Duo settled into the cockpit seat, trying to accustom himself to the feel of Gundam Revenge. It was larger than Shinigami's cockpit had been. Howard had built the Gundam with Duo in mind from the start. Figuring that Duo might not stay short forever, and he hadn't wanted to take the risk that the boy would outgrow it. There were other differences too. The safety harness was made of different, stronger material that allowed for heightened mobility and more protection. Which was good since Duo could think of at least three battles where he'd nearly given himself a concussion after he'd loosened Deathscythe's harness because he couldn't breath. 

    The view screens had been implanted with infrared and night vision sensors of an advanced level like he'd never seen before. Some of the feathers in the metal wings hid missiles which could imbed themselves in enemy Mobile Suits before detonating. There were special sockets in the hands that could latch onto a MS and short it out into temporary paralysis. And the mobility this Gundam had... Duo was still trying to figure out how Howard had managed it, slimming Revenge down from the bulking armor of its predecessors and still retaining the strength. 

    Howard had demonstrated all of these and more over the last three days through a computer in the hanger, he'd uploaded a program into it that acted as a remote control for the Gundam. Once Duo actually started piloting that would change. As soon as Revenge was programmed for a pilot, *nobody* else could control the Gundam. 

    "She's got a combination of bio-scanning, voice and code commands that tell her exactly who's in the cockpit. And if that person isn't you, she won't budge," Howard had explained. 

    Duo stretched his arms over his head a moment, then laid them against his stomach, resting his head against the seat. The last week had been incredibly busy and this was the first time he'd actually had a chance to think. It wasn't an entirely welcome opportunity. It gave his mind a chance to go back to memories that he hadn't wanted to revisit. 

    When the other pilots had been killed there had been so little left of the building after the bomb had gone off. His hands had been scraped and bled as he tried to move the rubble on the dying hope that his friends might still be all right. Alive. He hadn't been aware of time and only vaguely so of the fire trucks and ambulances and all the other hands that had appeared to help him. The effort had proved futile. He'd seen... All that burnt skin and hair... He'd staggered and unfamiliar arms had held him up. Next thing Duo knew he was opening his eyes and staring into the face of some nameless doctor, tucked in a hospital bed, his back bandaged. 

    Duo shuddered and shoved the memory away. Leaning forward he lay his hands against the smooth metal about him. He'd expected it to be cold, but instead it was warm. Warm and alive like skin.

    There was another, older memory, one of cool hands and warm lips and dark, sharp blue eyes. Duo had never thought Heero would have even entertained the idea of touching him the way they had touched that night. It had been one time just before the end of the war, and so unexpected that Duo hadn't questioned what it meant. He'd wondered afterwards, but had never had the chance to pose the question. The final mission of the war had come up suddenly and the only other times Duo had seen Heero, they'd been with the others. And that had not been the place to ask. 

    His hands remained splayed against the Gundam's console, pale against the dark interior. Maybe it was my own fault that they're dead. For telling them that they were my family. For letting them know that I cared. I'm Death... 

    A thin, wicked smile grew on his lips. "And nobody escapes Death." 

    Someone had given the order to have the Gundam Pilots put permanently out of commission. But they'd missed one. 

    And Duo had a new partner now. 

    Duo glance about him. "What do you say, Revenge? Up for making a reputation for ourselves?" 

    Revenge's patient silence was agreement enough. 

**** 

    Mark Bently was late. He was supposed to meet his superior in the department an hour ago. His analysis of the data on the newest project he'd been given had taken longer than he'd anticipated. As it was, he'd made record time running from the chemistry lab towards the secluded labs set aside for the more experimental projects. He scurried passed the computer terminals towards the back wall where his superior waited for him. 

    Clutched to his chest was the folder, the words 'Operation Lazarus' written across one side of it. Some of the sheets were sticking out about the edges, trying to fall out. He swore quietly and stopped, trying to tuck them in neatly. He was young but he was still a top scientist. Handing the head of the project rumpled papers would not do at all. 

    His superior, one Dr. Schaefer, was considerably shorter than the young scientist, with dark hair and the calculating gaze of one who was highly educated. Rectangular glasses rested in the lab coat pocket beside a reliable fountain pen and a security pass. There was also a gun holstered under his jacket, something Mark had always found disturbing. None of the scientists that Mark had ever worked with could have been dangerous enough to warrant the need for weaponry. Rumor had it that Schaefer has once been a member of the OZ Specials. Some said he still was. Mark was having his doubts about this project, about it's morality, and Schaefer's presence only made that feeling grow. 

    Schaefer's arms were folded and he attention was focused on the five man-sized cylinders that lined the wall. His gaze remained fixed on them even as the Mark walked up to him and cleared his throat. He merely held out a hand, in which Mark placed the folder. The older man spent several long minutes leafing through them. 

    "Why wasn't this material prepared on schedule?" Schaefer asked. 

    Mark inhaled sharply. "The damage to the subjects more than we expected, sir. It took longer to analyze than was originally anticipated." He glanced towards the cylinders. 

    Four of the five had been filled with a clear liquid though the contents of that liquid were hidden under the thin veil of condensation that constantly formed on the glass. Small monitors were attached to each cylinder and those were connected to larger computer system that ran into the neighboring computer lab which recorded the data. He could just make out human figures that floated behind that glass, oblivious to the outside world. The fifth cylinder was empty, it's monitor silent. Mark gave silent thanks for that. Had there been five sets of read-outs to analyze this report would have been delayed further. 

        There was a piece of tape beneath each of the monitors, a set of initials written on each; H.Y., T.B., Q.W., C.W.. It was a detail he hadn't paid much attention to but they seemed to scream at him now. These were people. 

    This isn't right, Mark thought. We shouldn't be... 

    "When can programming begin?" Schaefer interrupted his thoughts before they could fully form. He handed the folder back to Mark. The young man took it and frowned at the question. 

    "Not until the regeneration process is completed," he answered. "The type of mental programming you have in mind won't take if the mind is still busy trying to accommodate the sort of damage done to their bodies." 

    "And when will that be finished?" 

    "Not for some time, sir. We're dealing with almost total incineration of some of the main cells and even a few of the internal systems. That kind of damage can take months for any new growth to take effect, maybe even a year or more before it's completed." 

    "There is technology in developmental stages that can speed up the process, Dr. Bently," Schaefer informed him. There was an impatience in that tone, like one would use when speaking to a uncomprehending child. 

    That more than anything made Mark voice his doubts. "Sir, I don't think we ought to be doing this at all, let alone use methods which aren't proven. It would be one thing if we knew that you had us rebuilding their bodies for some sort of benevolent purpose but for this?" 

    "Are you telling me that you refuse to continue with this project?" He seemed to like the idea. 

    "You're attempting to turn four human beings into something they aren't meant to be," Mark shook his head. "I can't in good conscience allow this to continue. 

    Schaefer nodded and his eyes slid toward Mark, leveling that sharp gaze on him for the first time. "I have orders from Dr. J. No doubts, Dr. Bently." And very casually, he pulled out the gun and shot the young man through the head. 

    There was a single beep from one of the monitors when the gun went off. It was hidden under the fluttering sound of papers falling as the folder spilled from lax hands. A moment passed before the fluttering was followed by a dull thud. 

**** 

    He knew that sound. It was loud enough and so familiar that it filtered through the hazy fog he'd been immersed in. For a second time he was vaguely aware of his own surroundings, though none of what he saw or sensed would stay with him for long. 

    Gun... he thought, cataloging the sound and recalled the feel of the weapon, the weight pressed into his palm. But the war was supposed to be over, there shouldn't be a need for guns anymore. No need for soldiers. Thus no need for him. That grim thought more than anything gave the darkness a chance to seep back in. His mind offered another image of vibrant, violet eyes and there was a tentative, uncertain flair of hope. He reached for those eyes. But before his mind could add a face and form to those eyes, the darkness had swallowed him again. 
**** 

    Schaefer was sitting in his office, reviewing the report that the late Mark Bently had given him, a concentrated frown on his face. Several things had gone wrong with Operation Lazarus and the project had barely even begun. According to these readouts, subject H.Y. was showing brain wave patterns inconsistent with the sedation process. He ought to be in a state of virtual comatose like the other three. Instead he seemed to be experiencing a prolonged state of sleep that was narrowly avoiding the R.E.M. cycle. Their attempts to rectify this with different levels of chemical control just weren't working. His body kept adapting to it. 

    If this continued it was entirely possible that the boy could wake himself up. 

    Pulling out a legal pad from one of the desk drawers, he began scribbling down various ways that this might be fixed before it became a genuine problem. If they encouraged the R.E.M. cycle which had so far been evaded, it might keep the boy's mind occupied, set his attention that much further from the physical world. 

    He paused, suddenly aware of the dark form standing before his desk. He wasn't the most intimidating figure at first glance, not at all tall, but dressed solidly in black, face hidden behind a mask. Schaefer knew that various weapons and tools were hidden on the other's person, though he couldn't see any. The scientist set aside the pad and clasped his hands together on the desk. "Ah. I was wondering when you'd arrive." 

    He didn't ask how the man had managed to get in. That would more than likely insult the man. Besides, if he could break through the laboratory's intense security, than he should have no trouble catching up with Maxwell and killing the boy before he became a problem. The man wasn't best known for his assassination skills but he'd be better than sending soldiers to do the job. Schaefer pulled another folder out of the desk and handed it to the other. There wasn't much to it; a picture of the target, his recent whereabouts, and other general information. 

    There were rumors circulating underground that Maxwell was going to build another Gundam. While Schaefer regretted having missed the opportunity to add him to Operation Lazarus, he needed to be sure the boy was out of the way. He'd already proved that he'd known enough to escape the bomb that had killed his fellow pilots. It might have been just luck. A bomb wasn't exactly the best way to assassinate someone but that's the way the military faction handled things. If something was a problem, they blew it up. It usually worked. Still, the boy was a war vet, a Gundam pilot no less. Schaefer wasn't going to risk underestimating the boy. That was why he'd hired this man, who had the skills to cover up an assassination. 

    "I assume you've already picked up the first portion of your pay. Come to me for the rest when the job is done." Schaefer went back to his notes, not bothering to look up. He knew that even if he did the man would already be gone. 

**** 

    The apartment was filled with the sound of shattering ceramics as the two bodies collided with the lamp. There was a spark and the bulb broke, briefly glinting off the glass shard before extinguishing. A street lamp, now the only source of illumination, struggled to shine through the partially closed curtains of the window. Two figures battled in the dimness, a violent motion followed by a protesting grunt. There was a thin snapping sound and a small crucifix flew across the floor, nearly threading off it's chain. It landed near a choke wire wrested away from it's owner in the struggle. 

    They hit the coffee table next, one atop the other. It collapsed beneath them, unable to withstand their weight and the force with which they fell. The impact was enough to knock even more air from Duo Maxwell's lungs and the assassin's hands tightened their grip on his throat. 

    Duo wasn't sure how long they'd wrestled for control, but it was too long. His sight was starting to blacken around the edges, his peripheral vision eaten away by the lack of oxygen. Duo reached for the knife he always kept on his person, the same one he'd used to slice off his braid. Something, anything to buy him time. His fingers brushed the hilt. The figure above him made a sudden grab for his wrist, the other hand still crushing down against the boy's larynx. 

    Duo brought his knee up suddenly, as hard as he could manage and was rewarded by a barely contained groan of pain. The hand at his neck slackened momentarily, and Duo wrenched the knife from its sheath. He drove it upwards, hindered as the other still tried to twist his wrist. He felt it slide into the body on top of him, somewhere about the stomach, a clumsy stab. The assassin's muscles clenched but he didn't relent. He changed tactics and gripped Duo's chin and the hair at the crown of his forehead, preparing for a fatal jerk that would break his neck. 

    Duo stabbed again and hit the chest this time. The knife grated against ribs, sending a crawling shiver down through the American's arm. The assassin gasped, sucking in a long, rattled lung full of air before it came out again, accompanied by a red rivulet that flowed down his chin. Blood welled out around the hilt of the knife, warming Duo's hands and shirt. Then the assassin sagged and didn't move again. 

    Heaving a rasping breath, Duo struggled under the dead weight, his arms trembling with exhaustion, and finally managed to shove the assassin off of him. He scrambled shakily to his feet and collapsed on the sofa, gripping the upholstered arm for support as a coughing fit seized his lungs. 

    "Heh," he chuckled grimly once he'd gotten himself under control, staring at the dead man. "Have ta do better'n that." 

    He made his way to the phone in the kitchen, noting as he went that there were now bloody handprints on the white sofa cushions. Similar handprints were added to the phone as he lifted it. He didn't care. He was too tired. After several days of intense and physically draining training with Revenge, he'd hardly been prepared to handle someone so hell bent on having his head. He certainly wasn't up to dealing with the problems that having a dead body in his apartment would cause. Tonight, he'd let someone else tackle that one. 

    The phone seemed to ring forever. Someone finally picked up, the voice on the other line sleep roughened but familiar. Duo sagged against the wall, surprised at the extent of the relief that filled him. 

    "Hey, Howard. Sorry t'wake ya, but I've got a bit of a problem, ya see..." 
**** 
    Hilde looked down at the boy on the couch, wondering how he could sleep with all the sirens sounding outside and all the commotion inside. She glanced behind her, towards the door where Howard stood, speaking with animated hand gestures to several men in standard police dress. A few others in pristine white medical uniforms were pushing a gurney out the door, a bloody blanket completely covering the body it carried. And still, Duo slept. It said more about the depths of how bone weary he was than any complaining he would have done had he been awake. She didn't like the idea of rousing him, but she knew she had to. 

    In one hand she clutched Duo's black baseball cap, his leather jacket, and his backpack, filled with a change of clothes, toiletries, and his walkman. She reached out with her free hand and shook his shoulder. "Duo." 

    He grunted irritably in his sleep, batting Hilde's hand away drowsily. There was still dried blood on his fingers though it looked as though he'd made a half-hearted attempt to wash it off. She shook harder and he jerked awkwardly into a sitting position. 

    "Huh?" He blinked his huge eyes owlishly at her. 

    "It's time to go," she whispered. She wasn't sure why she whispered. It just seemed appropriate when talking to someone who's just woken. Hilde handed him his jacket, then brushed his hair out of his face with her slim fingers while he slipped into the sleeves. Her fingers moved to the bruises forming on his neck for a moment, noting the thin cuts on either side just under his jaw. A choke wire, no doubt, but it wasn't a solid line across his throat, broken instead to two on either sides. He'd managed to get his hand between that wire before it tightened. She almost asked about it but Duo stood, shaking off his sleep so he could walk straight, and headed for the door. 

    "So what's the deal?" Duo asked as they approached Howard. 

    "Looks like someone's going by the 'if at first you don't succeed' philosophy," Howard said. "So I called in a favor with an old buddy'a mine, works in the police department a few towns over. He pulled some strings, so now," he pointed to the gurney that the medics were fighting with, trying to get it down the stairs, "that's you." 

    "And ain't I pretty," Duo muttered, looking at the blood blotches that had soaked through the blanket and turned it into a crusted crimson mess. "Chances are that's not gonna fool whoever's doin' this." 

    "No, but it'll fool the general public. If you're officially dead, you'll be a hell of a lot harder to find." 

    "Well, guess it's fitting that Shinigami doesn't have a pulse." Duo grinned, then yawned hugely. 

    Howard took Duo's cap from Hilde's hands and secured it on the boy's head, the brim hanging low over his face. "You two might wanna split by the fire escape at the back of the building. Wouldn't want any of the tenants recognizing you on the way out." 

    Duo nodded and Howard couldn't resist patting him on the head like a puppy. "Be a good boy, now." 

    Duo stuck his tongue out at him. "Bite me." Then favored the old man with his best 'thank you' smile. He had dragged the guy out of bed for clean-up duty, after all. 

    "You're welcome, kiddo." 

End part II