I don't own Gundam Wing, so please don't sue me! I'm just a poor fanfic writer!

I sat in the back of the attic, the dust choking my lungs. I didn't move, I didn't cry, I didn't cough. I sat perfectly still, just like Papa had told me to, clutching Oi, my brown teddy bear. I heard the sound of boots downstairs. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the bad people to go away.

I heard one shot, and the front door slam shut. They were gone. The horrible people had finally left, but I didn't move. Papa had told me not to move until he came to get me. I yawned, and curled up into a ball, waiting for Papa to come and get me.

He never came.

A heavy knocking on the front door awoke me. I was about to run and answer it, but I didn't move. Papa had told me not to move until he came, and I didn't want to make Papa mad. I sat on the cold wooden planks, and listened to the sounds of gasps below. People began to shout my name, and I began to wonder where Papa was. The voices sounded familiar. Like Uncle Duo, Uncle Quatre, and Uncle Milliardo. I was certain that it was their voices, but I knew that people could fake voices. Papa had showed me that once. The attic's trap door opened.

Uncle Duo's head appeared, and I looked straight at him. I didn't move. Tears were streaming down his face, and I wondered if he had bumped his head. The attic door could hurt. He turned, and saw me, and more tears rolled down his cheeks. I was scared, I had never seen Uncle Duo cry before. He was always happy. He climbed into the attic, and picked me up, hugging me close.

I squirmed, and Uncle Duo set me down. He told me that I had to come downstairs. I shook my head. Papa had told me not to leave until he came and got me, and Uncle Duo was not my Papa. Uncle Duo picked me up, and carried me downstairs, and set me down in the library. Uncle Milliardo looked sad, and Uncle Quatre was also crying. They couldn't have all hit their heads on the attic door. I wondered what happened. Uncle Quatre looked over at me, and spoke.

I didn't believe what he said. Papa told me he wouldn't leave. I stomped my foot, and shouted, running out of the library and into the living room. And that's where I found Papa. He looked so quiet there, sprawled out on the couch. But he had gotten red paint in his hair, and on his face. Papa wouldn't like it if he woke up like that. The bad soldier people must have done that while he was asleep. I ran over, and tried to brush it off, but it was very sticky, and it got all over my hands...............

Wasn't that so sad? All comments, and flames too if you must, are accepted at guardiandemona@angelfire.com