oOo

Chapter One

Game Over: Hope or Despair?

oOo

Summary: The gundam pilots lost the last battle at Libra, and consequently the war. Everyone is coping in their own way, some wanting to forget, some wanting to challenge and change the world again, but it's far from over. You don't always get what you want… but you usually find a way to make it all work for you one way or another. After all, the only thing to do when you find yourself beaten on the side of the road is get up and start walking again.

Survival is the first step. After that? Depends on what you want. Where did it all go wrong, anyway? Was it really just Libra, or was it when they firebombed the church? Maybe when ZERO came into play: that was the start of the end, at least. The retraining? Or as far back as Odin's death? Is there any point in even wondering, when the crops are failing and those psychopaths are pillaging the refugee camps?

It probably says something that Zechs is more focused on threats to his authority than his sister's economy and humanitarian outreach programs. Or maybe he knows something we don't?

Priorities offer stunning views of a man's true colors.

oOo

Notes:

The Recast Steel Trilogy is a complex post-canon story focusing on the original cast losing the last battle, resulting in the outright loss of the American continents, severe weather changes, and a series of New World Orders on the rise - some considerably better than others.

This story was originally a response to a series of prompt challenges, that later got completely out of hand. Consequently, the early chapters (originally 1-5, now 1-4) are altogether short and relatively flat, as they are mostly a case of me setting down the foundation for everything else to build on in greater detail later, and you'll notice the chapter length starts at an average of 2500 words, but quickly starts racking up to be closer to 20k or more. Sedition rarely sees a chapter as short as 30,000 words.

As of cross-posting this story onto Archive of Our Own last year, the entire series saw an edit. For the most part, it's minor, addressing grammar, but there are a handful of instances where new information has been added to further support plot points and character development in the later story. All chapters that have seen this kind of change will have notes at the top! Though it should be noted that none of the new information is critical, there a lot more about the politics running behind the scenes as well as coverage for a minor plot hole a la character development.

oOo

Chapter Summary: Nine months after Libra's fall, perspective is everything.

oOo

Trigger Prompt: Young and poor

September 23rd 196 – Friday – Pec, Serbia

The roof of the room looked like it was about to cave in.

Quatre, listening to the wind and rain's assault on the building, expected it to at least start leaking. The layers of garbage bags over the gaping mouths that had once been windows were secure enough with their duct tape bonds, but with all the racket they were hearing, it was a wonder the storm hadn't put a stain on the patented material's record anyhow.

Closing his eyes, he tried not to think of the roof, or the windows, or the holes in the walls that had gotten the same decorative treatment as the windows. Nor did he let himself think about whatever creatures had lived in the tattered blanket he clutched around himself previous to his finding of it last week. Nine months ago, he would've called it a rag, and wrinkled his nose at the smell. Now, it was a prize.

Nine months ago he'd been on Peacemillion, where he'd thought the living quarters mere closets.

Nine months ago, he'd thought he would always have his sisters to fall back on, even with his father gone.

Nine months ago, he'd had four of the most powerful comrades one could ever have, a command as sacrosanct as that of the Maguanacs.

Today, he had a ratty bit of cloth he fondly dubbed 'blanket', five rolls of duct tape, and a broken old soldier for company.

…The garbage bags were something of Heero's, stolen out of the kitchen of the house whose attic they'd been hiding in a week or two ago. He had grabbed the roll out of a cabinet the day they had left, after one of the children of the house had heard his cries in the night. The mother of the family had promised to have his father look in the morning, her tone suggesting she thought the boy was merely imagining things, but at that point, it wasn't safe anymore. They had taken all the food they could carry, leaving before the family could realize that their boy was more observant than they believed. It was virtually impossible to go into a store, even when Heero managed to wire them stolen money, so he hardly felt bad for stealing… He had been too hungry, too broken, to care for what felt like an eternity, now.

Heero… He had refused to talk about it since, his pride too damaged – after all, what if one of the parents had heard him, instead of the boy? He acted as though Quatre hadn't done it himself before; trying to hold himself to the standards he had kept before Libra fell, trying to deny that anything had changed, even though some days it felt as though the planet had shifted to spin on an entirely different axis. Nightmares were a plague affecting them both, but while they had both trained themselves to stay silent through those, the body had a way of rebelling against the mind's orders when pain passed a certain plateau. And while asleep, the control could become lax. Gagging rarely worked for Heero, he had a tendency to undo them in his sleep – an odd form of sleepwalking, really, if useful – unless his hands were tied, and, well… They couldn't afford for his hands to be tied if they woke in the middle of a situation. That had happened a few more times than was comfortable. At least Quatre had eventually gotten to be a light enough sleeper that he could usually wake the other man if he started… but that was a vague talent to rely on. Obviously, he hadn't slept lightly enough at least once.

He sighed and returned to his catalogue of their meager belongings. The laptop had always been Heero's. Even now, Quatre suspected the one who had once been the strongest of them would slaughter him if he so much as breathed on it.

Only then, of course, there would be no one to help him run the next time they were discovered.

Heero didn't run so well these days, not after that last battle at Libra.

Not that Heero would seriously contemplate killing him, when they were all the other had. He might have considered it, if he decided Quatre was a liability, but it was hard to make those kinds of decisions when you knew you were practically an invalid yourself. He had had to admit he couldn't move when it snowed again two months ago, after Quatre had grown tired of making the first overture. Whatever the other pilot might have wanted of himself, everything was different now, and not all demands could be met through sheer force of will.

The other man was currently sitting with his computer on his lap, his back against the wall, his left leg tucked halfway under him, the bad one laid out in front of him in a semblance of straightness. …That leg would never look right again. Even a doctor that made a profession of making things beautiful would shake his head in silent horror and shame at his inability to fix the mangled limb.

Quatre just hoped it wasn't infected again.

Rolling onto one side to face him, resting on one elbow, he asked, "Are you almost done for the night?"

"Shh," muttered Heero, continuing to type furiously. "Almost in…"

Quatre laid back down and rolled to face in the other direction obligingly, not wanting to be a distraction. He had warned him earlier that he was trying to get them money again. And with the hacker that White Fang – though it was now known as the Peacecraft Regime – had on them every time Heero's tracks weren't quite clean enough, it was best to let him concentrate. There had already been more than a few times where Heero had shaken him awake and whispered hoarsely that his IP had been captured, and they had to move before military got there. He knew there'd been at least one time where he'd had to completely take on the other man's weight, carry him, because he couldn't take a step without starting to breathe in that haggard way of his that meant he was in enough pain to make average men scream for their mothers.

Funny how, at sixteen, all five of them were so good about handling pain. At least, if they weren't the only ones left.

There had been no sign of Wufei, Duo, or Trowa. Heero had almost bled to death, would have if he hadn't crashed near Quatre, who pulled him out of the wreckage of Wing Zero and carried him out before the troopers could find the crash sites. Earth had been saved, Libra more or less destroyed, but… Not entirely, and the details were fuzzy. Heero claimed to have no memory of the end of the battle, and though Quatre suspected it haunted his dreams, he would say nothing. Trowa's broadcast of the battle between Heero and Zechs had cut out; Trowa himself seemed to have vanished into thin air, taking Heavyarms with him. Zechs had said that the Earth had learned enough; if he knew what had really happened, he was abstaining from letting the secret out.

So now here they were, penniless, not even old enough to legally drive a car, chased by truancy officers if they went out during daylight, until of course they got a good look at his face and called the military police. The Winner assets had been seized, Quatre's sisters scattered to the wind even more than before, and he had no way to access his birthright's field of gold.

Sighing again, he tried to shove that thought to the back of his mind and cuddled his pseudo-blanket tightly, trying to get a bit of nonexistent warmth from it before Heero went to sleep and he felt obliged to lay it over the injured man. In the morning it was always thrown across the room, usually back in Quatre's general direction, but it was a habit of his nonetheless; it wasn't fair that only he should have it. Heero probably needed the little protection it provided more.

But he couldn't blame Heero for his prickled pride either.

oOo

oOo

October 1st 196 – Amsterdam, Netherlands – Lancaster Park

I knew I had to do it. I knew right at the beginning that I'd have to do it. Didn't mean I didn't put it off as long as I could. But push came to shove eventually… I couldn't just get rid of all of it. It was like ripping my own heart out as it was. I just couldn't… I had to keep at least a little…

Duo twirled his ponytail unconsciously, trying to ignore the dull ache in his chest that he was starting to get used to.

It didn't even touch the bottom of his shoulder blades.

And it was black.

Knowing your chemistry was fun, especially when you could sneak in a kid's back window and grab his spare uniform, shadow him to school the next day and hang in the library till lunch, then steal the chem teacher's silver nitrate.

…And maybe a couple other things… He'd had some pretty useful stuff. Some pyro punk in the class probably took the heat for him; Duo really couldn't care less. A kid who went to that school could afford what he'd taken. Doing nice things like that had a cash requirement… which was something he really didn't have right then. He could probably get some, but he hadn't nabbed a wallet in a good eight years; he was rusty, and the tricks that work when you're seven don't always fly when you're sixteen.

Not that he really looked more than fourteen…

Not that half the homeless in Amsterdam weren't under eighteen.

…Not that a good nine tenths of them didn't make some good cash in the red light district. But he hadn't sunk that low yet, and didn't intend to.

Besides, that sort of life didn't get you people watching your back. And since he rather liked the idea of feeding that old addiction of his called sleep, he wanted a couple buddies always on the lookout. What he wanted was a gang.

And he'd found one he liked the looks of.

The issue was getting in.

He'd figured that one out too.

The Devils really didn't get along with the Slingers. The Slingers really disliked the gang vying for more of their territory. They had more numbers too. They'd set in an ambush in one of the spots the Devils had claimed theirs when they thought it wasn't.

It should also be noted that a couple gang fighters, even ex-soldiers, are no match for a gundam pilot.

So there he was, sitting on a small bench in one of the city's dark squares, waiting for the Devils to show up and see his handiwork. He'd been watching them for a while now, and a group of them always came here around this time of night… He resisted the urge to open up his bag and finger the old braid; he had a tendency to daydream if he let himself touch it. They'd be there any minute, and he needed to play his cards right.

When he picked up the sound of others coming near, he took on a carefully nonchalant pose, legs sprawled out in front of him, leaning back, hands behind his head, resting his head and hands on the edge of the back of the bench so he was looking half at the murky, polluted sky and half at the direction they were coming from. He didn't have to wait long.

"Hey, you really don't want to be here this time of night. You should go, it's not- Holy shit!"

Duo smirked at his reaction and some of the mirrored reactions of the others as they saw who was laid about, bloody. Nine men without guns was a trifle for him; Heero might have mocked him for being petty enough to take them down at all.

But the fun thing was, not everyone held the same standards as a gundam pilot, let alone Heero fuckin' Yuy.

"I heard these guys were thinking of jumping you," he offered in explanation, standing up and facing them. "So I thought I might lend you a hand." It was hard to tell faces and body shape well in the darkness, but he could see that there were five of them. He had estimated the gang's total number at around twenty-three. This was a good gateway in. Looking down at the unconscious men – there'd been no women included in the attempted ambush – he added, "Looks like they really didn't like you much."

One of the newcomers snorted with some amusement. "Looks like they'd've done better to like you than face off."

"Why do this?" demanded another warily.

Smart, don't take me on first showing, praised Duo mentally. Outwardly, he shrugged. "They bothered me. You all seem like a cool enough crowd, but these guys," he waved a hand around at those on the ground, "rub me the wrong way."

After a second or two, still in a wary tone but wearing down a little, the second voice said, "Then it looks like we owe you a thank-you."

Bullseye.

"Got a name?" asked another of them.

"More than I'd care for," he admitted dryly, running his tongue over his teeth and hissing out a breath he knew they could hear. "Call me Chaos." I may run and hide but I never tell a lie.

"New around here, American?"

…I hate my accent… He let out a weak chuckle. "Unfortunately." Licking his lips, he said, "Folks disappeared a good while back. Been trying to figure things on my own, and…" he kinda trailed off there, shrugging.

"…Ah. Trying to get yourself in good graces," drawled the one Duo'd dubbed as the leader of this little group, or at least the thinker. His tone was almost as bland as Heero's. It had a rather eerie effect the old pilot of Deathscythe didn't like much at all. He wanted to see the man's face suddenly; he knew it wasn't his old comrade, but his voice just… It twisted and contorted his control on his emotions.

Keep guard, he forced himself to think. This is not Heero. "Give or take."

The figure nodded a little and spread his arms out in a gesture of welcome. "Congratulations, then." He took a slight bow. "I think Luc might like to meet you."

Right on the money.

oOo

oOo

Game Over

oOo