[fic -- GUNDAM 00 -- Evil Angel]
Title: Evil Angel (Or, Five Things That Never Happened to Soran Ibrahim)
Author: cccpirate / Karlie
Characters: Setsuna F. DON’T-TOUCH-ME Seiei
Word-count: 2,080
Rating: PG-13ish? Lots of death and stuff.
Spoilers: YES. LOTS OF THEM. Through to 25, in fact.
Summary: Setsuna’s been pretty much doomed from the start.


1.
It shines like the angels he doesn’t believe in anymore, discoloured in the sunset, shimmering and beautiful and totally alien. The sound of the light it sends down sends chills through Soran’s spine and when he watches it crushing mobile suit after mobile suit, he feels a lightness in his chest that he hasn’t felt in years (the pat on his shoulder, the rough calluses on Ali’s fingers as he takes the pistol back and tells Soran he did a good job, that God is proud of him) and for the briefest of moments, he wonders if this is God, showing his presence now that everyone is dead to prove that He does exist, just to spite Soran for doubting.

When the last suit is burning, Soran tightens his grip on his gun and thinks that he knows there’s no such thing as God – there never was, there never will be, God wouldn’t leave his followers to rot like this – but in this – whatever this is – he might – just – believe –

In the cockpit of the 0 Gundam, VEDA is in Livonze’s head. The mission objective is clearly written across the top of his sight: obliterate the KPSA. There are to be no survivors. Nobody is to know what we have done. Nobody will know of Celestial Being until VEDA decides the world is ready.

The boy can’t be any more than ten. And, when Livonze zooms in, the way he is looking at him...

But VEDA is absolute.

From on the ground, Soran watches the suit turn slowly, and through the shimmer of green something, he sees the glow of what can only be eyes, and is acutely aware that now, in the ruins of the village, it’s just him and the angel.

In the glow, he feels naked, judged.

And he is deemed unworthy.


2.
The refugee camp is dirty, decrepit, on a tiny piece of the Azadistani border that nobody particularly cares about but nobody particularly wants to hand over, either. Soran curls his fingers around his father’s rough, worn ones and when they curl tighter in reply, he doesn’t pull away, like he usually would. There’s been a tightness around Baba’s eyes since they crossed the border that Soran’s not used to. He’s not allowed his own bed now, and sleeps with his head tucked under his father’s chin. Baba sleeps with a pistol under the pillow and when they were walking away from home, he took Soran a little way off the trail, fit the heavy, warm metal into his small hands and taught him how to pull the trigger.

The mosque is small, scruffily makeshift with tarpaulin instead of prayer mats and a cream canvas roof – the cleanest, Baba tells him, that they could find in the camp (where dogs and rats tear at the plastic refuse sacks full of used nappies and sanitary towels and wasted food). Two men check their compasses somewhere above Soran’s head, and Baba pushes him to the front, where there’s a group of other boys around his age crowded around a tall red-headed man. The man introduces himself as Ali al-Saachez, gives Soran a warm smile and pats his left knee; on the right is a worn copy of the Koran, open at a page Soran can’t quite see. “Newbie?” he asks, and Soran nods. “Where from?”

“Al-Majirif.”

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Soran.” Then, as an afterthought, “I’m not a kid! I’m eight!”

“Your parents here?” Ali asks, grinning broadly as though he’s used to kids trying to be grown-ups, and Soran points towards where his father is settling down in the rows. “No mother?” he prods, and Soran doesn’t answer. “Here,” he says, resting a hand on Soran’s small shoulder, and he flips the cover of the Koran to a page with a flicker of irreverence that Soran catches but can’t bring himself to mention. “you can read it, can’t you?”

After tripping over the first few letters, Soran reads the ninety-third Sura, some of the other boys joining in, and with the first three lines he feels comforted, and having the other boys around him makes him feel understood. The following Friday, Soran runs to the front, leaving Baba at the opening of the tent, and misses the broad, proud smile on his face.


*


The marketplace is crowded. From where Soran stands, he can see a woman in a blue hijab weighing apples; she hands one to the little boy at her side before paying the vendor. Another woman, hair uncovered, walks with a man who is carrying a brown bag, and disappears into the growing crowd.

In the steadily-brightening morning, Soran hates them all. The apples, Ali told him, were imported from the orchards outside of al-Majirif; the buildings are made of brick and cement, rather than the shanty-town the refugee camp has grown into. The people here are almost all based at the Azadistani MS camp a mile away, according to what he was told. By proxy or by their own hands, these people are responsible for the war, for the destruction of his homeland, and for the bullets that killed his mother. They have no right to walk on God’s earth.

Oi, Soran, Ali had said to him that morning, just after dawn prayers, the mosque-tent’s roof flapping quietly. you ready to go?

Offering himself to God’s mercy, Soran walks out of his hiding place, past the fruit-stall, into the crowd. He pulls the cord at his chest, sees a bright light, hears the roaring, feels the burning—


3.
In the trial-room, Soran Ibrahim stands in the dock. His lawyer is on one side, his interpreter on the other, murmuring into his ear in rapid-fire Krugis.

The arrest had come quickly, stupidly, a rush of bodies and fortified plastic; their leader had been shot during his escape, and though Soran was ready to die, he was not ready to be shot like some dog. It had been an open trial; the gallery had been full of press and onlookers. Instead of the orange jumpsuit, Soran’s lawyer had bought him a suit that had too-wide shoulders and a slightly off-colour tie that Soran hadn’t been allowed to wear in case he tried to, the prosecution argued, kill himself in the courtroom.

The defence had argued that Soran’s devout love for his religion meant that he would never do such a thing.

The prosecution had pointed out that Soran Ibrahim had been arrested as part of an international terrorist cell known for suicide bombings, and they really couldn’t take any chances.

When Soran had taken the stand on the first day, he had heard the gasps – and some complaints, the interpreter told him, that he was just fifteen and being tried as an adult, but the precedent had been set a century or so ago, and Soran had had no legal guardian (none that they could find, at least) and his legal papers were dubious at best after the records office had been gutted in a shell attack from the borders. He answered some questions, ignored the rest, and when the prosecution had hired a lawyer fluent in Krugis, he had leaned back in his chair and insulted the man’s accent, followed quickly by his mother.

The guilty verdict came as expected: Soran hadn’t entered a plea. When the judges reconvene to pass sentence, the oldest one looks at him severely through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, takes a sip of water, and speaks.

Amelia de la Croix, aged five, he says. Francis Kinsella, aged three. James, Alex and John Fletcher, aged eighteen months, nine years old and thirty-one. Amy Dylandy, aged nine. James Lau, two. Mohammad Iqbal, aged eleven; his mother Nadia, aged thirty. These were just some of the victims of the KPSA, the interpreter translates, and Soran doesn’t care. God is benevolent, all-powerful, Almighty, and He will take those among the dead who were righteous and keep them safe in paradise.

The sentence is passed. Soran doesn’t listen, doesn’t care; it doesn’t matter. It won’t stop him.

It won’t stop them.


4.
“You told her your code-name.”

Tieria is furious. Anger rolls off of him in waves. His fists are clenched so tightly at his sides that they are shaking and Lockon is standing warily at the sides, arms folded. “You told her. Your code-name.”

Setsuna doesn’t answer. He isn’t denying it, because it is all captured on Exia’s video-feed: Marina Ismail chasing him, yelling ‘Setsuna F. Seiei!’ as he turned to climb back aboard Exia. Instead, he looks back at Tieria, determined. The other Meister thinks he knows everything, but he doesn’t understand, and that’s the fundamental difference. “Do you have any idea what kind of a security breach that can be?!”

“Can we cover for that?” Allelujah asks quietly.

“Of course. VEDA has already compensated for the security breach. But the point is that VEDA should not have to.”

Lockon clears his throat. “Well. I’m sure Setsuna’s learned his lesson, so...”

“I don’t think he has.”

“What?”

“That woman—”

“Her name is Marina Ismail,” Setsuna snaps, scowling. Tieria smirks cruelly.

“I’m sure it is. She knew his code-name before we delivered the priest. Meaning that there has been more than one security breach.”

“She is the only person I have told. There is no further breach.”

“You have no way of knowing that for certain,” the other man points out, and Setsuna knows, in his gut, that he’s absolutely right. Marina Ismail is not somebody he should ever trust, not as a Krugis citizen, not as a Gundam Meister. He lets his head bow slightly in silent apology.

Drawing himself up, Tieria’s glasses flash in the lighting. “Soran Ibrahim,” he says coldly (in the background, Lockon protests: “Oi, Tieria, what are you—”). “As of now, in accordance with VEDA’s orders, you are no longer affiliated with Celestial Being. Your code-name is revoked and your security clearance has been wiped.”

Everything has become a harsh buzz in Setsuna’s ears.

“Isn’t that a little much?!” He can hear Lockon and Allelujah above the din. “He’s just a kid!”

“Isn’t letting him go going to be even more of a security breach?!”

“Feldt Grace is younger than he is. His age is no excuse. He is not fit to be a Gundam Meister and VEDA has acted accordingly.”

The buzzing gets louder, everything gets brighter; for a moment, he is ten again and the guns are coming for him.

“You are not fit.”

“You can’t do this!” Setsuna yells furiously, but Tieria ignores him as the other two, bound by VEDA, move to catch his arms as he tries to kick off towards the hangar. “You can’t! I am Gundam!”

Tieria watches him coldly as Allelujah joins in to help, catching Setsuna’s flailing in the lack of gravity and helping Lockon take him to the security room. “No. You’re not.”


5.
The shockwave from the GN-Arms propels Setsuna a good kilometre through space, and when the shaking has stopped rocking the cockpit, the first thing he does is link through to Lockon’s suit. “Report,” he barks, cold sweat tickling the hair above his lip and his heart pounding in his throat; the flickering image on screen shows a still body in Exia’s massive hands. “Lockon Stratos,” he snaps again, when the reply is dead air. “report!”

“...owwww. Jeez, Exia’s made of some really strong stuff,” Lockon grouses back a few moments later, his accented voice crackling warmly through the static, and at the mention of his Gundam, Setsuna can’t help but feel so utterly proud; this is what a Gundam does; this is what a Gundam is. “You alright there, Setsuna?”

“I’m fine. Are you hurt?”

“Think I’ve broke something...” There was a pause, and then a grunt of pain. “Oh yeah. Ribs and my wrist.”

“You should drink more milk,” Setsuna says, unable to help himself. Lockon lets out a pained half-groan, half-laugh that sinks into Setsuna’s bones with something like relief.

“Are you actually cracking a joke?” he asks, incredulously, and then laughs again, weakly. “It only took you two years!”

“It’ll take around thirty minutes to get back to Ptolomaios. Can you last that long?”

“I’m in your hands, Setsuna.”





[sura 93, lines 1-3: By the morning hours
And by the night when it is stillest,
Thy Lord hath not forsaken thee nor doth He hate thee]