Ambivalence - 02

Title: Ambivalence - 02
Fandom: Gundam 00
Characters/Pairing: Ali-Al-Saachez x Lockon Stratos  
Rating: T
Warnings:  There is no love. This chapter contains some swearing and blood, but once again, nothing explicit.
Summary: Post episode 23. Lockon is alive and taken captive.
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam 00, nor any of its characters.

I was almost done with this chapter a few days ago when I suddenly realised I had written out a scenario in which Ali hadn't been the one to find Lockon in space. +_+ So, it took a bit longer to rewrite the whole thing. Apologies if the whole chapter is kind of...not-flowing. I would have gone back to edit things, but it's way passed midnight and I'm tired but I still wanted to post this up. So I took the risk.
 
It turns out that I managed to write most of the chapter from just Ali's POV. I'm sorry for those of you who may have been expecting more of Neil. And also sorry for those who are waiting for something darker. It is coming. I swear it is. I just wanted to lay out the fundamentals first.

02

The last few memories Ali had of space were veiled in a red haze – the cracked internal monitor that only managed to show the empty darkness of space through half its screen, the feeble cockpit light, minimized to save as much energy as possible, and even the vacuum was blotched with red. Each breath was a labour, sending floods of pain through his body. Not that Ali disliked pain. On the contrary, he savoured it, welcoming it as solid proof of the fact that he is alive while others drop dead on either side of him.

Even now, on the verge of death himself, Ali couldn’t help the bloodied corners of his mouth twitching up. He could hardly see anything out of the blood-streaked visor of his helmet, but he knew his body well enough without the use of his eyes. With effort, he could shift his left arm and leg, but he had no feeling at all for the other side. Taking into consideration that the right side of the cockpit was nothing more than a blackened, smoking wall of distorted metal, he could just imagine the state of his body – or lack thereof.

“Fucking Gundam,” he spat quietly, tasting copper in his mouth. Squinting through his unstable vision, Ali tightened his remaining hand over the console and forced the Throne Zwei into motion. The pace was sluggish at best, but he was simply grateful that it didn’t seem ready to explode at any second.

He had just about finished checking the overall damage to the Mobile Suit and calculating, with the accompaniment of several curses in different languages, the expenses it would take to repair everything when a single beep resounded hollowly from the screen. With a few seconds of lag, the external camera managed to zoom in and Ali blinked at what he saw.

Floating amongst the scattered debris of the asteroid field was the tiny figure of a man. Without further thought, Ali veered off his original course and approached the green fleck of an entity in the vastness of space. His lips twisted into a thin smile. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Slowing down his velocity, Ali unlocked the hatch door and it opened silently, if not a little stiffly. Even one-handed, he manoeuvred the Zwei exactly so that the hovering green pilot could drift unhindered into the wrecked cockpit. The body bumped lightly against Ali’s torso and he wrapped his remaining arm around the pilot so that he didn’t rebound back out.

The hatch closed once again, and Ali pushed the limp body down so he could get a good look at him – or tried to, at least. Something nibbled in the corners of his eyes and droplets of blood hung suspended in his helmet, blocking his view.

The pilot was alive, but only just. His visor, like Ali’s, was stained with blood and his right eye was covered with a dark patch. Amazingly, it seemed he had made it through the explosion without losing any of his limbs, though Ali was certain that more serious damages had been done internally. Having simply survived was a feat in and of itself.

Placing a gloved hand on the slightly cracked helmet, Ali stroked it almost lovingly as he recalled the ferocious battle he had just experienced in mouth-watering detail – the battle against this very pilot dying in his arm. He had to fight back the laughter that threatened to shake his crippled body.

Ali slumped back against his broken seat with a difficult sigh and simply stared at the pale face of the man in his arm until his eyelids drooped and his consciousness slid away. The recollection of his last moments in space was veiled in a red haze, but for some reason, his first dreams were of the vast jungles in Asia and a sharp-mouthed youth.

 

 

It was three weeks later that Ali woke up in an unfamiliar hospital room, feeling like he was experiencing a rare hangover, barely able to move the left side of his body and completely incapable of moving the right, even though he could feel the smooth fabric of the bedcovers against his skin. But otherwise, he was doing well.

He was alive.

All he had to figure out was where he was, who had brought him here, how much the people knew about him and which countries were currently in the throes of war. And whatever had happened to the pilot he had picked up in space.

Many of those answers came in the form of a delicate looking young man (boy, really) with spring green hair and a unique sense of clothing. He moved with a prominent grace, carried an air of importance and had the eyes of one who viewed all other humans as below worms.

The boy introduced himself as Ribbons Almark, an Innovator.

During the one visit, Ali learned a great deal of interesting things – things like how Alejandro Corner, Ali’s former client who had ordered the death of the Trinity Siblings, had been killed in accordance to this boy’s plans; things like how Celestial Being had almost been wiped out; things like how this boy had found and organised for Ali to undergo Regeneration Treatment after having had half his body blown away; things like what this boy was going to offer him in the future.

But what interested him most was what Ribbons said last, almost as if having anticipated Ali’s next and final question.

“You’ll be interested to know that the Gundam Meister we found along with you has already regained his consciousness a week ago. Since I didn’t need him for my plans anymore, I gave him to the AEU. I doubt they’ll get him to talk, but it was a decent peace-offering.”

Ali felt something lurch excitedly in his chest and he dabbed his dry lips with his tongue. Watching him, the boy gave a short chuckle and excused himself.

“Oh, and about the treatment costs,” Ribbons added, just as he was about to close the door. “I’ll have the bills sent to you.”  

Damn.

 

 

To the amazement and whispered fear of the doctors and nurses in the top-class private hospital, Ali managed to get his new limbs moving within a few days and was able to walk out of the main entrance on his own feet a week after he had first woken up. There were, however, still times when he had difficulty with fine and complex tasks that required his fingertips, and going back into business was unthinkable for another few months. The thought of tedious rehabilitation was irritating, but there was one thing he was looking forward to.

Donning a clean uniform and tying his hair neatly back, he headed towards a remote country in the north, following the address Ribbons Almark had sent him a few days prior.

The facility was surprisingly small, enabling it to be hidden well in the rocky terrain, from both friends and foe. The moment Ali received authorisation to step inside, he knew it was different from just any regular prison. There was not a soul who had eyes shining with ideals and dreams, or guards who held their weapons as an object foreign from their flesh and bones.

Ali loved it. Despite the inevitable aura of loyalty oozing from the soldiers, these were men who had been given a taste of reality and its acid bitterness, and who in turn, were entrusted with the job of passing the knowledge on to the pitiful prisoners confined in each of the interrogation cells.

Upon his first request to see the Gundam pilot face-to-face, he was turned down. It didn’t seem to be public knowledge that Ali had been the one to find the pilot, but he liked it better that way and so stayed quiet. It was only by using every single one of his connections and fake statuses that he was allowed inside the observation room where countless security videos were silently filming the prisoners. From there, he was taken into another, smaller room, where two officers sat carefully watching a larger screen.

So a Gundam pilot gets an office all to himself? Ali mused as he stepped inside. Then he remembered that this particular Gundam pilot had destroyed two of the UN’s Mobile Suit Carriers within a matter of seconds – among others.

This Gundam pilot who had fought equally with Ali despite his dominant eye being blinded; who had screamed at him through the open channel in rage and vengeance; who had come after him again and again without losing even a trace of the fury and hatred directed straight at him; who did not know when to give up and instead came out into space in nothing but a flight-suit, pointing the massive weapon at him with every intention to kill – and having no qualms of losing his own life.

Subsequently, it was the very same son of a bitch who had landed him with a huge-ass debt for the costly treatment.

As he was beckoned forward, Ali stepped closer to the screen and peered into it, at the prisoner constrained against the wall, his head bowed but still emitting an air of dignity and rebellion. It made him remember what Ribbons had meant about the AEU not being able to get anything out of him.

He would have laughed, but he smothered the impulse in favour of staying on the good side of these men. They could still be of some use to him, and manipulating people, he had learned early on, was far easier when you pretended to be nice.

“Mind zooming in?” he asked, and after a brief pause of hesitation, the officer complied.

Ali narrowed his eyes, staring at the gentle waves of brown hair that hid the pilot’s face from view. His memories of space hardly offered any groundwork for his little puzzle, but he kept remembering a certain kid with soft brown hair, whose white skin colour was a stark contrast to that of the local population and an eye-catching trait to the mercenaries gathered. 

Could it possibly be him? He did not need to be reminded that there were millions of other men with brown hair and white skin in the world. But how many of them had the potential to operate the unbelievably advanced mobile suits of that worldwide terrorist organisation, and how many among those could keep up the overconfident façade – yes, he could tell it was a façade – in the face of being captured alive by the enemy?

“Huh,” he breathed quietly. What had been the kid’s name again?

“Do you recognise him, Lieutenant Biaggi?” someone asked and Ali suppressed a small smile.

“Oh I’m not sure,” he muttered, drawing his face into an uncertain expression. “I think I’ve met him before, but I can’t tell from here.”

Neil. That’s right, the kid’s name had been Neil. It sounded like any common name, and yet it was distinctly his.

Without moving his face, Ali watched his guide frown and knew he had won the game. Two weeks of intense torture and interrogation had not even gotten these men a name, much less any important and crucial information on the details of Celestial Being. It was only natural that they would start to become irritated. And then along came Gary Biaggi, carrying the possibility of knowing the Gundam pilot – which was true. No, it wasn’t just a possibility of knowing. Ali knew. It was purely instinctive and he trusted it a lot more than he had ever trusted any other human.

“Let me talk to him,” Ali prompted in a tone that was not much different from a purr. “I can assure you, I will make your job easier.” 

 

 


 

“So you going to tell me your name yet?” Gary asked casually over the rim of his glass. He felt the kid shift his gaze to him briefly, and then back, but received no response.

“Come on, I told you mine hours ago,” he continued.

“Bullshit.”

This time, it was Gary who glanced at the kid, and then let out a short bark of laughter. He was smart and fearless – two traits he gave high value to, second only to skill.

In addition to that, the kid was a strong drinker. He hadn’t quite kept up with Gary’s speed, but then again, he had never met anyone who could. Still, he had a steady pace, picked out good brands and had yet to show even a trace of drunkenness.

“Then go ahead, tell me a fake name,” Gary said with a shrug. “Or do you like the names the rumours have picked out for you?”

“I don’t care what they call me,” the kid replied, finishing what was left in his glass and ordering another one. “Names don’t hold any meaning. They don’t define who or what we are either. They’re as good as meaningless.”

“And you’re right,” Gary agreed. “Names are just for convenience’s sake. And it’s just for convenience’s sake that I want to know yours.”

The kid stared sidelong at him for a moment from the corner of his eyes before he closed them briefly and said in an empty voice, “Neil.”

“Neil Dylandy.”