Oneshot. A piece that was both amusing and satisfying to write. Someone has something to say to Patrick Zala in the wake of his coup.
a Gundam SEED v.short by Griever
Impromptu borderline crack?
Doors opened, then closed again behind his back, cutting off the din from outside and welcoming the man to blessed silence and solitude.
He had much he needed to think on, after all - the well being of his people, the fate of the war, his own personal designs ...
Which were solid enough, he was _certain_ ... but one couldn't take risks about such critical issues, now could one?
Striding forward through the semi-darkness he favored recently, the man - tall, broad shouldered, gray haired and steely eyed - still cut an impressive figure, though if one who'd known him for longer were to be asked, they'd answer that the responsibilities of his post were definitely leaving their mark.
He knew this was true, as he knew that he could not afford to waver in his resolve either.
GENESIS was too close to completion.
He'd rest afterwards, or when he was dead, whichever came first, and no matter what _else_ came.
No matter what he had to do to make it so, Partrick Zala would see to it that the tragedy of Junius Seven _never_ repeated itself in any way, shape or form. If that meant erasing even the barest of chances, then that was what would be done. On his shoulders be it.
Crossing behind his desk, he opened one of the drawers and pulled out a bottle of amber liquid, quickly pouring himself a shot and lifting it ...
... he nearly missed the flash of motion.
But whatever else he was, Patrick Zala was a Coordinator, and his reflexes had not dulled with age to any noticeable degree.
Unfortunately, they _had_ dulled with stress and overwork, but still, the bullet only grazed him, leaving a burning sensation of pain to blossom along his cheek even as the pistol he'd drawn from the concealed holster in the small of his back barked once, twice ...
Blood stained the otherwise flawless floors of the PLANTs' High Council Chairman's office, even as the shadows flashed once more, and a bullet shattered through Zala's sidearm, rendering it - and the man's hand as well - useless.
"Hello," a voice rang out from the darkness of the far corners of the office, and a figure emerged, one hand hanging limply by its side and trailing blood, the other still pointing the pistol it held unwaveringly ...
It was a familiar voice, but Patrick simply couldn't place it there and then, nor could he tell who the figure was, as it wore a heavy, hooded raincoat.
With wild, desperate eyes the elder Zala cast about his office. The desk and its panic button were too far away, and as there were no guards rushing it, the office's soundproofing must have been as good as advertised, though how the assassin could have made their way inside was a mystery.
"What ... what do you want?"
He could not, _would not_ die here, his task incomplete ...
The figure cocked its head.
There was a bang.
Patrick shouted, eyes tearing again, as a heavy slug slammed through his leg, shattering the kneecap on the way ...
"Offer me money."
He croaked out something that couldn't have been called a 'yes' even if you were being generous, and nodded frantically at the sound of a hammer being cocked ...
"Power too. Promise that!"
The next shot almost spun him around, despite his sitting position. Had he been standing, he would have been spun around, actually, as it took him in the elbow of his uninjured arm ...
"All I have ... and more. Please!"
The figure took a step closer, the hammer was cocked again ...
"Offer me everything I ask for."
Patrick panted. He wheezed, finally he nodded.
"Yes! Anything you want!" He managed a shout, amazingly.
The barrel went up and away from him, even as the arm holding the weapon moved, and the hand's top pushed the hood from the figure's face.
If he could have at the moment, Patrick Zala would have paled.
"My name is Lacus Clyne, and I want my father back, you son of a bitch!"
There was one final shot, and Patrick Zala knew no more.
Nor would he ever.
END my name is ...