Chapter Text
A shadow slashed across the cityscape, a lone black-clad figure slinking along the cobblestone streets. He moved through familiar territory, although his last visit felt like a lifetime ago.
Earth felt foreign now.
He had grown accustomed to red deserts and frozen lakes, to cities of glass and steel under twin moons.
But now he was back in Brussels. And from what he could see, nothing had changed.
The streets were still quiet, abandoned. Buildings still sagged in disrepair, some reduced to rubble. The city was still rebuilding—still healing—from the Eve Wars. And that was before the Mariemaia Incident nearly dragged them all into another war. Before he put a stop to it, nearly killing himself—and countless others—in the process.
Including her.
Not that he took sole credit. His comrades had each been vital in preserving the fragile peace. He shook his head, struggling to comprehend that had taken place mere months ago. The memories still felt unreal to him—raw, close, and impossibly distant, all at once.
But then, his mind was still hazy from the trip. It always went like this. He would adjust eventually. Reacclimate. Get his head straight.
He raised his left wrist, checking the digital display.
March 13, A.C. 197.
A date of no significance.
Not yet.
The cobblestones gave way to smoother pavement, then to wealthy townhouses—structures that had either survived the recent violence or had been restored quickly by owners with enough money to bulldoze through any bureaucracy.
He crossed Brussels Park, slowing as he neared the gated entrance to the Palace of the Nation. The neoclassical structure rose among manicured trees and marble statues, stark against the winter sky.
Cold air stung his face. It felt like it might snow. He almost hoped it would. Maybe it could purify this Earth—if not his soul.
But no. It was far too late for that.
Too late for him.
He approached the iron gate, reached inside his black peacoat for his identification, and handed it to one of the guards posted outside. After a brief inspection, the guard gave him a curt nod of approval. Heero returned the gesture, pocketed his I.D., and stepped into the grand entrance.
His gaze climbed the six towering columns that supported the balcony where royals, statesmen, and other dignitaries had delivered speeches for generations.
Everything about this place screamed royalty. Prestige. History.
War. Peace. Revolution.
Those three words had become a familiar refrain in his mind.
The three beats of the endless waltz, echoing again.
And he was the drummer.
He stared at the empty balcony and pictured her standing there, addressing crowds in the square and viewers across the Earth and colonies. They would hang on her every word. They always did. Because they sensed her sincerity, the purity in her convictions. She spoke from the heart, because she still had one, untouched by political games.
She had been so good, then.
For a fleeting moment he wished he could take her somewhere—shield her from the coming storm. But he had seen too many possibilities unfold already, and every future pointed toward the same outcome.
But he had never revisited this date. This small, seemingly meaningless slice of time. But this would be the moment. The one where he would finally stop it. All of it.
It had to be.