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An End to War

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He had seen reflected beams cut burning lines into houses and high rises, had watched helplessly as cannon fire incinerated entire streets with everything on them and mutilate the Earth with ugly black scars. He had hovered in the air, useless, as the psycommu shockwaves from both the Unicorn and the Mobile Armor cleared a radius on the surface around them, tossing everything aside like burnt leaves. He would have blacked out from the rage, if such a thing were possible, but instead he found himself delivered, as if by fate, at the door of destruction. Exposed wires were still sparking within crunched metal plates torn wide by the Delta Plus on impact. He takes only a moment to get to his feet after that crash, curses through it. There is an awful ringing in his head, a dull throb that he shakes away in determination and readies his sidearm facing forward. This was going to end. This was going to end only one way.

There are sirens and fires and smoke and an entire city still bleeding carnage at his back, but Riddhe Marcenas doesn't actually feel the weight of what has happened until he takes that first step into the Mobile Armor's cockpit.

The cockpit is only lit by eerie green static that floods across the handful of panoramic monitors. It is a wide, dark space, still filled with electric currents of loathing and pride. Riddhe doesn't fully understand how such things could be solid energy, but as it sinks in through his pilotsuit his brain converts it to adrenaline. His neck is stiff, arms locked, eyes darting wildly to survey the wide, dual tiered arena that is the Shamblo's cockpit.

Suddenly Riddhe can't breathe-- a heavy solid wall of nausea slams into him from the pilot seat, humid and stifling and wrenching his stomach up through his chest as it pulls him toward the center of the beast like a gravity well. He rips his helmet off, tries to breathe in anything beyond ash and melted alkaline skin, it takes everything he has to fight it back but he does so just in time to hear the pilot stirring back to consciousness.

“Federation.. Bastard--!!” her voice is strained and dry and alarmingly young but Riddhe cuts through it by firing two rounds. The first ricochets off the halted inner wall of the pilot seat enclosure which barely shields her as she scrambles out of the seat. The other lands in her right shoulder. He rushes forward with his breath held, slams against her, throws her against the side bulkhead and doesn't stop leaning until he hears something clatter at his feet.

It sounded like a gun, but it was only her psycommu headset, an alien piece of equipment that throws Riddhe into confusion just enough for an opening. She's shrieking bloody murder at the loss of the headset and it shocks Riddhe back a step, a wild kick sends him back two and he is in disbelief that someone so small and lithe, so insignificantly frail could push him back. He lurches forward, rage rekindled.
There's more of this

(pointless)

struggle, and more of her screaming, and fuck if he's going to let her get away with anything anymore. He has to take control, now.
She takes a few more wild swings, but even with that desperate ferocity of a cornered animal, not a single bruise. Riddhe is still trying to comprehend how such a weak, almost immaterial and airy form of this girl could have brought so much slaughter to Dakar and Torrington. He concludes that the irony is only fitting.
Neo Zeon is, and always will be, the

(deadly joke)

irony of the Universal Century.

She finally hits the deck on her injured shoulder, the echoing boom of the impact reverberates around the enclosed space. Riddhe has her wrists pinned above with one hand and he sinks his entire body over her's, forcing her still. He gets her attention with the barrel of his gun, pressed solidly against her throat with no room for misunderstanding.

“Death would be too good for you, you murdering bitch...” He surprises himself by not shaking while he grinds out the words. But he’s less surprised by how easy, how natural it is when he flicks the safety off.

The cockpit monitors finally fail, taking their eerie green glow with them and the emergency lighting flashes on, surrounding the two in a red, pulsing halo. The red is streaming from underneath the deck, backlighting the Zeon pilot's disheveled hair as she strains like a tensed bowstring under him, angry glare focused straight on him like a challenge. Riddhe has no illusions about what is happening here. This was a gate to hell right before his eyes and he was being pulled down straight toward it.

He inhales calmly, about to squeeze a final round into her, when his whole world suddenly narrows to the young pilot's dry lips, eyes fixed in fascination, as time slows into the trembling rhythm of two whispered words:

“Sieg... Zeon!”

The sound is so frail, he almost thinks he had misheard.

“Why...” Riddhe eases up just a fraction, pulls his gun back against his better judgment. “Why would you..”

(waste your last breath)

Something sparks in Riddhe deep from his anger. He tries to swallow the words but they come out in fury anyway, shaking through him. “Why is someone like you even in this monster?! For Zeon!? For your precious freedom?! WHY!? Why can't you just accept that your war has ended?! The Federation is trying to take care of you, why can't you understand that?! There is nothing for you to win here-- nothing for you to waste your life on! All of those lives--!!?”

SIEG ZEON is all she can reply, not that she has much breath to do so with Riddhe all but crushing her with his own weight. But the words hang solidly there in the silence. In her eyes, in the way the red flashes, reflected from their centers despite the dry, dull frame of their original color, the vaguely swollen edges and lashes still damp from

(surrender)

The smoke that lingers around the cockpit.

Her eyes are still aflame with all that stagnant hatred. Rebellion. Revenge. As concentrated with a resignation for death as all her other attacks. She blinks but doesn’t break her gaze. Still fighting. Undeterred by her stubbornness, Riddhe leans back and gives her a pittance of space to reply properly. He’s careful to keep her hips and legs under him, but releases her hands. She’s no longer a threat.

Riddhe repeats his question, gun aimed at her chest this time.

“Generations...” she gasps out, and Riddhe can feel her shudder beneath him, can feel the slender muscles of her petite frame shaking with emnity even through the thick material of their pilotsuits. “...Generations of Spacenoids.... punished by your lot after the war..”

Her arms lay where they were released, and she makes no effort to escape. She only gasps through her words, chest rising and falling in a fluttering rhythm as she lays her anger bare, eyes still locked unerringly on target. “Zeon has never... run from the truth of it's crimes... in spite of all the injustice ... But even after inflicting the same punishment on Earth... the damned Federation will never admit theirs!” She's still struggling for breath, but her voice is piercing and shrill. “Even if the Federation did confess its crimes, it won't stop us! because it will take slaughter by hundreds or thousands or millions until generations and generations of Earth are wiped out in return! The Federation can never atone otherwise!”

It sickens Riddhe to listen, but this was exactly the answer he expected. A girl like her could never grasp the major fallacy that with all the conflicts after the One Year War, Zeon has not been punished enough. The truth would never reach her, but it was as rooted to him as the blood in his veins. Her very existence as a Neo-Zeon militant, her thinking that retaliation on innocent Earthnoids was a viable way to prove her fallacy, it was all the proof needed to condemn. It was all there, but she would never acknowledge it.

Riddhe shakes his head, sweat beading on his forehead and sticking the hair there. He files the response in the back of his mind, narrows his eyes in counter and growls out the only conclusion: “You have no idea what punishment is.”

He watches her face as he lowers his weapon and holsters it. There's a glimmer or realization there and the sight of her retreat sets off more sparks inside him, a new energy that layers over the adrenaline and pulses urgently inside him. This Zeon bitch....

“What are you doing...”

She knows what is going to happen here. She knows but she doesn't understand why it’s

(supposed to happen this way.)

an inevitable consequence of her actions, her traitorous, terrorist choices.

“Y--you can't...!” The conviction in her voice is instantly snuffed out, smothered by mounting horror. He feels her body react as she starts the struggle anew, a desperate attempt to wrench her lower body free. Riddhe just weighs down on her again, the friction of her hips grinding against him setting off more sparks, and he just breathes steadily, just takes control because this is the natural conclusion, after all.

He catches her left wrist mid swing and squeezes until his fingers overlap themselves and he can feel bone. And when she yelps at the pain he drags her other, injured arm beside it. The brown cord around his left wrist is suddenly transferred, secured hastily around hers as a bind and he drops her arms like dead weight above her head once more, out of the way. The sound of the framed biplane charm ringing against the metal deck is lost in the shuffle of limbs.

It's laughably easy opening the front of her pilotsuit, especially when Riddhe holds her injured shoulder down, anchoring her in position with one hand as he prys aside the remaining bulky psycommu equip from her chest with the other hand, peels away the thick material of her suit and pushes her compression shirt up over the edge of her bare tits. Like the rest of her they are small and completely inadequate, but thats beside the point. The point is that now she looks away, eyes screwed shut and jaw clenched, lips a tight, quivering line. Riddhe regards the strained tendons in her neck intently as she tries to turn her head further into the dark hair strewn gracelessly against the deck. He smirks, relishing the inevitable victory here. The feeling crawls up his spine and back down again, pools and simmers like molten lead, hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach.

Then Riddhe pushes himself off her shoulder and feels her body tense underneath him again. A strangled noise of pain from the sudden movement barely makes it up her throat but Riddhe hears it. It's the clear sound of

(vindication)

surrender and he needs more of it. So much more of it.

So he drags his hands across her tits, squeezing and kneading and rough all along her sides, gloved hands sticking and pulling her dark skin as they snake downward. He watches her face impatiently for more reactions, ironically craving more of her screams from earlier, and forces his breath into an even rhythm as she remains still. When he reaches her hips he's lost too much patience. He jerks her too-thin legs apart for better access, positions himself between them with a growl. And that got a reaction.

“You can't---!!” She bites down on her lip when Riddhe pushes a finger in and Blood trickles as he pushes in another, breaking every last barrier she has. That small trickle of blood from her lips, that shimmering and wet darkness draws his attention like a magnet, and suddenly he's there, tongue lapping up the bitter, copper taste of blood and sweat, and he can feel her pulse drumming frantically, almost taste it.

She jerks her head away, gasping in shock. Riddhe is content to latch onto her neck instead, gnawing with every intent to devour her whole and the clarity of that thought makes him so hard. He starts finger fucking her in earnest, feeling every roll of her hips underneath his when she tries to get away from his brutal hand. There's no use to her struggling, he concedes to his conscience, absolutely nothing she can redeem of herself now. And if she'd just accept this moment for what it was, it would be so less painful for her. He can feel the walls of her cunt wrapped tightly around his finger, pushing back. He adds another finger in response.

Finally Riddhe sits on his knees and undoes the front of his pilotuit in rapid motions, hypnotized by the way her shoulders shake and her chest heaves up and down desperate for air. Aborted sobs break through her erratic intake of air, and he knows she's broken down but all he can think is how she

(should be)

is pulling him back down her, into her. He holds her hips down, guides his cock to her entrance and thrusts in without mercy. The friction is rough and unyielding, and he has to catch his breath for a moment, just long enough to realize how completely insane this all is- her existence, the carnage and destruction earlier, the reality of how history is

(inescapable)

repeating itself in their own bodies: Riddhe pulls back, drives in deeper, pulls back again. He fucks his way in with fast, deep strokes until her body relents, until it's slick and burning and pulsing around him and everything is exactly as it is meant to be.

He narrows his eyes in concentration, trying to hold onto that thought even as his blood turns on him, draining his brain and threatening to take his control with it. He feels her body go limp, watches through the screen of his lashes as her head rolls to the side with a shudder. He doesn't last long after that. He comes in a rush of white-hot pleasure, sinking deep and spilling inside of her.

It takes more than a few

(generations)

moments to regain control of his own body, enough to pull out and get to his feet. He leans on a side panel for support as he comes down from the high, idly staring at the mess of the Zeon pilot's unconscious body at his feet, completely neutralized. He steps around her slowly. Easily retrieves his necklace and puts himself back into place. He listens to her shallow, labored breaths for a moment.

For just another moment as they stutter. He's waiting. Straining to hear them become stronger. Waiting for that weak defiance against his actions to garner strength. That last pitiable excuse.

 

Then it happens.

 

One long steady inhale.

 

He reaches for his gun.

[end]