the-traitors game, it’s just like we’re letting ourselves become targets.”

“Dearka—”

“Don’t tell Yzak I tell you this.” Dearka put both hands inside his pockets, sighing. “He doesn’t need a postponing of his promotion to tackle him down. With his mother in permanent house arrest and most of the top generals antagonizing him, it’s already been done.”

He averted his eyes to the window.

“I’m not asking for anything from you, but think about it. We’ve long chosen this path; we'd be damned if we leave now.” His former teammate turned and walked to the door. “We’re not the infamous Three Red Musketeers for nothing, are we?”

“Dearka.”

“Yeah?”

“You should think of a new career.” He smiled, thinly. But it was a real smile nevertheless. “An official translator of Yzakish language, perhaps? Doesn't sound too bad, I think.”

“No, thanks.” Dearka chuckled, though he did not turn around. And Athrun had to admit that it felt really, really good to hear someone laugh near him. “Unlike you, I’m not that obsessed with the idea of dedicating my ass off for someone, you know.”

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Of all the places he could be, he was sitting in a pub when the most awaited answer on Earth was aired.

He had only wanted to know about the situation with the impatient public, curious about the rumours and opinions regarding the potential threat Orb faced once again. He really did not expect to be among the commoners, who discussed the whereabouts of Athrun Zala and what connection he might have with Orb with alcoholic beverages on their hands.

All heads turned to the single television unit above the bartender’s head. The program was a bit troubled since the weather was not so good that day, but it was, unmistakably, Cagalli’s voice and face that appeared on the screen.

“Oi, oi, isn’t that Cagalli-sama?”

“The Head’s going to give the answer?”

“She definitely is!”

“Cagalli-sama!”

“Oi, bartender, can you get this program any better?”

“Sorry, dude, that’s all you’ll get in this weather!”

An old man bumped against Athrun’s shoulder as Cagalli announced her greeting. He looked behind, but a protest that was already on the tip of his tongue died immediately. The old man was blind. So he turned his attention back to the television.

It was only a week, but it felt like he had not met her for a long, long time. Fingers curling, his hand soon clutched hard around the end of his coat.

The Cagalli on the screen wore her white uniform. Her uniform lacked stripes on the shoulders and medallions on the chest. The yellow rope that was usually present on the joint of her left arm was also absent. He did not remember when, but it seemed that they had long been gone from Cagalli’s uniform. It was not a military uniform.

It was the uniform of a civil leader.

It made him frown. He was one of the closest officers around her. Why did he only realize now?

“...We will not attack another nation. We will not allow another nation to attack us. And we will not intervene in the conflicts of other nations. These will always remain our ideals, guide to our actions. We will not go back to change our ideals, and we will hold on to them.”

Her voice wavered with the bad line, but Athrun remembered the lines well. It was the core of the Orb spirit, breastfed not with mother’s milk but with millions of lives. Ever since his first visit to Orb, he had wondered about this and had always wanted to ask the late Uzumi about it. Whether it was worthy to be traded with so many lives. Whether it was worth all the damage that the nation suffered. Whether it was more precious than his daughter’s personal happiness.

I don’t have a private life, Athrun, Cagalli once told him. With my father gone, I give up my private life. I have to—no. I choose to.

That was the first time he was angry at Orb. At the late Uzumi. At the Orb people. At each and every single person who made Cagalli shoulder the weight of the spirit on her own.

And at himself, for not being able to do anything to relieve her from the burden.

“...Even a successful war will not make the world snap out of a deep and widening mistrust.”

And this was what she was trying to protect: a world that had not snapped out of a deep and widening mistrust. This was who she was trying to convince: a collective group of people who lulled themselves into a deep and widening mistrust.

“...The point is to scare our enemies, not terrify the rest of the world.”

He remembered Feyedorov’s words. Power respected power. Orb was small but powerful, alone but independent. Orb was one of a few nations who welcomed those who came, regardless of their genes as long as they obeyed the law and embraced the spirit. The Blue Cosmos and the Atlantic Federation used to spat at Orb as a friend to the Coordinators, advocate of sin and warrior of selfishness. PLANT, too, once labelled Orb as a two-faced traitor to world peace because some Orb parties had been helping the Earth Alliances and its re-embodiment, the Earth Federation.

And still, Cagalli sent Orb troops to MESSIAH, knowing that the troops were outnumbered, for the sake of those people, too.

“...We do not want a world in which we get our way by twisting arms, paying bribes, allying with dictators.”

The blind old man, now beside Athrun, reached and took Athrun’s tumbler instead of his own. He gulped down the rest of Athrun’s beer. He seemed to need help swallowing when a lump materialized in his throat upon hearing Cagalli's words. He did not even tell Athrun anything, but Athrun let him do so.

“...We will act based not on strength but on the faith that the power is legitimate.”

The blind old man clapped him on the back. “You’re new here?”

A middle-aged woman next to the old man eyed Athrun’s cast. “Off duty, soldier?”

“Yes.” They did not have to know who he was. A small lie using the help from old-fashioned eyeglasses and a worn-out coat would not hurt.

The blind old man grinned toothily at Athrun. He gestured at the television. “Great, isn’t she? Our leader.”

“She’s going to be alright,” the middle-aged woman piped in. “Orb’s going to be alright.”

“This is a strong nation,” another man said. “If ZAFT’s going to fuck with us, we’ll kick 'em hard in the ass!”

“And the same counts for Earth Allia-Federat—or whatever name it is!”

The blind old man clasped Athrun’s shoulder. “When you’re healed, go around. See for yourself how strong Orb is. Not in the weaponry sense, of course. We’re not going to be broken.” He grinned again. “You still have a long life ahead, young man. C’mon. Enjoy life.”

“One free glass for everyone!” roared the bartender. “It’s a toast to freedom, my dear customers! To dignity! To Cagalli-sama!”

“To Orb!”

Kira once told him how Cagalli was heartbroken because she believed that no one heard her voice. No one listens to a sixteen-year old girl with only an inheritance to keep her in the office, she told her brother five years ago. Because of that, she felt responsible for the many unnecessary deaths like Captain Todaka’s and the rest of his fleet’s. Because of that, she took everything that happened in the two wars into her heart. Because of that, she took into herself the ideal of her late father and shaped herself into Uzumi. That’s why, she once said, I borrow my father’s voice to voice mine out to the world.

But it was different now. Now, she was not merely Uzumi Nara Athha’s daughter.

He looked at the television. So strong, brave and beautiful. So big her figure to him was. Beautiful. Beautiful Cagalli.

You are heard, Cagalli. They listen to you.

Even his anger and the knowledge that his life had been decided could not stop him from raising his now refilled tumbler high. The bartender, laughing, promised to refill his tumbler again if he could finish his beer in a gulp. The middle-aged woman behind him patted him gently on the arm, wishing him a get-well-soon. Feeling the rising arm, the blind old man beside him smiled a proud smile of a civilian proud of his leader.

“To Orb,” Athrun whispered. “To Cagalli.”

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

“—will not interfere with the tribunal process, just as our citizens will not bend to any injustice or alarming threats to peace. Orb is a friend to everyone. Orb offers the same objective of peace to all. Whether you are former soldiers or troubadours, Orb welcomes you. Therefore, with this, I, as the Head Representative of Orb Supreme Council, officially welcome the new members of our Orb family. I hope we will—”

“PLANT Representative Azalea Dahl Jule called Orb Head Representative Cagalli Yula Athha’s announcement as an imprudent decision in this time of prob—”

“—er riots occurred in the eastern region of Neo Equator following the Orb trial for eight terrorists charged with murder and murder attempt—”

He turned off his television. Three days had passed since Cagalli’s announcement that the Orb government would “cooperate in the International War Tribunal,” and most televisions on were still airing the announcement. At the same time, Orb promised that no Orb civilians would be tried in an “unjust and prejudiced court.” In other words, Orb would only have The International War Tribunal if it was held in a neutral nation. A very clever move, Athrun had to admit. While at one point Orb was successful in avoiding an unnecessary political strain with others, Orb was also able to maintain its dignity and sovereignty.

On the other hand, Orb’s answer meant that he would truly have to face this trial, whether he was ready or not.

And then, Athrun saw Hathaway standing in the doorway, eyebrows raised.

“What happened to this room?” Hathaway asked. He examined carefully at Athrun’s face just to add, “And to your face?”

“This?” He rubbed his stubble-covered chin. He had not realized he was unshaved until Hathaway mentioned it, actually. “I haven’t shaved in three days.”

“And this room?”

Athrun’s eyes wandered around the room. Papers were scattered everywhere—printed documents and handwritten notes, marked maps and memos. His room was a lot messier than a control room during an operation, and even his state was not helping. Stubbles were only one of other obvious evidences.

Hathaway closed the door and sat on the sofa. He looked at a diagram. “Berlin, Moscow, Singapore, Port Moresby, Carpentaria,” he read. “You’re investigating on your own.”

“There are a few things I couldn’t help noticing.” He faced his notebook computer again. “The day I was in Neo Equator on that rescue mission, there was a cell going after our group. No matter what kind of smart-asses they are, they wouldn’t have been able to track us down without enhanced equipment.” He pointed his chin at a marked map tacked to the cap of a night lamp. “ZAFT has three bases close to Neo Equator. Singapore, Port Moresby and Carpentaria. Considering ZAFT’s insistence on dragging me back, I would think that they’re assisting the terrorist group, wouldn’t I?”

“It is a serious accusation,” Hathaway said.

“It is.” He pulled a sheet of paper from a growing stack near him. “This group is real, though they’re a bit different from the original Blue Cosmos. Instead of going directly after the Coordinators, they go after the people who are affiliated with the Coordinators. The man who tried to gun down Her Excellency shouted ‘traitor’ when he shot.”

“And it cost you that,” Hathaway muttered, eyeing his cast. “And young Ben-Hasib.”

He forced himself not to flinch at the name. Even now he could not forget Fajjra Ben-Hasib’s blood-stained face and lifeless eyes. Another death he could not forget. “So there are two opposites. One, there's ZAFT and the insistence of PLANT’s top politicians to hold a military tribunal for ZAFT deserters.” Again, he forced himself not to flinch. He had never thought that he would accept the label ‘deserter’ on himself. “Two, there are paramilitary groups, or at least radical groups, one of which we know well, who play a cat-and-mouse game with the Coordinators. What are the chances of ZAFT working hand-in-hand with a group who literally embraces the Blue Cosmos’ belief and hunts down the Coordinators? Imagine the Pope working with Jehovah’s Witnesses. However, calling the fact that these two both chose the World Peace Conference as their stage a coincidence sounds laughable to me.”

“So that’s why you transformed this room into a mess.”

“And came to that conclusion,” he added.

“And came to that conclusion,” Hathaway agreed. If anything, the thin smile he sported belied Athrun’s expectation of an antagonism. “Sharp as always, aren’t you?”

Athrun did not want to prize Hathaway’s praise, if it really was praise.

“But, Athrun,” Hathaway said his real name—and it sounded almost odd to Athrun’s ears, being used to hearing ‘Alex Dino’ from Hathaway’s mouth, “postulating a conspiracy theory will not help you much in the trial.”

“I don’t do this for the trial. I just want to know.” He let go of his notebook and turned to face Hathaway. There was a glimpse of Patrick that he could not help but anticipate in Hathaway. He liked this man, and he did not want another betrayal by someone he liked. Just like what Father did to me, he thought. Cagalli was right. “You’re in on the grand scheme, too, aren’t you, Hathaway-san?”

Hathaway waited.

“You said I’m the youngest deputy you’ve ever had in the office. It’s not only because of my accomplishments, is it? You placed Young as my secretary, because, aside from my suspicions that he’s also playing a part in this spy game, a law graduate will know what to do in case I get myself a lawsuit. After that murder attempt, I was placed in this dorm under your order. You said that it was for my own safety. The truth is, Hathaway-san, it’s easier to monitor me when I’m in your area.” He stood from his chair and walked to a cabinet near the window, pulling a drawer open and reaching inside. He threw them onto the low table before Hathaway. “I found them. Inside the buttons of my coats. Inside the seams of my shirts. Inside the soles of my shoes. Even under the carpets of my cars and in Dietmar’s duckling.”

It was a plastic container. Inside glistened handfuls of the newest micro transmitter that Erica Simmons developed in the Scientific Research and Manufacturing Office of Orb.

He was a pawn. As always. His father’s, Le Kleuze’s, Dullindal’s. And now, perhaps, Hathaway’s—or more correctly, Cagalli’s.

It hurt.

“You were told not to return to your house,” Hathaway said finally, eyes on the transmitters.

“I’m already accused; what difference will one more charge do to me?” he challenged defiantly. “Who the hell is Heinrich Ottmar Walter?”

“There’s still—”

“Walter’s whereabouts in the Scientific Research Office explained the tapping happened to me, but not Nkono’s being in the same office. And definitely not the murder attempt on Her Excellency.”

“We’re conducting—”

“Answer me!”

Hathaway sighed, defeated. “We’re still running an investigation on him. Will was the first to realize, and I have to praise him for that. Maybe he realized after that intrusion on you that night. That’s why he chose to handle things his way,” the old colonel said solemnly. “Tell him I’m sorry.”

“You tell him yourself.”

Sighing softly, Hathaway took the plastic container and placed it in his coat pocket. “If you’ve already figured this... grand scheme out, why are you telling me?”

He looked at a stack of notes near his notebook. On them were names of suspicious people whom he suspected to be on the so-called grand scheme of string-and-spy-poor-Athrun-Zala. “To be honest, I don’t know if I can trust you now. Or anyone.” Maybe deep down he just wanted Hathaway to deny that the old colonel was not involved in the scheme. Maybe he just wanted a small proof that the world was not only about betrayal and abandonment.

“That you don't.” Hathaway stood. “You never trust anyone. Ever.”

If it was intended to upset him, it failed. What Hathaway said was the truth; Athrun would not be infuriated more than he already was. He slipped into a formal posture. “Asking a permission to submit a resignation, sir,” he said. “You will receive my formal resignation letter by tomorrow.”

Hathaway took a very, very long time to respond. He suddenly looked very tired, very aged. “Very well then. Permission granted, Third Senior Deputy Alex Dino. I will be waiting for your letter.”

He called Hathaway as the old colonel opened the door, his last question. “Is someone behind the reason why you do all of these?”

“Part of it, yes, that’s why.” Hathaway halted. “And my answer is no for the other part. Like you said, it’s easier to monitor you when I’m sure of your whereabouts. But people don’t do something just because of one sole reason.” The hand on the door’s handle pulled the door open wider.

Athrun was still rooted in his place when Hathaway’s last words reached him.

“And I don’t do all of this just because someone doesn’t want you to leave.”

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

The first month of the International War Tribunal was spent in a series of preparations of hearing sessions. The hearings would be held in many places, either in PLANT or on Earth, but Zurich was chosen as headquarter for the working jurors. A lot of former ZAFT officers were remanded from every part of Earth. Most of them deserters, and the rest were officers who had disappeared under MIA status. ‘An international show of how hegemonic power ridicules the commoners,’ a left wing magazine in Paris wrote in response to the announcement of the accused’s names. ‘Come, sting and fly,’ a pro-ZAFT newspaper in PLANT put on the headline.

For the first time, PLANT and Earth seemed to get along, as Dmitrij Feyedorov said, “to apologise for the wrongdoings of the past, reconcile and build the world anew in a wise and peaceful manner.” We’re sacrificed for the greater good of the universe, a deserter who was currently having a job as a high school teacher in St. Petersburg said defiantly. For peace and unity, once and for all.

People were waiting for a statement from Cagalli, especially after the information about her relationships with the two infamous pilots Athrun Zala and Kira Yamato were leaked, but she neither denied nor acknowledged the issues. She refused to comment on the tribunal process until the tribunal finished its duty. Some parties in Orb, mainly from the House of Sahaku and Seiran, were using this to attack her policy and administration. They demanded numbers of her assistants to resign from their posts due to, as current head of the House of Seiran Minato Juno Seiran stated, “an unnecessary blemish on Orb’s sovereignty.”

Former Head Representative Homura Athha was reported to say that this was “an era of vivere peri colosso for humanity.” He said that the tribunal would also be a test for PLANT and Earth whether they would be able to make a peace with the past.

To Athrun, who was constantly living in danger, vivere peri colosso did not really mean anything. It just meant a change in situation: from facing danger secretly to facing danger openly.

Young came one day with a long list of names. They were the names of the people who were going to be called in the hearings as witnesses. There were almost fifty names for each accused, and Athrun could imagine a hysterical rat running in Young’s head.

“How many do you know?” his defender asked.

“Lots,” Athrun answered.

Young groaned wearily. “This isn’t going to be nice. Let’s presume that nine out of ten witnesses will turn out to be a benefit for your adversary. How can we turn the one remaining witness to your benefit? Even with the honesty, evidence and intimidation factor put together, it’s likely impossible that we can.” He massaged his temple.

“Beat the other nine and leave that benefiting one alive?”

“How brilliant of you, Athrun.”

“Well, that way, my charge will be added with intentional homicides, and I won’t have to worry about the sentences—because there will only be one sentence, certainly.”

“Because you couldn’t stop for Death?” Young quipped one of Emily Dickinson’s famous lines.

“Right. I couldn’t. He kindly stopped for me.” He knew well that on the other side of living dangerously, Death was waiting. It was wonderful to have a friend in a journey, but if it was a journey to meet Death, he would prefer not dragging a friend down with him. It was time. “It’s enough, Will.”

“Enough? Of what?” Then Young began to comprehend. “I’ve told you, Athrun,” he hissed out angrily. “I’m not going to quit. You can’t stop me.”

“Nowadays, only less sane people will want to associate themselves with me.” He looked at his defender square in the eyes. “Then give me a reason, Will. One reason.”

Young, his ever loyal secretary, the only one who stayed with him throughout this bold humiliation, looked defeated, as if there was no more escape for him. He had kept his reason to himself for too long, and Athrun could not tolerate any longer. Young would better not be a suicidal altruist. Athrun would not let him, or anyone, to accompany him in his descend.

Half staggering, Young reached and sat on a chair, face definitely troubled. There it was. “About seven years ago,” he began, “I can’t remember exactly how, I don’t know, my family—they were there when ZAFT attacked Panama. It was supposed to be a vacation, but—well—you see, I’m the only survivor of my family.” Young smiled a thin, pained smile. “Then someone called Malkio took me to his orphanage. At that time, the world was simply a matter of black and white for me. ZAFT, evil; the rest, good.” He shook his head sadly, as if offering an apology to Athrun. “Well, with that in mind, imagine my shock when suddenly one day, one ZAFT soldier landed near the orphanage. ‘The demon has come to get me,’ I thought. And of all things, Malkio-san invited him to the orphanage. I did have my hatred, but my fear got the better of me, so a friend of mine, I forgot who, came to that bastard and hit him for me. Just once. A kick in the shin. And then we ran. That soldier didn’t even hit back. He even looked—well—sad, though I can’t really remember that soldier’s face well due to my fear. I once found him starring at the sea, at Orb across the sea, wondering, maybe hoping—I’m not so sure about that. Looking at place he couldn’t come to, people he couldn’t meet, perhaps. But he didn’t look like a demon at all.”

Athrun’s mouth hung open in disbelief. He knew exactly who ‘the bastard ZAFT soldier’ in Young’s story was.

“Later, I asked Malkio-san why the hell he came. ‘Did he come to destroy Orb, too? Did he come to kill us?’ I—uh—didn’t remember the precise words, but Malkio-san said that soldier didn’t come to destroy. Nor did he come in peace.” Young had a faraway look on his face by now. “‘That soldier came in sadness,’ Malkio-san said. “‘In bewilderment. In uncertainty. With only a small hope he can’t let go even if he wants to.’ Young let out a soft laugh, shrugging. “Stupid, isn’t it? At that time, I didn’t understand what Malkio-san meant. And I still don’t now. Instead of getting over my hatred and fear, I got this guilt. I didn’t think of ZAFT soldiers as fellow humans. They’re monsters who simply existed to kill and destroy. That soldier proved me wrong. How can a demon be sad, after all? Demons know no sadness.”

But it was natural, Athrun wanted to say. When his mother died, even he thought that the Naturals were the merchants of death. It was not a problem of genetic superiority to him; it was that he thought that the Naturals were evil and the Coordinators were good. Traumatic remembrance, a well-known psychiatrist in PLANT said. First impression always mattered the most, and so did his first impression of those who were simply different from him.

But—all these things—Young’s story—he swallowed tightly. What irony Fate played on him in this small, small world.

“So I want to believe—no—I do believe that such demons don’t exist. We create our own demons. And it can be anyone, anything.” Young sighed, then inhaled before continuing. “We create our own demons so that we have a reason to avoid facing our fear.”

Athrun could feel his chests tightening as word by word marked itself known.

“And I don’t want that. I can and will count my own demons. And I will stand. Because, after all,” Young straightened his posture, looking at Athrun, determination in his eyes, “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

He lost his words.

Then Young, suddenly, found the moment to end his surprise and look sheepish. Cheeks mildly flushing, he smiled, embarrassed. “Forget it,” he said, waving his hand. “It’s a stupid story, really. I guess it doesn’t count as a reason, does it? So forget it. I’m probably using you to atone for what I did to that soldier. Whatever, whatever. But you still can’t make me quit.” Then he added, weak, “Please.”

“No, it’s not stupid.” Athrun whispered hoarsely when he finally found his voice back. “Not at all.” Young did not have to know that he was the soldier in Young’s memory. He would always remember that boy in the green shirt from now on, this man. So he did what he never thought that he would. He bowed his head. “Thank you, Will.”

Surprised, Young blinked at Athrun’s bowed head, not anticipating this at all. “You should be angry, you know,” he muttered, but he was starting to smile, finally. “And I would’ve hit you if you had said ‘sorry.’

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

“‘The following tape recordings of the First and Second Hearing Session are the legal property of The International War Tribunal. Not public material. Prohibited to publish or copy in any form. Borrowed by William Herbert Young,’ Young read in bored tone. “Here we go.”

Date: September 4, CE 78

Subject: Athrun Zala

Contender: Athrun Zala

Present Occupation: -

Prosecutor: Hart Rajamalela, Rikard Weller Caird, Neftali Basoalto

On the tape, Athrun was sitting before a table where three prosecutors were located. They told him that it was only a hearing; they just wanted to ask him some questions to confirm his data. He seemed to bear in his mind that it was only the beginning. He should not have been surprised if they were trying to get to him and corner him.

“Athrun Zala, son to Patrick and Lenore Zala?”

“Yes.”

“Grandson to Athrun Dan Zala?”

“Yes.”

“Your father and grandfather were former chairmen of PLANT Supreme Council. Did that fact affect your view on ZAFT’s role in PLANT and in the world?”

He took a rather deep breath. “Athrun Dan Zala founded the foundation for PLANT as a nation and state. Patrick Zala continued Athrun Dan’s work but ended up in the wrong way objectively. I, as a part of PLANT, inherit their dreams of a better PLANT, in particular Athrun Dan’s dream of a better future in which people could live alongside each other regardless of their genetic codes, races or beliefs.”

“You said Patrick Zala ended up wrong.”

“Objectively yes.”

“And did this have anything to do with your decision to enlist in ZAFT?”

Athrun glanced down at his watch. He still had more than two hours to endure. “No.”

“With your re-enlistment, then?”

“No.”

“Please explain.”

He schooled his expression as an old pain seeped out. “I enlisted in ZAFT because my mother died in the Bloody Valentine, and I didn’t want anyone to have to feel like I did back then. I didn’t—don’t want a repetition of the Bloody Valentine.” He paused. “I re-enlisted two years later because I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Did the late PLANT Chairman Gilbert Dullindal play a role in assigning you in FAITH?”

“Yes.”

“Did he have any reason to?”

Athrun could saw the beginning of a scowl on Young’s face. Don’t answer, his defender mouthed. It was a baiting question. But Athrun wanted to. These people would get what they wanted, but it would not be enough to bring him down. “If he did, I wouldn’t have known until the Destiny Plan was revealed, thanks to Ms. Clyne.” He shifted a little in his seat. “And if that’s my crime, so be it.”

“Did you really feel that you must stop the late Dullindal from executing the Destiny Plan?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it was my duty.” Athrun could not help being amazed that he could be so collected, his voice not even wavering. “Chairman Dullindal said so himself, when I was entrusted with Saviour. It was my duty to correct should ZAFT—or rather, PLANT—take the wrong path.”

“Did you really believe you have the power to do the correcting?”

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath to calm himself before answering. “No, I didn’t.”

Young knocked his own temple with his pen, groaning slightly. Athrun knew, perfectly knew that his last answer was the opening that the prosecutors were waiting for, and it would be harder for Young to defend him in that stand. Yet he could not allow himself to lie.

“Very well, Zala-san. Now we’ll move on to the next questions.”

The questions went on and on.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Date: September 8, CE 78

Subject: Athrun Zala

Contender: Shinn Asuka

Present Occupation: ZAFT National Guard, PLANT

Prosecutor: Urs Moriah, Genaro Cambiasso, Ethelbert Zeman

“He’s a bastard, an honest bastard.”

Young grinned at Athrun as they watched the scowling Shinn in the record. “Very bold, isn’t he?”

Athrun shrugged. Shinn was who he always was. He appeared to stand neither on Athrun’s side or against him, but his choice of words, foul as it was, was meant to ridicule and throw back the questions that the prosecutors had asked him.

“Did Athrun Zala ever misjudge the situation on battlefields?” a prosecutor asked.

“No acting commander is flawless,” Shinn replied.

“You and Athrun Zala were reported to be involved in two slapping incidents.”

“We were. Well, General Patton was, too. Guess it runs in the blood of great soldiers?”

Young could not hold his laughter anymore, and laugh merrily he did.

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Date: September 10, CE 78

Subject: Athrun Zala

Contender: Lunamaria Hawke

Present Occupation: ZAFT National Guard, Secretary to Lacus Clyne, PLANT

Prosecutor: Urs Moriah, Genaro Cambiasso, Ethelbert Zeman

Lunamaria was so composed. It was like watching a spokesperson of Lacus Clyne in uniform. She held on to her words that she would follow Athrun, even more boldly than Shinn. She steered all questions designed to bait her, such as one that tried to make her say something that would corner Athrun, to question the morality of the tribunal. A fair and just tribunal for those who deserve no less, she said.

“What’s the problem with you ZAFT guys?” Young asked, amused. Of course he was; so far the witnesses were, surprisingly, standing for Athrun’s benefit. His question, too, came from watching Athrun’s former subordinates playing protector. “Where does your loyalty lie, really?”

“In honour,” he replied softly.

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Date: September 13, CE 78

Subject: Athrun Zala

Contender: Arthur Trine

Present Occupation: ZAFT Tactical Commando Enforcement, PLANT

Prosecutor: Urs Moriah, Genaro Cambiasso

“When was your last contact with Athrun Zala?”

Major Arthur Trine did not look different at all. He still fidgeted much and appeared somehow nervous. “Just not so long after MESSIAH fell. He contacted me through a private line, saying he had Shinn Asuka and Lunamaria Hawke and was going to hand them over.”

“Has Athrun Zala ever abused his authority as a member of FAITH?”

“I didn’t know. And if he had, I’d never noticed.”

“Athrun Zala was reported to have vehement opposition to Shinn Asuka’s ideas to bring down Freedom. Did you know why?”

“I heard that he once had an acquaintance with the Archangel, the ship where Freedom harboured. I guess Athrun Zala wanted to solve things civilly. Or at least that’s what the captain believed. But it’s not my place to question FAITH members.”

“Did Athrun Zala benefit the Minerva?”

“Well, yes. Mostly. Without him, we would’ve been hit since the first time we took off due to the Phantom Pain’s attack.”

“Has Athrun Zala’s hesitation to bring down Freedom interfered with the Minerva’s hierarchical coordination?”

“Once or twice, yes, considering one situation where we were surrounded by the Earth Alliance.”

Athrun could not blame him for being objective.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Date: September 21, CE 78

Subject: Athrun Zala

Contender: Meyrin Hawke

Present Occupation: Emerich School of Excellence, Orb

Prosecutor: Ethelbert Zeman, Winifred Dudek

Athrun was most anxious when it came to Meyrin’s hearing. She was one of the few people closest to him after the Second War, and she had even stayed with him during his first few post-war months in Orb. She was like an obligation to him ever since that fateful day he owed her his life, a little sister who was there when he woke up with a start because of a nightmare and did not find Cagalli beside him.

She should not be there, he thought. She should not be taken back to PLANT and cut off from her job and from this Earth nation she had grown to love. He put her there; that was how he repaid her for saving his life.

“Did Athrun Zala make use of force to make you stay in Orb?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did Athrun Zala have anything to do with your asking a formal release from ZAFT?”

“My request was solely my responsibility.”

Athrun could see a beginning of a frown between Meyrin’s brows. She, too, could grasp what this hearing was all about.

“Did you feel indebted to Athrun Zala?”

“Humans owe each other.”

“Do you have any reason to cover for Athrun Zala during the late Chairman Gilbert Dullindal’s pursuit of Athrun Zala and after that?”

“He’s someone I couldn’t let be killed,” Meyrin answered after a long silence.

Athrun had long known Meyrin’s feeling for him, but it did not prevent him from being surprised. He did not think that she would it say so boldly to the prosecutors’ face.

“And because someone asked me to take care of him.”

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Date: September 30, CE 78

Subject: Athrun Zala

Contender: Lacus Clyne

Present Occupation: Diplomatic Committee, PLANT Supreme Council, PLANT

Prosecutor: Ethelbert Zeman, Winifred Dudek

Lacus’s hearing had the world’s attention. Most mass media put coverage of her hearing the day after the hearing was done. It was understandable; she was one of the key players in both the First and Second War. Also, she was Athrun Zala’s former fiancée and daughter to a moderate leader who opposed and was murdered by her former fiancé’s father. In the eyes of the world, there was no one else who was more related to Athrun Zala than Lacus Clyne.

“You have admitted to stealing ZAFT’s mobile suits twice. The first was Freedom, later Strike Freedom and Infinite Justice.”

“I was no thief. I just gave the Eternal to the right hands. Freedom and Justice just came along with the packet.”

Lacus, always the perfect master of self-discipline, of course, Athrun had to admit. No one was better than her in being calm even in the tightest situation.

“Was Athrun Zala one of those right hands?”

“In one way or another, yes.”

“In what way?”

“He helped to stop the war. Twice. That’s a proof enough.”

“If you were given a second chance, would you still give Freedom and Justice to them?”

There was fierce strength in her eyes, accompanied by confidence and cool calmness, Athrun noted.

“An if-question is hardly fair, honoured prosecutors. But if I really have a second chance, yes, I will. I will still do it to either Athrun Zala or Kira Yamato.”

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

In front of them were scattered papers, notes and video tapes. They had spent two days to finish watching and taking notes of the whole set of the first hearing session. Athrun had to watch people, most of them familiar, gave testimony about him. Some made him smile at old memories, but some of them made him want to release his anger and hurt something or someone.

Young sipped his coffee. Coffee was good; coffee was an all-nighter’s best friend. He blamed Athrun for introducing him to coffee. “They gave me all the transcriptions from the hearings and I’m grateful for that, but I still wondered how we’ll overcome the prejudices, knowing that this trial is already set up to bring you down from the very beginning.”

He nodded, merely because he did not know how to respond.

“Your second hearing’s been scheduled. Next month. And also Hathaway-san’s and Her Excellency’s.” He snorted. “Didn’t know they could have her in this.”

“She agreed to it,” he said dully.

“Did she?” Young looked sceptical. “She’s so calculative, almost cautious about this whole tribunal. I wonder what more she has beneath her sleeves.”

He shrugged. Even he did not know of that. And had given up wanting to know, his mind supplied unnecessarily.

“Oh, Hathaway-san called last night. Say, Athrun, don’t you want to see how much your little monster has grown up?”

His eyes widened. Mouth suddenly dry, he asked, almost trembling, “Where?”

Young gave him a knowing smile. “Simmons-san’s house. Tonight. 8 PM.”

Either it was because he was really a softie in heart or because he was just too eager to see his boy, he arrived long before the arranged time. Erica Simmons was firm to not allow him break the rule. It was, after all, Hathaway’s responsibility.

“Here.”

He looked at the black folder in Erica’s hand and then at her before taking the folder from her. “Qualified information?”

“Read and destroy,” she said. “Well, consider it a fruitful way to kill off two hours.” She looked at her wrist watch. It read 5.50 PM. She smiled at him. “Hathaway-san’s right. You won’t think twice when it comes to Dietmar.”

“If needed, a man will run for his life,” he said softly, twisting the logic of the saying. “Dietmar is the only life left for me.”

She patted him on a shoulder. “I can understand the sentiment.” Then she left, still smiling. A mother’s smile.

He read—and braced himself for whatever might be revealed.

Heinrich Ottmar Walter was a former ZAFT officer. Specialized in tactical commando, his last duty post was in MESSIAH. He was one of those who survived MESSIAH. In one of several diaries found in his apartment two days after his death, Walter wrote that he witnessed Justice and Freedom escaping MESSIAH before it exploded from within. Because of the explosion, he suffered third-degree burns and spent almost a year to fully recover from the wound. Afterward, he asked for an early discharge from ZAFT and submitted a request for citizenship to Orb.

And that was the beginning of his revenge, Athrun thought.

Walter’s diaries did not tell much about his thoughts on ZAFT’s defeat in both GENESIS and MESSIAH or his past, but there was a fully protected folder, guarded with multiple passwords and multilayered security systems in his home computer. Being one of the finest engineers in the Scientific Research and Manufacturing Office of Orb, Walter designed the folder to disappear as soon as Hathaway’s investigation team was able to unlock it. The screen only had one single line ten seconds before it went blank, corrupted by Walter’s self-destruct mechanism.

By the time you read this, I will have been long dead for ZAFT, for PLANT, for the Coordinators.

Overcome by what he had just read, Athrun slumped further into the sofa. He did not even realize that his hand was shaking when he threw the folder into the fireplace.

So this was one of the people who believed that ZAFT deserters deserved a payback, a merciless and severe payback. This was a man who would do anything to have his revenge. Walter’s relationship with Young might have been a fallacious relationship from the very beginning, and it was greatly possible that Walter took advantage of Young’s working for Athrun. Somehow, such thought made Athrun’s burden feel a little bit less heavy. Young killed a man who exploited him; what injustice would be charge upon him?

Yet it did not mean that it would prevent a pain to bloom, the pain of knowing that one was betrayed by the person one trusted the most. Such pain would never recover. Just like he believed; humans simply did not heal. (1)

All of a sudden, a familiar weight stumbled upon him from behind and a pair of small arms circled his neck, effectively stopping the running wheels in his brain.

“You came, Athrun!” Dietmar cried. “Why so long? You promised!”

He pulled the boy to sit beside him on the sofa before hugging back as tightly, watchful of his arm. “Sorry,” he whispered against Dietmar’s hair. He wanted to crush the boy into him, taking comfort no matter how small it was, allowing himself to be greedy for a moment. Yet all he could say—and repeat—was, “Sorry.”

Holding himself back not to cry, Dietmar’s fists pounded onto his chests. “They took me from the mansion. I didn’t know what to do. You—the television said you were shot, but they didn’t let me see you in the hospital. They said you’ll come. But you—”

“Ssh. It’s alright, see? I’m alright.”

Dietmar pulled back to regard him fully, as if checking his wellbeing. A tentative hand rose to touch his cast. “It hurts?”

He shook his head, smiling a little to assure Dietmar. “Not anymore.”

“Why did that bad guy shoot you?” Then Dietmar’s eyes grew very wide. “He hates your name?”

“I don’t know.” It was the truth. The man who shot him was confirmed as a Neo-Equator native, member of Kaleeb Jay Nkono’s group. He still could not make a connection to link Nkono and co. with Walter and co.

“...I’m so afraid,” Dietmar whispered, bringing himself close to Athrun again. “This is scary.”

“Me too,” he admitted past the lump in his throat. He was afraid not only for Dietmar’s life, but also for many other lives that he might drag down with him.

“Will they take you back to PLANT?”

The question made him snap, fierce and horrified. No, he wanted to say, but he could not say the word aloud. Even he himself had no surety of anything nowadays.

“Will they?” Dietmar pressed on, hesitantly, fearfully.

Instead of answering, he pulled the boy back into a fierce hug. Please don’t ask, he prayed silently because he did not have any answer for that.

Maybe it was the day’s fatigue that made Dietmar unable to stay awake for too long. Soon he was sleeping on Athrun, his head on Athrun’s shoulder. Or maybe it was the fear, the same fear that made him know not to ask further. Athrun wanted to believe that it was because Dietmar missed him just as much that made the boy cling to him for dear life.

Dietmar had no familial relation with him. I know. But what if the boy, just like Young, did not want to leave? I will make him do so. What if Dietmar hated him for that? I don’t care. As long as he doesn’t have to spend the rest of his life being labelled as Athrun Zala’s acquaintance. What if the boy, just like Cagalli, did unimaginable things?

The inner monologue left him hung in the balance.

I don’t know, he finally reverted, helpless—and hated himself for being so. I don’t know.

Humans were curious creatures, so it was only natural that the frustration of not knowing what to do was maddening. And despite all regards and wrongdoings that the world wanted him to shoulder, Athrun Zala was only a human.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

He was already dozing off on the sofa, with Dietmar half sprawled on his lap, when Erica came and shook him awake gently.

“Hathaway-san called to say there’s going to be something so important on TV,” she told him, turning the television on Athrun’s left side on.

He shifted Dietmar gently to a better sleeping position next to him, and his movements won him another motherly smile from Erica. She had in fact had brought a thick duvet for Dietmar, knowing that the boy would want to spend as much time as possible with Athrun after a long period of forced separation. She then sat across him, and together they watched the television.

It turned out to be a recorded interview. The shocking part was that Cagalli was the interviewee, the one facing the cameras.

He paled. “What the—”

Erica put a finger in front of her lips.

This was not real. Not real at all.

“—as for whether I have connections with either Athrun Zala or Kira Yamato, you suppose I do. Yes, I do have connections. The four of us—they, Lacus Clyne and I—fought side by side as comrades in two wars.” Her face was neutral of expression, but her eyes told him that she was not untroubled. Her gesture as she linked her fingers in front of her and crossed her legs also gave him a way. “As for Kira Yamato’s whereabouts today, using this issue as a smear campaign against Orb is preposterous. Let his whereabouts be his and my secret to keep. I’m sure we all are—”

This had to be a joke!

“—no, not as an Athha. I’m living in Uzumi-sama’s mansion, speak of and listen to a lot of his thoughts, do a lot of things with that name, but not as me.”

He could not breathe.

“I am not an Athha.”

He did not wait for the interview to end. He left Dietmar to Erica and drove like crazy to the Attha Mansion. To hell with his city arrest and night curfew. He would see her now even if he had to crawl on hands and knees. She had to be there, because there was her house. Orb was her house; Orb was her home. He would never let her give up that much loved home, damn it.

She was the one who offered him a place to stay after GENESIS collapsed. Kira will be very happy to be able to talk more with you, she reasoned. Later, he realized that it was her way to offer him a new home after he lost his father and home altogether. When he asked her about it, she brushed him off by saying that it was only so that the mouse in his head would not run on its wheel like mad like it did whenever he was alone.

Long ago, someone said that the word ‘world’ actually meant the ‘loved people.’ (2)

And love had multiple facades. Love was a man giving up his family to slave himself for his nation or a mentor teaching with steel discipline. Love was a boy joining an army not out of revenge but out of love for his dead mother or a mobile suit pilot standing up for unknown faces and names.

Cagalli did love, too, in her own way.

She did all those things because here was the only place where Athrun Zala could belong. And it was overwhelming. He could not handle it. He was not strong enough to handle it. So he drove his car faster and faster to the Athha Mansion because he was weak and could not accept it.

This time, Kira would really kill him.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Notes:

(1) Chapter 9, the dream sequence with Young.

(2) Okay, not mine. Kamui in CLAMP’s X, Vol. 10. When he’s asked by Kakyou whether he will change his choice if he has a chance (because he’s already chosen to save humanity). You know only CLAMP is able to pull off something like that.

The majority of Cagalli’s speech is taken from the March 2003 edition of Newsweek. Technically most articles in that edition talks about the Iraqi War. I started favouring Newsweek after that edition because Newsweek, in one way or another, is bolder than Time to call the US’s attack an invasion.