This came out of left field, and Africa.
"Cold out tonight," the voice startled him, nearly making him jump from where he was staring into the sputtering remains of the fire. "Coffee?"
He accepted the mug of steaming liquid, took a sip, and nearly choked. Then glared at ...
... a man he hadn't ever seen before, neither among the crew of the Archangel, nor among the Desert Dawn. He ought to know, since he had eidetic memory.
He shot upright and to the opposite side of the fire on instinct, bringing the obstruction between himself and a potential threat ... who wasn't doing much of anything at all, other than drinking from a mug like the one he'd given Kira.
"Well?" the white-haired stranger commented with a chuckle, but no hostility. "You going to run off, call for somebody, or sit down before you fall down and have a drink with me before something important gets frozen off? I wasted some good single malt to spike this stuff, you know."
"Who are you?" the brown-haired teen asked, cautiously sitting down and eyeing the mug distrustfully. "Are you ZAFT?"
"I'm no one of consequence," was the reply. "Not in the here and the now, at least."
"I'm supposed to believe you just wandered in from the desert, ignoring the sentries and sensors, to share a mug of ..."
"Irish coffee?"
"... irish coffee."
"Maybe. What, don't believe in coincidence?"
"... not hardly."
"Good for you, then. On the other hand, I could just ask you what you were doing out here alone, so late at night, and not really dressed the part either."
"I can't see how that's any business of yours," mumbled the youth. "And the uniform's insulated."
"So, not brooding about the war and having to drop the hammer on other people, despite the fact that they're mostly just following orders, but for the other side?"
The uniformed young man stiffened.
"Let me tell you something, fighting's never going to be a pretty affair, but do you think it'd be better if you don't? You're not the first person to have to deal with this, you know, and no matter the efforts, you likely won't be the last. Does that mean you should just stop and hang your head at the futility of it all?"
The fire crackled for a moment.
"Eh. But I'm rambling. Sorry. The point is, you'll figure out your own way to get through all this crap eventually, if you don't give up halfway. Somehow, you don't seem like the type to me," red eyes glinted in the firelight for a moment, before the stranger picked himself up with deliberate slowness. "And I've got someplace else to be in a little while, so I guess this is it for my crappy attempt at a pep-talk."
Kira Yamato snorted, but his eyes went wide a moment later when the stranger simply snapped out of existence right in front of him.
The Gundam pilot leapt to his feet once more, rounding the fire with his senses alert, but ... still, there was nobody there. And it seemed as though there never had been. Or it would have, if it weren't for the mug in his hand ...
... or the small bag that had been left behind beside where the stranger had sat himself.
With a sort of slow, morbid curiosity, Kira placed the cooling remains of the drink aside and opened the bag.
He recoiled almost immediately, nearly screaming out.
After all, a polished, damn near _gleaming_ ivory skull wasn't something you saw every day.
When he got his heartbeat back under control, though, he noticed two silver glints inside the skull ... or what looked like one at first glance, since upon closer examination he saw it was actually a very detailed ivory sculpture.
They were a couple of rings, heavy with both the silver alloy they'd been fashioned of and with something more he couldn't really define.
And there was a note, sort of hastily scrawled, and in romanji, but he could read it well enough.
These might help you find focus when you're having doubts. They're heirloms of a sort, though anyone who could lay claim and be worthy of them is long dead these days. Take care of them, and they'll take care of you. And ask the little desert princess to tell you the legend of the Ghost Who Walks. You'll know why.
Now all we need is somebody taking care of Allard's crimson scarf and fire-opal ring.
-Griever
When tact is required, use brute force. When force is required, use greater force.
When the greatest force is required, use your head. Surprise is everything. - The Book of Cataclysm
"Cold out tonight," the voice startled him, nearly making him jump from where he was staring into the sputtering remains of the fire. "Coffee?"
He accepted the mug of steaming liquid, took a sip, and nearly choked. Then glared at ...
... a man he hadn't ever seen before, neither among the crew of the Archangel, nor among the Desert Dawn. He ought to know, since he had eidetic memory.
He shot upright and to the opposite side of the fire on instinct, bringing the obstruction between himself and a potential threat ... who wasn't doing much of anything at all, other than drinking from a mug like the one he'd given Kira.
"Well?" the white-haired stranger commented with a chuckle, but no hostility. "You going to run off, call for somebody, or sit down before you fall down and have a drink with me before something important gets frozen off? I wasted some good single malt to spike this stuff, you know."
"Who are you?" the brown-haired teen asked, cautiously sitting down and eyeing the mug distrustfully. "Are you ZAFT?"
"I'm no one of consequence," was the reply. "Not in the here and the now, at least."
"I'm supposed to believe you just wandered in from the desert, ignoring the sentries and sensors, to share a mug of ..."
"Irish coffee?"
"... irish coffee."
"Maybe. What, don't believe in coincidence?"
"... not hardly."
"Good for you, then. On the other hand, I could just ask you what you were doing out here alone, so late at night, and not really dressed the part either."
"I can't see how that's any business of yours," mumbled the youth. "And the uniform's insulated."
"So, not brooding about the war and having to drop the hammer on other people, despite the fact that they're mostly just following orders, but for the other side?"
The uniformed young man stiffened.
"Let me tell you something, fighting's never going to be a pretty affair, but do you think it'd be better if you don't? You're not the first person to have to deal with this, you know, and no matter the efforts, you likely won't be the last. Does that mean you should just stop and hang your head at the futility of it all?"
The fire crackled for a moment.
"Eh. But I'm rambling. Sorry. The point is, you'll figure out your own way to get through all this crap eventually, if you don't give up halfway. Somehow, you don't seem like the type to me," red eyes glinted in the firelight for a moment, before the stranger picked himself up with deliberate slowness. "And I've got someplace else to be in a little while, so I guess this is it for my crappy attempt at a pep-talk."
Kira Yamato snorted, but his eyes went wide a moment later when the stranger simply snapped out of existence right in front of him.
The Gundam pilot leapt to his feet once more, rounding the fire with his senses alert, but ... still, there was nobody there. And it seemed as though there never had been. Or it would have, if it weren't for the mug in his hand ...
... or the small bag that had been left behind beside where the stranger had sat himself.
With a sort of slow, morbid curiosity, Kira placed the cooling remains of the drink aside and opened the bag.
He recoiled almost immediately, nearly screaming out.
After all, a polished, damn near _gleaming_ ivory skull wasn't something you saw every day.
When he got his heartbeat back under control, though, he noticed two silver glints inside the skull ... or what looked like one at first glance, since upon closer examination he saw it was actually a very detailed ivory sculpture.
They were a couple of rings, heavy with both the silver alloy they'd been fashioned of and with something more he couldn't really define.
And there was a note, sort of hastily scrawled, and in romanji, but he could read it well enough.
These might help you find focus when you're having doubts. They're heirloms of a sort, though anyone who could lay claim and be worthy of them is long dead these days. Take care of them, and they'll take care of you. And ask the little desert princess to tell you the legend of the Ghost Who Walks. You'll know why.
Now all we need is somebody taking care of Allard's crimson scarf and fire-opal ring.
-Griever
When tact is required, use brute force. When force is required, use greater force.
When the greatest force is required, use your head. Surprise is everything. - The Book of Cataclysm