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It didn't matter that she hadn't planned for any of this, or that it was all starting to come apart. War did that-turned a perfectly good thing upside down and drove a tank over it. It didn't matter, either, that she didn't believe in fighting and that, already, the war had stolen so much from her. Her mother and father, a handful of close friends: they were now just names to be remembered. If it were up to her, she wouldn't have had any part in it. Killing made her physically sick, not that she'd had to do any herself. But to even be associated with killers-with those who made it more than just a patriotic duty, but a way of life-was almost too much. A paradoxical life is still a life, regardless of its hypocrisy, a little voice often condescended in her ear. Yet, it didn't bother her to wish for glitzy things and boys. She was only a girl, after all. The unfortunate circumstances which led to her less than satisfactory, morally gray lifestyle had very little to do with choice, and almost everything to do with necessity. Necessity and a blond, helmeted figure named Char Aznable who she just couldn't tell no. It really hadn't been that simple for her. Making such an impacting decision was never easy, though she'd given a simple "yes" in a matter of seconds. She lied to herself a lot like that. Lying was easy when you had a six year old at home, asleep after hours of tireless sobbing from the lack of supper and motherly care. She was only a girl, after all. She was no mother. Even the docile panda would kill to protect its young (she'd learned that in school). She thought of these things the whole time the red-clad man spoke in soft tones, his boyish features illuminated by the dangling tungsten filament that swung neatly overhead. The room was cold, its only source of heat a small potbelly furnace in the corner. It was quietly dying, the once welcoming lights fading through the mesh screen on front. She wanted to get up and feed it coal, but the soldier boy's sternness kept her locked in her seat.
What she really wanted was a cup of Earl Grey and a boy to take home to mom. She was only a girl, after all, but she didn't feel like one anymore. Not now.
The sky was overcast and the girl skipped her way over the cobblestone streets of Belfast, Ireland in the usual merriment reserved for girls of that age. Killing was as commonplace in this small city's history as bread in pudding, and though this girl knew of all the deaths and murders and patriotic bombings, she hadn't lived them. That was the past. This was the now. She skipped along with little intention of looking any further than she had to, not knowing that much of the road she traversed would be littered with familiar bodies and hollow buildings. That is the future. Right now she's looking at her near future: dinner with her family. She's imagining it with every ounce of her frilly teenaged imagination. Setting thoughts of marriage and clothing aside, she made room for this image. It was her favorite image. They'd all sit around their oak table, her father at the head of the table, her mother serving potatoes and roast beef or some other delicious staple. These were the moments she told her family about school and every other facet of her life. It was her stage, and they all looked on as she dictated her life's story with the utmost interest. They'd ask enticing questions, helpfully segueing her from topic to topic-helping her articulate when her chaotic, pubescent mind would run astray. She was always the star of the hour. She turned the corner, coincidentally one of the same corners James Joyce would tread in his later years, and crossed the street to her two-story town house. She burst through the door and threw her backpack under the coat rack. She sniffed the air, expecting to smell a glazed ham or spiced vegetables roasting, but the air was cold and uninteresting. She stopped, mid-step, and confusing overwhelmed her. She started toward the kitchen, but spied her parents huddled around the dinner table, crying. "Mom? Dad?" she inquired tentatively. "Oh, Miharu, you're home!" Her mother wiped tears from her eyes with a handkerchief her father gave her. She had a piece of paper in her hands. "We have news." Miharu's father put his arms around her mother, drawing her in closely-almost protectively. She took a seat across from them, a peaceful dinner in tatters before her eyes. Without addled bullshit, her mother burst out: "You're going to be a sister!" This statement didn't have any meaning to Miharu, and she immediately started thinking about puppies. Was this a cute way of saying they were getting a dog? Adopting a waylaid homeless person? Were they sending her to a convent? She looked quizzically across the table and said nothing. "I'm pregnant, Miharu, you're going to have a baby brother!"
It began to sink in and almost immediately she felt excitement well in her breast like a titanic wave. A brother to share in revelations with around the table, to lecture about the ways of the world to, to egg on during dinnertime dialogue. It sounded absolutely marvelous.
Another night would pass without hardly a wink of sleep. Her brother Charles, now a bustling five years old, had spent the night screaming and prattling on about monsters and lions and sea turtles. He was running a fever again. How he continually got sick was beyond her. Since her father was drafted, and the military base moved in, there was little income. The base brought jobs, but sucked a lot of the resources from the small town. Very rarely were there enough potatoes or corned beef for dinner. They usually just ate yeasty bread and sad looking vegetables. Dinners were a shell of their former selves. It was just her, her mother, and her slovenly sick brother. Hardly anyone spoke. The clangs of silverware of dishes, slop missing infant mouths, and stifled, yet over-eager eating were the only sounds. Miharu was sixteen now and she was starting to get to know the finer sides of war. Though it hadn't hit them yet, there were talks of independence, of a long, far away nation declaring its freedom from the Earth's embrace. She heard about their glorious stand against a tyrannical government-their superiority to those bound by Earth's gravity. Miharu, never having been to space, didn't care and decided they were all idiots. Why care about such lofty things that made very little sense when you were supposed to be over at a friends house instead of staying at home to watch her dumb brother. "All right, I'm going out to see your grandmother. Take care of Charlie." Miharu merely gave a muted sigh, knowing full well what a rebuke from her mother would get her-more chores. She was already doing all the housework her mother used to do during the day. Since she started working at the base, it fell to Miharu. She hated it. Her mother left and she looked at Charlie, his glossy eyes already beginning to well with tears. But instead of crying, he just eyed her questioningly. "STOP LOOKING AT ME YOU STUPID BABY," she hollered so loud the neighbors could hear. He burst into to tears. She let him cry. It's as though all the problems that existed in the world were his fault up to and including their current shitty circumstance. She hated him.
That night the base had been raided by an advanced Zeon patrol, claiming her mother's life. She had been walking home, worrying about muggers when a tracer round decapitated her. The bullets were seen before they were heard. Miharu grabbed Charlie and hid in the basement, not knowing if it were the right thing to do. They hugged one another and cried, and at that moment they began to find common ground.
It hadn't been until a month or so that Miharu had gotten news about her father's death in Africa. The words hadn't been specific, but the letter thanked her for her sacrifice and offered her comfort. It hadn't comforted her. Several more months passed and she found herself penniless and on the verge. They were desperate. She was now the sole provider for a child and she had absolutely no idea what to do. She spent her days on the corner with a sign, begging for work, coins, food, medicine-anything. Sometimes she did so dressed in various costumes to try to see which type of person most pedestrians were sympathetic to. It was the only fun she allowed herself. Day after day she did this, and sometimes she noticed a handsome man leaning on a lamppost near the butchers watching here. It hadn't been until a curious, floating ship had come into port that she found herself approached by this man. The man she was talking to now. "The mysterious Federation ship is called White Base and it houses the Federation's new weapon-no doubt you have heard of it. We have reason to believe it will eventually make its way to the Federation's headquarters at Jaburo." She watched his mouth as he spoke, somehow knowing their importance. "You're to infiltrate White Base posing as a Federation officer and stay in constant communication so that our forces can track you and uncover their hidden base." She knew that he knew her story. Her depravity. Her need. She knew that he was using her. She wasn't dumb. But what she also knew was that he was right. She could do this. She needed to do this. What choice did she have? |