The stars hang like droplets of crystal sewn into the velvety blackness of the night sky. The pale streaks of cloud resemble silvery folds in the fabric, and the bright crescent moon is the brooch that holds the cloak of darkness together.

The agent I apprehended killed herself. I had traced her signal to an abandoned building behind a construction site. She obviously knew that I was coming, for she was facing the door when I went in. Then--proudly--she swallowed a vial of liquid, looking me in the eye as she did so, as if taunting my inefficiency to stop her. Perhaps it's my imagination running away again, but I believe she waited for me to appear in the doorway before taking the poison, just so I could watch her do it. By the time I got to her body, her pulse had already stopped. On a desk behind her was a computer, which she had already thoroughly cleaned out. I hate her because, even though I didn't know her, I know her too well. She is no different from a mobile suit pilot setting her suit to 'self-destruct' mode. She is a little piece of life that I don't want to remember...that I'm not strong enough to remember without bitterness yet.

I reported to Une, who told me that I was to immediately get started on another mission. Preventors technicians were able to detect two other transmissions; one from L2 and one from Earth. Time was of the utmost importance, and Une expressed her doubts about some of the other Preventor agents; apparently, one of our officials had been murdered recently and Une suspected that there were spies within the Preventors ranks.

Trowa was on the colony. It just so happens that I saw a poster for the circus troupe he is part of. I didn't want to go see him; I had seen all I wanted to of him and the others three months ago when we fought in that endless waltz. But for the sake of Earth and the colonies--the billions of people who would leave me to die if I fell bleeding on the streets--I will swallow my pride and ask for his help. Une seemed particularly keen on recruiting him. I wonder why she trusts us so much, just because we were Gundam pilots. Does having piloted a Gundanium mobile suit in a rebel operation really say anything about how loyal one will be in any other situation? I thought I would be the embodiment of the reason why one would say, "No," to that question. But I suppose we did acquire some desirable covert skills.

When I went to see Trowa, to ask him to investigate the signal from L2, he was utterly and horribly "polite." I always hate it when people are "polite" to me; why couldn't he just ask me why I had come instead of offering me a seat and some tea? Even worse, why couldn't I push his civilities aside and get to the point, instead of playing along with him? I am a disgustingly weak creature; I can only be strong on my own, but when pitched with another person, I falter like a child being led by the hand. I suppose that is why I hate Western dancing--because I'm always afraid someone will notice that I'm not leading.

Trowa was gracious enough to accept the mission without my resorting to begging like a dog. I didn't want to tell him too many details because I didn't want to assume that he would help beyond going on this one mission. Surprisingly, he didn't press. I hadn't wanted him to, but the reality that he didn't suffocated me somehow. How dare he be understanding? I gave him a tracking device, built into a watch, and left as quickly as I could without being blatantly rude. He would be reporting to Une, so I would never need to see him again.

The moonlight soothes me now, taking away the burns that come with the blinding openness of being in someone else's company. I've never been able to see people as bodies; they've always been minds, judgmental minds, with eyes that sear into me like stinging sunbeams at every opportunity. In a few minutes, I will taste the colony's night air before stepping into the shuttle and heading for Earth. Then I'll be immersed into the bustling city of London, where hopefully everyone will be too busy and full of self-importance to notice an addition like me.

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The Tree of Life
March 7, AC 197, Thursday - 2:15 PM

The wind smelled crisp and clean, the dew sweet and fresh. The clouds were full and perfectly cumulus, spaced evenly throughout the clearest, most azure of skies. And yet...it was all artificial. I wonder how many people realize that. Colony weather, simulated to resemble Earth so convincingly one might very well forget that that was all it was--a simulation. Artificial purity that many have found preferable to the reality of pollution, diluted colors, and humidity that doesn't always feel right with the temperature.

Who can say that a preference for this purity is wrong? Is it not closer to the natural that we have fallen from? If one cannot have the ideal and it is within our power to construct an illusion of the ideal, is it wrong to use this power to soothe the populace? Is maintaining the illusion of peace, in order to comfort the people, so wrong even if there is actually a secret war beneath the fabric? My impulse is to say, 'Yes, there is something wrong.' But am I not currently part of something that seeks to quell fires without letting the people know that fires existed in the first place? Does "the average person" gain or lose more by being aware of doings he can have no control over?

Perhaps I am growing up and reaching a transcending disillusionment. I have always known of the existence of entities called "the average person." But I don't think I've ever believed in their existence until recently. Having grown up on L5 amongst elite boys who, like myself, never stopped pushing their limits, I used to think there was a mass of people who just did not tap into the depths of their mental power. It never occured to me until now that the reason why they were not more capable had nothing to do with a lack of Will; "the average person" just doesn't have the extra depth. But is he less significant because of it? Isn't "the average person" the reason why some of us can be defined as advanced in some ways?

Dozens of "average people" pass below the window. Despite all the differences and illusions that separate the colonies from Mother Earth, the people--their nature--are always the same. How many of them really care who is in control, so long as they are allowed to live their lives? How drastically are their daily routines altered by new leaders? It's sad, really...how indifferent "the average person" can be. It's sad to people like me, who work so hard to make a difference, only to find that so many people don't care. And yet, here I am on a mission to "save" these people. No one forced me to be here; I came of my own volition. If I fell on the street, dying, how many of them would make a motion to help me? I guess part of growing up is learning how to willingly do things for people who wouldn't do the same for you, and not be judgmental about them. Because it's not about them; it's about you and what you will or won't do despite the conditions.

Tomorrow I make my move. My mission is to investigate a strange transmission, sent from Earth to this colony in the L3 cluster. Une suspects that the transmission has something to do with the rumors of the Potwell Foundation trying to carry out what the Bartons failed in. The Preventors have detected two other such transmissions and caught the people sending them. The two they caught killed themselves before they could be interrogated and infected their computers with a new type of virus. We've only been able to slow the viruses from spreading, but our technicians are still working on how to save the infected data. What we do know so far is that there are several other secret agents and many other coded transmissions have been sent to various places on Earth and the colonies. The two transmissions that we intercepted have only been partially decoded, and it's almost certain that Potwell is involved. Whatever is going on must be dark and of the utmost importance. Why else would the agents have taken such drastic measures to protect their mission?

There are two wilted blossoms on the bough in front of the window. The other blossoms on the bough are flowering beautifully. How appropriate.

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Pleasant Spirits
March 1, AC 197, Saturday - 11:35 AM

The frost still clung to the windowpane this morning. Outside, soft sunlight spilled over the park, where the snow was beginning to retreat and patches of yellowish green grass welcomed the crisp cool air. Occasionally, when the wind blew, crystalline dust would sprinkle down from the evergreen boughs, where tiny sparrows darted back and forth playing hide-and-seek with each other. Their twittering presence was the only company I had that early in the morning.

As usual, I had risen before dawn in order to face the sunrise as I performed my morning wushu exercises at the park. It was temperate enough so that my breath no longer formed white mist against the air, and I was able to remove my sweatshirt half-way through warming up. I practiced longer than usual because the political unrest had lulled enough so that I didn't have to report to work that day. Then, after cooling down with some Tai Chi, I spent considerable time sitting on a park bench under a row of skeletal maple trees. I had pulled my sweatshirt back on over my tank top and leaned back slightly, looking up at the intricate spidery designs formed by dark branches against a bright morning sky.

The sky was pale yellow. Nothing was wrong with my eyes; I could see very well that the sky was a clear blue, but when I closed my two eyes and opened my third, the sky felt yellow. Soft, lazy, peaceful, carefree...and happy.

I rose abruptly, agitatedly from the bench when I realized the course of my reflections. I wanted to get back to my apartment, where I would be shielded from the now prying sunlight.

Am I one of those petty souls that actually delights in misery and being overworked? Is that why I was so upset about realizing that--for the first time in months--I was momentarily blithe? I am wont to defend myself and say I was not displeased with being in high spirits; I had merely grown unaccustomed to it. Though now that the Eve Wars have ended and the political turmoil has been put to rights, I can be free to reacquaint myself with the more cheerful human emotions.

The garbage man was just making his rounds when I got to the apartment building. A couple years ago, I would have bristled and pretended not to see him, but now I nodded in acknowledgment even if I did not stop for conversation. He was a lot like me, to be honest; backbone of society who does the dirty work, the masses enjoying the results and taking them for granted. I wonder what the garbage man does in his spare time. Normal manly things? Would people recognize a garbage man if they ran into him at a coffee shop or a fancy restaurant? In another life, I would try being a garbage man...a sophisticated one that reads the classics, attends symphonies, and mingles with the best of society. Wouldn't they all be surprised when, at a classy dinner party, I announce with all the dignity in the world what my profession is?

Allegra, my laptop, was beeping when I entered my apartment. I call her Allegra because she's faster than my old laptop, who I called Othello because he was "slow in the head."

There was a knotted feeling in my stomach as I sat down and opened the message that had come in. Only Sally and Une knew how to contact me. And if they were contacting me on my day off, something must be horribly wrong. Also, the message they sent me only told me to report to headquarters at 3:00 PM that day. That meant that whatever had happened was too important to discuss via transmission, even though all our channels were supposed to be secure.

I would have felt much more comfortable if they had told me to report immediately--that would have saved me the cold anxiety of waiting. How fortunate that I was still not accustomed to having pleasant spirits; I imagine I would have been reluctant to give them up. As it was, I easily reverted to a mind on alert, and welcomed the idea of a risky mission with a mixture of apprehension and complacency.

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