Disclaimers: Gundam Wing was created by Sotsu.

No profit is made here, apart from enlightening fans.

Summary: A certain Gundam pilot’s thoughts on his Gundam.

Rating PG





I am Shinigami, God of Death and Resurrection. Of those who have seen me in battle, very few have lived to tell the tale.

In battle, I am one with my Gundam. I am part of him and he is part of me. At times I feel he is my only solitude; my only friend. For in the end what is there but Death?

When the battle has ended, I feel I leave part of myself with my Gundam, a part that will always be there. Although it may seem so, I don’t revel in battle, killing or the horrors of war. A terrible war killed the only ones I truly loved. And Shinigami has avenged them.

A slash of my scythe, another array of soulless mobile dolls’ parts scattered like an intergalactic waste dump. These things are like mosquitoes. As many as you destroy there are always more.

It may seem otherwise, but I have a life outside my Gundam, but part of me always feels empty without him. Even with the other Gundam Pilots, the troubled Heero, gentle Quatre, fiery Wufei and the enigmatic Trowa. They are like my brothers, but without Deathscythe, I am alone.

Often while the others sleep, I let my hair out and sit in his cockpit, on the tough chair. I thought of having it softened at one stage, but I like my Gundam just the way he is. It is said that a Gundam does not have a soul. Why then do I feel him calling to me? For I would not be Shinigami without him. When he sits idle, I have fallen asleep within him more times than I care to swipe my scythe at.

Within my Gundam, I truly feel at home, at peace, even in the heat of battle. It is like the eye of a storm, inside a hurricane, calm while the storm rages on all fronts.

But part of me wants this war to end for good. How many people have died? How many are yet to die? How long will this go on? It’s like a neverending Hell, but without war, without my Gundam, will I be Shinigami? Will Deathscythe need me? I know I will need him.

Will I die before this war has burned itself out? I have danced with the Reaper, seen his cold white face, his dark eyes. His pitch black robe blows in a wind that isn’t there, but I know the final dance will be his alone.

He is my brother, my friend, my soul. I love you Deathscythe. You are my Hell. You are my Heaven.




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