Written for the Gundam 00 week happening over on Tumblr, for the prompt 'Gundam Meisters.' (Today kicks it off! Check out the blog, g00week!)

This fic started, like half of my 00 stuff, via a text conversation with sapphireswimming...and slowly devolved from there. Spoilers through 2x3; warnings for blood/violence/torture (in short, the fridge horror of Alle's four years between seasons) and, as the summary suggests, character death.

This is a two-shot; I struggled with the second half of this fic for hours before realizing that it's really a completely different story arc, physically and thematically: the imprisonment, and then the aftermath. The second half still needs some polishing but will hopefully be up by the end of the week (maybe for day 7 of 00 week?), so stay tuned! :)

of the body;

He's been a man waiting to die since he was ten years old and drifting in space—and now, he thinks, he's reached his final reckoning.

Allelujah's head is pounding and his vision is growing dark along the edges, and Hallelujah smiles from his reflection as he slowly fades away. There's something wrong with that, he thinks, because his other self would never be so quiet, never so rational—

Why would he leave him here when they're utterly alone in space, just like so many years ago—why would he not take this prime opportunity to seize control?

"I'll be going first." And some corner of his mind realizes that he can't grasp what he means, just yet, but the larger majority is consumed by the pain and the nausea and the fact that Marie is here—right here. She's recovering her comrade and ensuring his safety and if that doesn't describe Marie perfectly, then he doesn't know what does. When they were in the Institute together, she always asked how he was, whether he was all right, even though she was surely in a worse situation than he ever could be—

He thought he killed her so many months ago during that attack on the facility but she is here—she is here—and his hands grasp for the throttles of this destroyed Gundam, grasp for a comm link, grasp for something that will allow him to talk to her. But Kyrios is nothing more than wreckage, now; too many red lights are flashing from his dashboard, and the screen is cracked and distorted, so that if he didn't know Marie so well, he never would have recognized her at all.

His Gundam is all but scrap metal, not even worthy of salvaging for parts, but he needs to get to Marie because it has been so, so long but she is here and—

"Gundam pilot," a harsh, female voice emanates suddenly from the comm, and Allelujah flinches at the volume of it as his too-empty head pounds. (Where has Hallelujah gone; surely, he wouldn't leave him alone when they both are so clearly about to die?) "You are in AEU custody. Any act of resistance will be read as aggression, and will be treated accordingly. We have been authorized to use deadly force."

If they want him dead then why are they talking—why do these mobile suits in various states of disrepair, flying steadily toward him, not just shoot Kyrios out of the sky? If they want information, surely they know that he would never give it to them; if they want the Gundam—

Kyrios may be destroyed, but its black box is not—the GN drive, no longer connected to any system that works, simply idles behind the cockpit, and Allelujah realizes suddenly that this must not fall into enemy hands. Tieria's sharp comments—if you lose your solar reactor, if you give up anything to the enemy, you deserve to die a thousand fiery deaths!—and Ian's instructions from so many years ago flood through his aching head, and he knows what he need to do to save Celestial Being's secrets.

He reaches with shaking fingers for the emergency release latch, beneath the controls—out of the way and hard to reach, and it strains his flaming ribs and his creaking neck as his hand finally finds the lever. He jerk it with all the strength left within him, and then there is an awful screeching sound that rattles his head worse than the comms. But the solar reactor is gone, speeding off into space and shielded by its strongest GN field, bulleting for the Ptolemy.

(The Ptolemy, or whatever homing beacon they have left, because there was a worryingly large explosion in his peripherals during the battle that he didn't have time to investigate.)

(And why has Miss Sumeragi not been calling out desperate new battle plans; why has he not heard from Setsuna or Tieria, calling for backup in their own impossible fights?)

(How is he to know that he is not the last man standing?)

He sees Marie jerk, through his noisy screens and his blurring eyes, and he watches her gaze follow the reactor as it soars off into space. Her comrade, too, makes as if to pursue in his destroyed suit, but there must be some order from the military brass, because even the AEU forces approaching them do not break formation to chase after Celestial Being's greatest secret.

They want him alive, and Allelujah's stomach plummets as he sits here, alone and dying and defenseless, and desperately unsure of what they want.

.

.

His mind is full of Marie Marie Marie, at the moment he loses consciousness and again at the moment he gains it.

He is lying down, and he assumes that he must be in the med bay of the Ptolemy, because he is alive and surely the world powers would have killed him should he have been captured? Perhaps Setsuna or Tieria recovered his suit, once he lost consciousness—he must have—

But he's looking up at his surroundings, now, and it's darker even than night cycle on their mothership, and something is restraining his arms and covering his face and—

There are bandages wrapped roughly around his head but they're nothing like Doctor Moreno's careful hand—they're too tight and too loose all at once, and his head throbs at the pressure even as blood drips into his eyes. He opens his eyes wider, waits for his pupils to dilate, and realizes that he is somewhere utterly unfamiliar.

There's a door with a dimly lit window inset, and he sees two silhouettes on the other side. They're standing rigid, from what he can see—standing cold and silent and ready to attack, and—

They're guards.

Allelujah feels his breathing increase even as his mind categorizes, takes stock of his physical and mental state and tries to discern what exactly is going on. There's something wrapping his arms tightly to his aching chest, and there's a—a muzzle upon his face and in his mouth that keeps him from crying out, even should he wish to.

There's blood on his head and in his eyes, and he can't hope to move to wipe it away; he's in what seems to be a regeneration cell, and the glass is too low for him to sit up, and he feels his breathing pick up, his heart rate increase, as he realizes just how trapped and cornered he is.

They want me alive, is his last thought before his mind slips under again.

.

.

He expects that it's Hallelujah taking control, pushing his weaker—lesser—consciousness down and away and devising some animalistic plan to break them free of these bonds and this containment and whatever facility the military has seen fit to shove them into.

But when he wakes again, it's as if he's only been sleeping, and his muscles don't even ache to indicate a failed attempt at releasing himself from confinement.

Hallelujah didn't take that prime opportunity to seize control—he didn't overwhelm Allelujah in order to do what he deems his other self too weak to accomplish—and he asks why; he asks that primal creature in the back of his head why he's abandoned him now, when he could use his help the most—why he has left Allelujah to fend for himself in this situation that could so very easily lead to their death—

But there is no response ringing through his mind and into his ears, no sensation of push that has, always, for as long as he can remember, been there, waiting for a moment of weakness so he could seize control.

Hallelujah is not there, and he struggles with this concept even as the door slams open, the bright artificial lights flood the room, and he has to squint to make out four figures stepping quickly toward him.

They're not Marie or Setsuna or Tieria or anyone he recognizes, and he tries to sit up quickly to defend himself before his throbbing head slams into the overhead glass of the regenerative cell. His vision swims and he attempts to focus on these people—enemies, for sure—but everything is growing black around the edges and his muscles fail him, forcing him back down to the unforgiving metal of the cell as these people speak words beyond his comprehension.

His last thought is of Marie before he loses consciousness once again.

.

.

The next he knows, he is no longer in a regenerative cell; he's sitting in a straight-backed chair, and his head throbs, and his wrists are strained to their limits within this awful straightjacket, and his ankles are shackled to the floor.

The room is dark, and Allelujah struggles to see anything beyond the confines of darkness, but—there is nothing, nothing in this room but this chair and these restraints and himself, straining against impossibly strong binds in a desperate attempt to break free.

They've—he's been captured, certainly, by the military. But it's not an impossible situation. Surely, though he was overpowered by Marie and her comrades, Setsuna and Tieria—incredible pilots, the both of them—must have survived; the Ptolemy must be intact. They're licking their wounds, repairing the Gundams, and then they'll find out where he's being held and come to rescue him.

(Two Gundam Meisters left, at best—and Allelujah ignores the words Hallelujah should be saying, that that battle was an impossibility, and his comrades—no, his friends—are more than likely dead.)

A Gundam Meister is never alone; he knows this to be true; Setsuna, despite his rough exterior, surely would not be so calloused as to leave him to the mercy of the military. And Tieria—well, he's been softening around the edges in the last few months, but at the very least, he wouldn't risk Allelujah divulging valuable information to their enemies.

(Not that he would. Not ever. Marie is the single most important part of his life, but Celestial Being and its ideals are a close second.)

He's been captured due to his weakness and his ineptitude but surely he will be rescued—he'll endure Tieria's unconcealed contempt and Feldt's tears and Lichty's awkward hugs because it'll mean that he's safe once again, among comrades and friends who accept him in a way almost no one has in his entire life. Marie—her name repeats itself in his mind like a prayer, because that was her and he thanks God that he didn't inadvertently kill her in battle, that she looked relatively unharmed though her mobile suit was torn to pieces, and—

Marie is all right, and the others will rescue him in due time. He just has to endure whatever the military has planned for him in the coming weeks; Ian will need time to repair Virtue and Exia—he's the best engineer there is, but even he can't work miracles—and then everything will be as it should be.

(The emptiness in the back of his mind echoes tauntingly, worse even than Hallelujah's jabs, and he has to convince himself it will be all right.)

.

.

They feed him, he thinks, once a day (for the passing of time is difficult to guess)—a nameless guard opens the door, flanked by four others, armed with pistols and rifles and electric batons, and brings in food and a glass of water to keep him alive.

The food is tasteless but nourishing, and the nanoparticles in his body do the rest to ensure his muscles do not atrophy against the inactivity he's forced to endure. They only loosen the gag long enough to shove the food in his mouth; if he manages to voice a question, they do not bother to answer; when he has eaten the last crumb, they roughly reapply the restraints and leave without a word.

The first time someone speaks a word to him, a high-ranking officer with silver hair is in his cell at least a month after the battle, looking him up and down with something like amusement on his face. "Hopefully you'll cooperate more than the other one has," he says lightly, flippantly, and though Allelujah has been doing his best to stay stoic and angry just like Tieria would expect of him, his façade falters, then. He—he means, they captured someone else? Tieria, he knows, went dark early on in the battle, and Setsuna surely never stood a chance against the mobile armor—what if—

He knows how this is supposed to work; he's supposed to ask who else they've captured, demand to know what's going on. But he isn't stupid, and so he only schools his face as best he can, staring up at the officer blandly.

He laughs in Allelujah's face, then, and leaves the cell without another word.

.

.

He knows he doesn't have a good grasp on the passage of time, but he's almost certain that, when the officer finally reappears in his cell, it has been several days since he last ate. His stomach is cramping, and he is lightheaded with dehydration; though he can survive without water and food for longer than most, his throat is absolutely parched, and he's not sure that he'll be able to say anything, even given the opportunity.

But the man behind the officer is carrying a tray of food and a bottle of water, and Allelujah's eyes widen in relief as he realizes that this must be—has to be—for him. "Good morning," the officer says, gesturing with a broad smile to one of the guards to remove his muzzle. "This meal comes thanks to your friend Lockon Stratos."

Allelujah's gaze, which had been locked on the tray of food feet from him, jerks back up to the officer in horror. Surely, he misheard—or else they're wrong, because Lockon—he's—

"I assume you know him?" the officer asks, his smile turning a bit more smug. "We picked him up about a week before you—he's in bad shape, of course, after that explosion, but we've been able to patch him up well enough. He bought you this meal with his codename—now, we'd be obliged if you would do the same."

He's lying—he has to be lying—but how would they know Lockon's codename, otherwise? Precious few people know the Meisters' names or faces; even most of their contacts, those who fund and observe them, go through either the bridge crew or someone on Krung Thep. Their identities are top secret, and less than thirty people in the world know the name Lockon Stratos—so how—

The officer heaves a heavy sigh before gesturing another guard forward. The man holds a terminal in his hands, and Allelujah leans forward slightly without thought, his eyes wide as he waits to see what will appear on the screen.

It's security camera footage—grainy at best, especially with the dim lighting of the room, but there are several people standing there, and one all but crumpled on the floor.

When he turns his face up to snarl at the officers, Allelujah recognizes him instantly—but Lockon, he was dead, he was—

There is barely-decipherable audio to the recording, but Allelujah understands exactly what they're saying even without it—Lockon shouts at them for a bit while the officer only stands impassively, and eventually he looks down to the floor. He must have said something, too quietly to make out—his codename—because the officer inclines his head, gesturing for the guards to follow him out.

But Lockon—he does not move from his position on the floor, does not even attempt to stand up, and he is not restrained as Allelujah is. And his eye—the patch is gone, now, but there is a horrifyingly dark area on his friend's face, and Allelujah is sure he's not getting the treatment he needs—

"Regrowing an eye is expensive, you know," the officer says lightly, as the other man puts the terminal away. "It's not worth our time when the prisoner is—well," he laughs at some private joke, "perfectly functional, otherwise."

Allelujah stares at him with wide eyes, trying desperately to school his features, but—but that's Lockon, hurting and alone somewhere else in this prison, and—

"Here's how this is going to work," the officer says, then, stepping forward, leaning down to stare at him, inches from Allelujah's nose. "If you want your friend to continue living, you'll tell us whatever we want to know. Information for food—a fair trade, right?"

Allelujah can only stare back, horror flooding his gut. He knows he doesn't have a choice even before the man voices his question, but—how long can they possibly keep this up? Food—at the very least—three times a week for Lockon, and only God knows how long they're going to be kept here. And, after all, what can they tell the government that will not truly compromise any of their friends that might be left?

If they give up the rest of them to keep each other alive, then what's the point, when the both of them are only going to rot in this prison, anyway?

But it's—it's Lockon, the man they were sure was dead—and Allelujah feels a suffocating wave of guilt that they did not insist on combing the battlefield to find his body. Setsuna had said he was near the epicenter of the explosion—that he would have been vaporized, and that Exia had picked up no life signs. They had assumed—assumed, and Allelujah's stomach twists as he realizes how differently this could have gone—that Lockon was killed instantly, and because they did not go to search—

He owes this much to Lockon, at least, to keep him alive for as long as he can—until, hopefully, Celestial Being will come to save them. It's too much to hope for the government to discontinue such barbaric practices—especially when it gets them results—and so he realizes that their only hope is to pray that they are rescued.

He says nothing to the officer, but he must have seen something shift behind Allelujah's eyes, because he laughs and leans back, a bit. "You tell us what your codename is," he says amiably, "and we'll bring lunch down to Lockon right now."

The name is a mockery on this man's tongue, and Allelujah barely keeps himself from snarling at him. He hesitates only a moment before rasping "Allelujah Haptism" to the echoing room, and the man's smile grows wider, gesturing for the man with the food and water to step forward.

"It's very nice to meet you, Allelujah," he says, standing up. "I am Colonel Aber Rindt."

.

.

When Allelujah next sees video of Lockon, he has not moved from his position, propped up against the wall of his cell, unchecked fury on his face as he speaks with Rindt. "It's a pity his neck was broken in the blast," the colonel says flippantly, as Allelujah stays glued to the screen. The men are shifting Lockon like a sack of potatoes, now, slipping something onto the ground and against the wall beneath him before shoving him back down, scarcely making sure he stays upright. "All these wasted resources just to ensure he doesn't get bedsores—but what can we do?" he shrugs. "Now, Lockon has so kindly told us the name of the man who piloted the big Gundam—if you could fill us in on your last pilot's name, I'll make sure he gets dinner tonight."

Lockon—his neck was broken, and suddenly, the way his hands lay uncomfortably on either side of his thighs, the way his legs are simply sprawled before him, makes far too much sense. Rage rises in him again at this, that they would leave Lockon so undignified when he is so vulnerable—

A broken neck is fixable—he knows this—but the government does not want to waste the medical resources on either his spine or his eye, and as he looks up at the smug face of Colonel Rindt, above him, he doesn't think he has hated anyone so much as he does now.

"Setsuna F. Seiei," he spits out, and Rindt laughs at his tone—but he nods, and Allelujah is sure Lockon will eat tonight—if only because the government would not lose half their leverage, the source of half of their information.

The gag returns to his face, and Allelujah manages to keep his face stoic until the last guard locks the door behind him…but then he bows his head, squeezes his eyes shut, and does not even try to stop the tears from falling down his face.

.

.

He has a lot of time to think, nowadays.

The guards only come by every other day for information to feed Lockon—and only every second visit do they have food for himself. Lockon knows, then, that Allelujah does not need water so often as normal humans. It was important for the Meisters to know each others' strengths, after all, and Allelujah knows both this and his enhanced reflexes were in his public files, but…

He sincerely hopes that the government does not realize exactly what this means—that he is an escaped test subject of the Super Human Institute, that he has (used to have) the ability to use quantum brainwaves.

Hallelujah's absence in the back of his mind is still jarring, and Allelujah is still not used to it, even—he thinks—at least six months on from Fallen Angels. If he were still here, Hallelujah would be just as angry as he is—he would be furious that they eat barely twice a week, that they must swallow back the bile they try to vomit when the muzzle is applied and there is nowhere else for it to go. He would be furious that they were so compromised, though—Allelujah thinks—he would appreciate Lockon's efforts to keep them alive…even though he is only interested in the personality he knows.

Even if all of them know it can never last.

They've gone through the crew's codenames, and Lockon has given up his birth name as well—Neil Dylandy, and Allelujah hopes sincerely that the brother he admitted was still alive will not pay for Lockon's crimes. He has told them that he lived in Moscow before he was recruited, that he had no family—that Allelujah was the first name he remembered answering to. And he feeds them believable lies about Celestial Being, when he has run out of safe information about himself—that the four solar reactors they saw are the only ones in existence, that Celestial Being is a sprawling organization with limited contact between cells; that he knows nothing about anyone beyond those who were on their ship.

They buy it all, and Allelujah thanks God for that, at least…even though Lockon looks more haggard by the day, and it kills him that he can do nothing to help his friend but send him meals whenever the government offers them. He would tear apart this prison—the whole world—if he could; he would strangle Colonel Rindt with his bare hands, given half a chance. And he is a super soldier, but he is strapped to this chair with the strongest material the world has to offer, and he has not once seen the outside of this cell.

He can do nothing but pray Lockon can hold on until they are rescued, though he knows the chances of that happening grow more slim by the day.

"Maybe if you hadn't killed our commander and engineers, you'd have those answers," Lockon snarls to Rindt, that afternoon, as Allelujah can only look on an hour later. They're asking about their benefactors and about how the solar reactors operate, and Allelujah considers whether revealing Wang Liu Mei would be worth keeping Lockon alive for another few days. She's rich beyond imagining, after all, and can surely shield herself from whatever the government might bring down upon her and Hong Long…

The only information he knows about the reactors' operation is classified—more classified than even the Meisters' identities—and Allelujah thinks he will not reveal that unless it was a choice between life and death for his friend. But Lockon is clearly deteriorating, anyway, and he is worried that no matter how many meals he sends him—if he does not somehow win Lockon medical attention for his clearly oozing eye and the broken neck that must cause him agony beyond belief…

Lockon is barely clinging to life—Allelujah can see this clearly—and it kills him, that he cannot do anything to help. They are surely held on opposite sides of the prison, and anything he tries to say to him during interrogations would be edited out of the security footage.

Lockon needs support and needs help and needs to get out of here, but Allelujah can do less than nothing to help him. His friend has always supported the rest of them in whatever way he could—for all these years, Allelujah was comfortable in the knowledge that he could go to Lockon for help with anything at all. But now he is barely alive, and they are both captured by men who wish them only harm. He needs it so badly, but Allelujah cannot return the favor—and he hates himself more and more each day, that Lockon very well may not make it out of this prison alive.

He watches as Lockon tells Rindt that Setsuna was once a member of the KPSA, and though it's clearly not as interesting as they were hoping, Allelujah is allowed a meal all the same. "What do you have for us today, Allelujah?" Rindt asks, his head cocked a bit to the side as he watches him greedily drink the disgusting, blended food that has sustained him for over half a year.

He hates the way his name sounds on this man's tongue; he hates that he has adopted use of it without permission, when it is all but holy, bestowed upon him by Marie as it was. Rindt uses the name like it's any other, when it's not, and every time it passes his lips, Allelujah has to do his best not to bristle.

He can't anger this man—he can't make him change his mind, make him reconsider allowing Lockon these meals at all. He has to keep his friend alive, and—

And he is terrified that he is running out of unimportant facts to tell this damned government; he dreads the day that Rindt will stroll into his cell, flip on the lights to blind Allelujah for several moments while his eyes adjust, and he will have nothing to tell him—nothing to save Lockon's life.

He tells him, today, that Sumeragi once worked for the AEU's military—which he hopes will not allow them to hone in on her true identity, should she still be alive. Rindt seems pleased with the information, though, and tells Allelujah, as always, that Lockon will receive his reward within the hour.

He watches as Rindt and his guards leave the cell, flipping the lights off and locking him in total darkness, and hopes desperately that they will not run out of time.

.

.

Both he and Lockon are grasping at straws, and Allelujah knows that even if they started giving the government truly important secrets, neither of them will last much longer.

Lockon has been transferred to Med Bay more than once for sepsis, spread from an infection in the still open wound of his eye. They bring him back just alive enough to answer questions (and none of his stints in the regeneration pod ever leave Allelujah without food for too long so as to be dangerous), but he is clearly never fully recovered. His eye has not even properly scabbed over, and he can yet move nothing but his head, and Allelujah can see the rage growing on his face by the week, even through the grainy video he is allowed to watch.

Lockon is dying, and though Allelujah is willing to do anything in his power to reverse that, he's not sure that's going to be enough when neither of them have yet to even stand up since they arrived.

Lockon is dying, and Allelujah is being forced to watch, and he swears that if they ever get out of here alive, he will bring hell down upon the government's heads for ever doing this to his friend.

Rindt comes into his cell in particularly high spirits, one day, followed by his typical guards as well as (Allelujah's stomach flips) a man in a white lab coat. He is fine; he has no reason to see a doctor; why would they—?

"Lockon gave us some very interesting information, just now," Rindt says conversationally, and gestures to two of the guards. Allelujah knows how this works; one will show him the video, and the other will remove his gag for him to give more information in return. But while the first man does flip his terminal around for Allelujah to see, the second man does not move to remove the muzzle, and Allelujah glances to him in confusion as the first man starts the footage.

Lockon is yet propped up against the wall, the rage on his face tainted by fear as Rindt asks for more information. He's run out of ideas, just as Allelujah has, and Allelujah can see this clearly on his friend's face. But then Rindt speaks up—

"If you gave us any information on your friend Allelujah, we'd make it worth your while. He's been…rather tight-lipped about his own history."

Lockon hesitates, glancing to the security camera with his remaining eye, and Allelujah can see the hesitation and fear there before he swallows with difficulty. He breathes in, then (and breathing seems to have become more and more difficult for his friend, as the months have gone on), and says, very quietly, "From what I understand, he's…augmented. It's how he doesn't need water as often as anyone else would."

In the video, Rindt stands up straighter, considering Lockon with renewed interest. "Like a Super Soldier," he says with relish, and Lockon's scowl deepens though he says nothing in reply.

Allelujah blinks, trying not to let the fear show on his face as he looks up to Rindt and the doctor. "We appreciate his cooperation," Rindt says, a nasty smile on his face. "If it's any consolation, he'll get food for a week, for that."

Allelujah jerks, his eyes widening further as the second guard reaches out toward his neck, a syringe in hand—but he cannot move away, and there are only precious moments after the sharp prick into his skin before he loses consciousness.

.

.

Lockon no longer remembers what it feels like not to be in pain.

True to their word, the guards have brought him what must be two meals a day for almost a week, now—his stomach had cramped, at the start, not knowing what to do with so much nourishment after months of starvation, but it's a revelation, not being hungry all the time.

If only he could move to get himself and Allelujah out of here.

He was so sure, as the Arms exploded beside him, that he was dying for a good cause—dying to avenge his parents and his sister. But then he had woken up in a regeneration cell, his eye on fire and the limbs he could not move feeling as if they were submerged in ice, and the pain has only grown marginally more bearable as the months have gone on.

He has no one to complain to and nothing he can do about it, though, and so he only bears it with fury and single-minded anger. He spends his time trying to figure out the new limits of his ruined body (his shoulders and elbows will move, shakily, but the pain it causes him negates any worth this might have); he spends his time trying to decide what to say to that bastard Rindt to give Allelujah his next meal. But he's known for months that this couldn't last.

He just hates that he was the first to break.

He had considered that they would do something with the knowledge that Allelujah was a super soldier, but he had held out hope that they would not make the connection—and anyhow, he knows they had to have suspected when he said he would not give his friend food every other day. No unaugmented human would survive five days without water, but Allelujah has for months, now—and Lockon has hoped that their luck would last longer than this.

The first time the guards bring in a video of Allelujah knocked out on a hospital bed, part of his head shaved and doctors around him prepping for surgery, he throws up all the food they just fed him—and they only laugh and leave him alone in the dark, not bothering to clean him up.

(He's already been sitting in filth for months, and this pile of vomit shouldn't make that much of a difference—but they're operating on his friend again, long after he escaped from the Institute he swore he'd never see again, and Lockon knows he will never forgive himself for this.)

He sleeps a lot, now—because it distracts him from his reality of a ruined, useless body and a friend undergoing brain surgery somewhere else in this hell of a prison. In his dreams, he is alive and whole and free again—he spends time with his friends on the Ptolemy and his family in Ireland (his whole family). Amy is there with her wide smiles and tight, tight hugs, and their parents worry over his state though he assures them that he is fine. And even—even Lyle is there, not so reluctant as he always has been, and Neil never wants to wake from these dreams, because in comparison his life is nothing short of a nightmare—

He sleeps often but is woken every time the guards come in with food, every time they spoon feed him the disgusting mush they call nourishment, every time they shove a straw nearly down his throat to give him water. He tried biting their fingers, at the start, and managed to draw blood from a few—but he got knocked about the head plenty of times for it, and he realized quickly that such small acts of resistance were not worth it.

He is numb and on fire and submerged in ice all at once, and he is dying; he can feel it in his bones and his eye and his mangled neck. He does not want to die, necessarily; he does not want to leave Allelujah alone and at the mercy of these monsters. But the guards have told him more than once that Celestial Being's destruction was complete, after his capture. They have shown him footage of Setsuna and Tieria emerging from their wrecked Gundams and being shot to ribbons in moments; they have shown him footage of the Ptolemy exploding in a cloud of dust.

Their friends are dead, and though he wants to believe that the footage is doctored, they have not been rescued yet, and so—and so—

It has been almost a week of meals for no information at all, and Lockon can do nothing but sit against the wall and worry for his friend—wonder whether he has survived the surgeries they put him through—wonder whether he will survive them in the future.

His fourteenth meal comes with Rindt in tow, and he smiles nastily down at Lockon as he sucks the water down greedily. "Such a great outcome for so little information," he says, almost idly, and Lockon spits on his shoes. Rindt's face twists in distaste, but he continues as if it hadn't happened—"Unfortunately, I think your usefulness has rather come to an end, Lockon Stratos."

He clenches his jaw, at that—swallows, glances around, wondering which of the guards carries the gun that will kill him. "Oh, no, we're not going to waste a bullet on you," Rindt says, as if in surprise. "And Allelujah has not yet woken from his surgery—I'm afraid he won't be able to send you any more food for quite a while."

They're—they're going to starve him to death. Lockon shouldn't be surprised, in all honesty, but the thought of spending his final days in this pitch-black cell, waiting as his body fails him more than it already has, is nearly unbearable. "If you kill me, he'll never say another word to you," he challenges, even as he knows it will do nothing to save him.

Rindt crouches down on the filthy ground, then, and laughs in Lockon's face. "A super soldier is just as valuable as a Gundam pilot," he says smugly, leaning forward heavily, his knees digging into Lockon's thighs in a way that sends fire shooting up his spine. "As I said, we have no more use for you."

Lockon does not allow himself to show weakness; he does not allow himself to show this monster of a man his fear. He works up more precious hydration in his mouth, stares at Rindt's smug face, and then spits directly into his right eye.

He swears, reeling back, and one of the guards is swift to hit him over the head with his baton. It's worth it, though, to see the man lose his composure, even for these few seconds—and as Rindt stands, wiping at his face and stepping toward the door, Lockon calls after him, his voice hoarse—

"I'll see you in Hell, you bastard!"

They ignore him, flipping the lights with a finality that sends dread coursing through Lockon's gut, and slam the door heavily behind them.

Lockon stares at it for long moments after, but he never does see light again.

.

.

His head is on fire in a way he has not felt since he was a child.

This is worse than the headaches Marie's quantum brainwaves once induced; this is worse than the headache he endured after that disastrous battle six months ago. He remembers his cell, and he remembers Rindt smiling smugly down at him—and he remembers—

He remembers a jab in his neck and then nothing until now, but his head hurts in the way it always did in his childhood, and he knows what he has been condemned to even before he realizes where he is.

Lockon—he ran out of options, and Allelujah does not blame him for giving up another piece of information about him. After all—Lockon must have thought—a friend undergoing surgery must be better than a friend dead of dehydration, right?

(He tries to ignore the fact that he has told himself many times that he would rather die than fall back into those doctors' hands, and opens his eyes, trying to gauge his surroundings.)

It's pitch black, but he recognizes the feel of the chair on his legs and back, and so realizes that he must be returned to his cell. He's in his straightjacket, but the muzzle is gone; that's fortunate, he supposes, because the nausea he's always come to expect with these surgeries is back in full force, and right now, he is pouring all of his effort into not being sick all over his lap.

He tries desperately to remember Rindt's words, just before he was knocked out—because these surgeries usually put him out for several days, but didn't—didn't he say Lockon would get meals for free, for longer? He's surely—still safe, perhaps still getting extra meals for telling Rindt something he actually wanted to know.

(Allelujah can't begrudge his friend that, when he has looked so horrible for so long; he will gladly endure as many surgeries as they want, if it keeps Lockon alive.)

He thinks Lockon must still be reaping the benefits of this last piece of information and so holds onto that hope, even as he eventually loses the battle with his roiling stomach, retching mostly stomach bile onto his thighs. He is hungry, but not so much as he has been these past months—but he is still reluctant to lose whatever fluids they have deigned to give him to sustain him through the surgery.

Hopefully, it will not be too long before he is allowed another meal.

He sleeps, he thinks, for a while, and when he wakes he feels marginally better. His head still pounds, and there's a strange ringing in his ears that he recognizes from his childhood, but this is not unbearable; the nausea is mostly gone, and he works his jaw, runs his tongue over his filthy teeth—relishing in the fact that they have not yet reapplied the muzzle to his face.

He sleeps often, but he thinks no more than a day or two could have passed; his stomach rumbles at him constantly, but he is not lightheaded—and so he is not yet worried that Rindt has not come in to ask for more information. Surely, Lockon is still being fed; surely, they would not kill him and risk not learning anything more—?

He does not know how much time has passed when Rindt finally returns to his cell, when he flips the light switch that makes Allelujah's eyes burn, when he stands before his chair with that smug smile on his face, waiting for that next piece of information. He's—he's been thinking, and has decided that Wang Liu Mei can handle herself—and if she wants to shout at him, if he ever leaves this hell, then he will defend himself without guilt. Lockon, after all, is more important to Allelujah than that woman will ever be, and—

"You've been asleep for quite a while, Allelujah," Rindt says, his smile growing nastier, and he tries not to let the fear show on his face. "Too long, I'd say."

That—isn't right. Of all the surgeries he had as a child, he was never knocked out for a week, even for the most punishing ones. He says nothing to this man, works to keep his face neutral, and only prays that Lockon is all right. But Rindt does not ask him for information; he does not ask him to give up his friends' or his own secrets. He only stares down at him, his smile growing wider and only more cruel, before he raises his hand sharply. Allelujah does his best not to flinch, expecting a slap across the face—but the pain does not come, and another guard walks into the cell, then, something bulky slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"It's been nearly two weeks since Lockon gave us that information," Rindt says, amusement all over his voice as Allelujah's face goes white. "Unfortunately, our agreement was for a week of food, and—well…" he laughs, leaning down, inches from Allelujah's nose. "Neil Dylandy is no super soldier."

The guard steps forward, then, as Rindt retreats; his face is stony as Allelujah stares up at him with wide eyes. The lighting is dim but not impossible, and he thinks the package he carries looks too much like—

He drops it, then, inches from Allelujah's toes, and he looks down despite himself, despite the fact that he knows what it must be—

Lockon's singular eye stares up at him, glassy and unseeing, and Allelujah cannot bite back the horrified noise that rises up his throat.

Rindt laughs, stepping around Lockon's body like it's a pile of dirt, like it's unworthy of his notice when the man who once inhabited it was—"We'll leave you two alone," he says, as if sympathetic, but Allelujah would strangle this man with his bare hands if he could, because—because—"I know how close the two of you were, after all."

He leaves with his guards, then, and does not turn off the light; Allelujah cannot tear his gaze from Lockon's, because in this light—seeing his friend in person for the first time in over six months—he realizes exactly how awful he looks. His cheeks are gaunt, and his limbs have all but wasted away to skin and bones; his missing eye is still faintly oozing, in death, and he cannot imagine the pain it must have caused Lockon in life—

His hair is long and stringy and his face is twisted in rage and fear, and though Allelujah knows he is dead, knows that they would not bring his friend to his cell if there was any doubt, he cannot help but call for him, in a raspy voice that has not spoken in weeks.

"Lockon," he tries, quietly, and is sure Rindt and his men are laughing at him on the other side of some security camera. His friend does not respond (and he realizes that he will not—not ever again) but Allelujah cannot help but keep trying. He tries to reach his feet forward enough to nudge his friend, tries to lean forward enough to catch his blank gaze, but he never—Lockon is—

The tears are sudden and unwelcome, for he knows the military will only use them to its advantage—but he can't help them, when one of his dearest friends is dead inches from him, when he was too weak and too late to do anything to save him—when Lockon is dead because of him and how is he ever going to forgive himself; how is he going to continue living, knowing he is the reason Lockon Stratos is dead?

The tears are falling fast down his face—and when the desperate scream tears up his throat in this too-empty, too-quiet tomb of a cell, he does not even attempt to stop it.

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