The Musician’s New Muse

By Austin Covello

Based on the characters created by MTV

Carbon Date: This fanfic was written between the fourth and fifth seasons.

Chapter 1

Daria Morgendorffer took up the dice from the game board and put them into the small cup. The she wrapped her hands around it and shook vigorously. As she was about to pour them out again, two more hands gently curled themselves around hers from behind her. "Tom!" she cried, frowning at the interference.

Tom Sloane, her boyfriend and co-player, smirked at her. "Well, we are on the same team, after all. Shouldn’t I help you roll the dice?"

"Yeah, Daria," agreed Jane Lane, Daria’s best friend and member of the opposing team. "Given how crappy his rolls are, it might just give us half a chance."

Next to Jane, her brother Trent scratched his head. "I still don’t understand why you came up with the idea of ‘couples Parcheesi,’ Tom."

"Because he didn’t feel like having Daria kick his ass again," quipped Jane. Daria "call me Mat Cauthon" Morgendorffer was infamous as Lawndale’s champion board game player, and she had won three games of regular Parcheesi in a row. After all, what better way to spend a Sunday night than over at the Morgendorffers’ playing an old Indian game?

"That’s not it at all!" protested Tom. "I just… well…" Tom looked at the three pairs of eyes staring at him cynically, knowing that any excuse he made would be met with the greatest of skepticism. "I didn’t feel like having Daria kick my ass again," he sighed.

"Okay," said Trent. "But why are Janey and I a couple? It’s not like we’re from Alabama or something."

"It’s one of life’s little mysteries," deadpanned Daria. If he couldn’t figure out process of elimination, no amount of explaining Daria could do would help him.

"Oh," said Trent. He turned at the thumping of feet coming down the stairs. "Hey. Daria’s sister."

"Hey. Jane’s brother." Quinn Morgendorffer had recently taken to referring to Trent as "Jane’s brother" as a sort of retaliation against Trent for forgetting her name.

For some reason, though, it didn’t bother him. "Off on another date?" he asked.

"No, I’ve got a gig tonight, and I’m going out to wait for my ride," answered Quinn.

"Excuse me, but since when does singing in a church choir constitute a ‘gig?’" asked Daria sardonically.

Quinn immediately picked up on her sister’s tone. "How would you know?" she snapped. "You’re not a musician."

"Well, as long as you get paid," Trent remarked.

"Ten bucks for gas money," replied Quinn.

"Close enough," decided Trent.

Tom’s eyebrows raised into his bangs. "Getting paid by the church for gas despite the fact you’re getting a ride?" He turned to Daria. "No question about it. She’s going to hell."

"Oh, come on," retorted Daria. "There’s nothing in the Holy Texts that says we can’t hit our heavenly father up for some petty cash every now and again. Especially when there’s a Cashman’s poo-puff sale starting the next day."

With an angry grunt, Quinn turned on her heel and stormed out the door.

Jane turned to Trent. "Close enough?" she repeated incredulously. "You’re lucky if you make that much."

"Hmm…" mused Trent. "You’re right. Maybe I should see if she can get me a job." With that, he followed Quinn out the door.

The nighttime sky was beginning to cloud over, blocking out the twinkles of the stars and leaving the house’s porch light as the only source of illumination for what seemed to be miles around. The light shot upward as much as outward, giving the sky an orange tinge to it. The air was colder than it had been all year, and Trent’s breath steamed in front of him—a mist as thick as any fog—as he made his way toward Quinn. The smell of snow filled his already scratchy-feeling nostrils, and he knew that by eight hours from then the entire town would be covered in a thick blanket of white.

"Hey," said Trent.

"Hey," said Quinn, not bothering to turn around.

Trent walked around to stand next to her. For a while he stood there, simply looking at her. Her hair was fire in the icy wind; glowing golden-red and dancing in the darkness. Her eyes were small, almond-shaped pieces of chocolate. Her lips formed a small rosebud, painted in a pastel pink as if by the Queen of Hearts’s gardeners. The aroma of vanilla wafted from her slender body. There, unfettered by meaningless gab or annoying prattle, stood Quinn Morgendorffer in all her perfect beauty, and it suddenly became easy to see why most high-school boys were infatuated with her.

But Trent knew better, even this deep under her spell. Once Quinn’s mouth began to move, any attraction that she had was lost. And Trent wanted to talk to her—to remind himself just why she really wasn’t attractive. "Weird, huh?" he said. "You joining a choir."

"Well, why not?" asked Quinn. "I mean, the uniform looks so good on me. Not to mention all the cute guys in the men’s section," she giggled.

"Uh-huh," said Trent. It had worked. The response had gotten him back to his normal state. "So what’s the real reason?"

Quinn’s head whipped around to give Trent a sharp look, which quickly dissipated into a sigh. "It’s… it’s a dream I’ve always had."

Trent’s eyes widened. "A dream?" he repeated incredulously. Somehow he’d always had a hard time believing that someone like Quinn would ever think about anything past High School, let alone would have any romantic notions about the future.

"Yeah. You see, I love…" She trailed off.

"Yes?" prompted Trent.

"I love performing arts. I’ve always wanted to do something along that line. Singing, choreography, acting… I even hoped I’d be a model since a lot of models go on to become actresses. But I blew it. I bombed on the first play I ever stared in, and the one modeling company that I got courted by chose the quarterback over me. So when I found out there was an opening in the church choir, I volunteered. I figured that it might be my last chance at performing."

"Yeah, I kind of know what you mean," said Trent. "It’s like sometimes I’ll consider leaving my band, but then I start to wonder what I’ll do from there. Like, what if I don’t get another gig?"

"You might have to get a real job or something," deadpanned Quinn.

Trent laughed, trailing off into a cough. "You’re starting to sound like Janey. Only, why do you always pretend to act so shallow?"

"Why do you always pretend to act so stupid?" retorted Quinn.

"I asked you first," argued Trent.

"Well… I want to know more than you do," countered Quinn.

"You tell me first."

"No, you tell me first."

"No, you tell me first."

Quinn stamped her foot. "You are so stubborn! Besides, what makes you think that I’m pretending?"

Because shallow people don’t go around looking for stuff to believe in like Guardian Angels," answered Trent. "You were kind of public about that. Are you scared you won’t fit in?"

"No," replied Quinn indignantly. "It’s just… I was afraid that I didn’t have anything else to offer."

"What made you think that?" asked Trent.

"I don’t know. I guess I just… I didn’t try at anything else. But then when we got our PSTATs back, I got the highest score out of all of my friends—even though Sandi lied and said that she’d gotten a higher score. But the thing was I hadn’t even tried. And even though I got the highest score, I started to wonder how I could have done if I’d actually been doing my best. Like, maybe I was as smart as Daria or something and didn’t know it. So I studied really hard over the summer, and I found out that I actually liked some of the subjects that they taught at school. And I’m actually doing well in them, too."

"So then, why do you still act shallow?" asked Trent.

Quinn slowly began to blush. "It’s… It’s kind of personal."

"Well…" began Trent.

"All right!" cried Quinn. "The one time I tried not being shallow, the person I was not shallow to—to whom I was not shallow," she amended somewhat bitterly, "blew me off." Her eyes narrowed critically. "Now what about you? Why do you pretend to be so stupid?"

Trent was about to answer when a car pulled over to the curb. "Brilliant timing," muttered Quinn sourly. She turned to Trent. "Well, that’s my ride. Maybe you can tell me some other time. Bye, Jane’s brother." She got into the back seat of the car and sped off.

"Bye," murmured Trent. "Daria’s sister."

In the seat next to her, Stacy Rowe, Quinn’s best friend and fellow Fashion Club member, regarded the rearview mirror. "Who was that?" she asked.

"Oh, just a friend of my sister’s," answered Quinn. Ever since Daria had started dating Tom, she had made up the story that her "cousin" had been adopted by her parents as her "brand new sister." While she liked to say it was because Daria was now dating a member of the wealthiest family in Lawndale, the truth was that Daria had been there for her a lot over the past three months, and the way she’d treated her hadn’t been fair. Not that she’d ever come out and say that, of course!

"He’s a musician," she added, more for the benefit of her audience than Stacy.

"That’s good," said Mirai Yashima-Rowe, Stacy’s mother. "Always nice to hear about someone embracing his or her talent in the arts. Unlike someone I could mention."

Stacy let out a small sigh and hung her head.

"Now don’t be too hard on her, Mirai," said Sleggar Rowe, Stacy’s father. "Not everyone can be an actor or musician. Look at Al Gore."

Quinn chuckled. Before entering the business world, Mirai and Sleggar Rowe had played supporting roles on a seventies sci-fi TV series. Mirai hoped (rather fervently) that Stacy would follow in her footsteps, but Sleggar took a much more lenient view toward his daughter’s potential career opportunities.

Sleggar turned on the radio. A weatherman’s voice came over the speakers. "No question about it, there’ll be snow tonight. Lows around thirty-two degrees, with the flakes beginning around nine o’clock tonight. Expect about two to three inches covering the state, and as much as five inches around the New Haven area. Sounds like the kids are going to get a nice day off."

"Did you hear that, Quinn?" cried Stacy. "No school! Now I don’t have to worry about that English essay I didn’t do!"

Mirai’s eyes narrowed at Stacy through the rearview mirror.

"Um… hi, Mom," Stacy grinned wanly at her.

Quinn smiled to herself. The first snow day of the school year! How was she going to spend it? Maybe she could get some cute guy to brave the elements for her and give her a ride to Cashman’s. Or maybe she could update her long-neglected website. Or build a snowman. She hadn’t done that since she was nine!

But even if she didn’t know what she was going to do, one thing was for sure. She was going to have fun!

"This. Sucks."

Quinn sat in the front seat of Sandi Griffin’s car and sulked the next day. In the back seat, Stacy was frantically scribbling on a piece of paper. Next to her, Tiffany Blum-Deckler stared blankly into space.

"Tell me about it," agreed Sandi. "We should have gotten the day off instead of a lousy one-hour delay."

For once, Quinn genuinely agreed with her archrival. If this were Highland, school would be closed! What is it with New England? Located in Northern Central Texas, Highland winter days rarely got below the forties. The few and far between times that it did snow were always snow days.

"It’s no use!" wailed Stacy. "I’ll never get this done! Why did I think there’d be a snow day? Why did I put this off? I can’t believe my mother was right!" She sniffled. "I’m failing English already! WAAAAHAHAHA!"

"God hates us," said Tiffany.

"Well, look at it this way, Stacy," said Quinn. "At least you don’t have to walk. It was so nice of Sandi to give us a ride."

"Oh, it was nothing," said Sandi modestly. "After all, dying from hypothermia is so geeky."

"Hypo," Tiffany tried to repeat.

"Hey!" said Stacy brightly. "If I walk, that means it’ll take longer for me to get to school right? I’ll have plenty of time to finish this essay on the way to school if I do that!"

"Hyyyypo," said Tiffany.

"Good idea, Stacy," said Sandi viciously. "Let me pull over and let you out."

"Sandi!" admonished Quinn.


"Don’t you have a study hall before English?" Quinn asked Stacy. "You can do your essay then."

"But then when would I touch up on my makeup?" asked Stacy.


"Of course, I’m sure we can trust Stacy to keep her priorities straight," said Sandi.

"Eep!" said Stacy.

The car pulled into the parking lot, and Sandi, Stacy, and Quinn got out.

"Hypotherrrrrrrrrrrmia," said Tiffany thirty seconds later. "What does that mean, Sandi?" She looked around. "Sandi?"

Jake Morgendorffer stormed out of the house with a snow-shovel in hand, muttering under his breath. "Lousy weather… snows every other damn day in this stupid state… shovel the freaking driveway…" He drove the shovel into the snow and threw it over the side.

He was about halfway finished with the driveway when two snowballs whizzed toward him. With a resounding splurch, they hit him on both sides of his head. Jake’s head snapped up as he threw down his shovel to look at his unprovoked attackers.

Sam and Chris Griffin stood on the curb, pointing at Jake and laughing. "Man, did you see that?" said Sam to Chris. "He didn’t even notice me making the snowball! He sucks!"

"Yeah," agreed Chris. "You suck!" he said to Jake.

"I what?" cried Jake. He knelt down, grabbed some snow, packed it into a tight ball, and threw.

He was rewarded with two more snowballs in the face. "Why you little…" he cried, and began forming more snowballs.

The school bell rang, and another period of Janet Barch’s Anatomy and Physiology class began for Stacy and Tiffany.

"Now class," began Miss Barch, "to review what we learned yesterday, who can tell me what type of physical and mental collapse is caused by an exposure to cold and aggravated by wetness, wind and exhaustion?"

"Hypotherrrrrrrrrmia," blurted Tiffany.

Everyone in the classroom stared at her, their jaws collectively slackened with awe.

"What?" asked Tiffany.

"That was very good, Tiffany," said Miss Barch, smiling. "I never realized you had it in you."

"Buuuuuuuut," said Tiffany as she stared in confusion.

Stacy began to hyperventilate with excitement. Abruptly, she grabbed Tiffany into a congratulatory embrace. "You learned a new word!" she cried. "I’m so proud of you, Tiff!"

Tiffany just smiled blankly, bemused yet happy to be the center of attention for once.

The last period of the day for Quinn was History with Anthony DeMartino, and it was almost over. She suppressed breathing a sigh of relief. While David, her tutor, had turned her on to History last summer, she couldn’t enjoy it as much as she wanted to since the rest of The Fashion Club was with her. Sandi now watched her like a hawk for any signs of "braininess," and she couldn’t answer one question without getting a stare of death. As if doing well in school meant that you were suddenly going to morph into Daria or something!

"I’m handing back you QUIZZES on the Vietnam War now," said Mr. DeMartino, "and I have to say that I’m very DISAPPOINTED with the results."

Quinn rolled her eyes. What did he expect? While his general demeanor had been much less stressful this year, his quizzes were now legendary for their difficulty. They were usually only one question, but the question was a short essay, and you had to include every single detail he ever talked about! Not only was it nearly impossible to get an A, but the writer’s cramp was killer.

"The class average was a SEVENTY-SIX," continued DeMartino. "Most of you got C’S, as well as a few LOW B’S, and slightly more D’S. As well as ONE A! And while there weren’t any F’S on this quiz, I THINK WE CAN DO BETTER! Don’t you?" He handed Quinn back her quiz.

Quinn smiled as she looked at her score. "96—Excellent attention to detail!"

"Gee Quinn, what did you get?" asked Sandi.

"Um… a seventy-two," Quinn lied.

"I only got a seventy," whined Stacy.

"Sixty-three," said Tiffany."

Sandi paused. "A seventy-three," she said.

The bell rang. "Now remember, I’ll be in my office for the next HOUR if any STUDENT needs EXTRA HELP!"

As The Fashion Club got up from their seats, Quinn turned to Sandi. "Sandi… um… I really have to talk to Mr. DeMartino. Promise me that you’ll wait?"

"Gee Quinn, what are you going to do? Talk him into giving you a higher grade?" asked Sandi condescendingly.

"Please, Sandi," begged Quinn. "If I get less than an eighty my parents will kill me!" It wasn’t technically a lie. Her parents probably would have killed her if she’d gotten less than an eighty. Of course she hadn’t, but Sandi didn’t know that.

"Okay," said Sandi. "I suppose I can wait for you this once."

As Stacy and Tiffany passed Mr. DeMartino’s desk, Tiffany’s eyebrows raised in thought. Then, she turned to him. "Hypotherrrrrrrmia!" she exclaimed.

Mr. DeMartino stared blankly at her.

Stacy went into yet another hyperventilating fit. "Omigod! She said it again! Sandi, Quinn, didn’t you hear her? She said ‘hypothermia!’"

Sandi rolled her eyes heavenward and ducked out the door.

"Aren’t you proud of me?" Tiffany asked Mr. DeMartino.

"Why, YES, Miss Blum-Deckler. As a matter of fact, I AM proud of you. You’ve somehow managed to pull your grade up from last year’s FAILURE to passing with a SIXTY-SIX average! Of course, I’d be even more PROUD if you could get at least the C PLUS that I KNOW you’re capable of!"

"Wooooooooow!" said Tiffany.

"Um… come on, Tiffany," said Stacy. "I think we’d better leave." Stacy slowly backed away, dragging Tiffany with her. Then she bolted for the door.

Mr. DeMartino looked to see Quinn walking toward his desk. "Miss Morgendorffer, do you have a question?" he asked.

"Yes, actually," replied Quinn smoothly. "Is it true that you were in the Vietnam War?"

"Yes. I was part of the 102nd division of the Marine Corps," answered Mr. DeMartino.

"What did you think about the war?" asked Quinn. "I mean… do you have any memorable experiences about it?"

"I have plenty of MEMORABLE experiences. Not exactly PLEASANT, but let me tell you about it. I was a part of the FIRST wave in. Barely any of us made it out ALIVE…"

Quinn listened intently as Mr. DeMartino told his war stories.

The flowers were lilies, her favorite. The poem he’d written her was heartfelt, yet not excessively mushy, and with just a touch of Goth. He’d get her back, just like he always did. For a while, at least.

Trent pulled up to the Zen, where the Harpies were probably finishing their afternoon set. With his weapons of love in hand, he got out of the car and went in.

There she stood: The Goddess of the Guitar, Monique, was as gorgeous as any supermodel he’d seen. Long midnight hair cascaded down her back, with her bangs dyed red; a sunrise after night. Her eyes were twin black rhinestones, and her skin like milk. She was beautiful. Almost as beautiful as Quinn.

Trent’s eyes widened at the thought. Where had that come from? He quickly forced it out of his head.

Monique turned her head sideways from him, putting her hand up to the side of her eyes to avoid making eye contact.

"Monique!" Trent called, walking up to her. "Here," he said, handing her the bouquet. "These are for you."

"But I’m allergic to flowers!" protested Monique. "AH-CHOO!" she cried, pretending to sneeze.

Trent frowned. "You weren’t allergic to them last week," he noted. "Come on. They’re your favorite."

"God, Trent!" cried Monique. "Why are you trying to make me out to be something I’m not? I don’t like flowers, especially lilies. Do you have to be so controlling?"

Trent scratched his head. "Gee, I could have sworn you like them."

"What? Did you have me confused with some other woman? You cheat!" she accused. "I bet it was that… that Jane girl."

"Janey’s my sister," said Trent. "And I’d never cheat on you. I love you."

Monique snorted. The snort turned into a chortle, which then became a full-throated laugh. "Love?" she guffawed. "Oh God, Trent, that is so last year! It’s like how you were still hooked on the whole ‘death’ thing back in high school when the rest of us grew out of it and moved on to gratuitous sex. Look around! It’s an election year. You know, ‘The system sucks… don’t bother voting because you’re screwed either way…’ That kind of thing."

"Sorry," said Trent. "I didn’t mean to be unfashionable with my feelings."

Monique sighed. "Trent, look. Yes, we had a good thing, but it’s time to move on. We both have different lives now. It just wasn’t meant to be." Her eyes narrowed in thought. "When was your next gig again?"

"Um… this Wednesday," answered Trent. "Right here," he added.

"Oh," said Monique flatly. "Well… that’s what I mean! You need to play places other than here! I’m sure the pay scale’s bigger, for one thing."

"Funny," retorted Trent. "You guys are booked afternoons here for the next month."

"Are you in… insin…"

"Insinuating?" guessed Trent.

"Hey, quit putting words in my mouth!" cried Monique. "That’s it, Trent Lane! You and I are through!"

"We were through already," noted Trent.

"Well… we’re even through-er now!" She turned to the two men standing by the stage. "Razor! Snake! You got all of my stuff loaded, right?"

"Sure thing, Monique!" said Snake.

"I worked the hardest!" declared Razor.

Snake whirled on Razor. "You did not!" he cried, shoving the blue haired twenty-year old.

Monique smiled winsomely at them. "No need to fight over me, guys! You both need to look your best… for tonight."

Snake and Razor’s eyes lit up.

"Come on, guys," said Monique. "Let’s go."

As Monique walked out, her two suitors formed up on either side of her, their hands moving downward to rest on either butt-cheek.

As soon as Trent got out of the club, he spied a garbage can. With a sigh, he tossed the bouquet of lilies in the trash.

"They were all around us!" cried DeMartino, his eye bulging out of its socket. CHARLIE coming out of the forest, CHARLIE coming out of the bushes, CHARLIE even coming up from the ground! Our gunner took a round to the head, the BLOOD and the SNOT dripping off where his face should have been. GAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" he screamed, and Quinn nearly jumped from her seat. "OH, ANTOINE! WHY’D YOU HAVE TO DIE ON ME?! THE HORROR! THE HORROR!"

Suddenly, Quinn’s watch beeped. "Omigod! I’m late!" she cried. "I’m sorry, Mr. DeMartino, but I really have to…"

"Yes, go," said DeMartino. He put his hands on her shoulders. "And… pray that you never have to be out there."

Quinn, swallowed and nodded, exiting the classroom. Once she was out of the room’s earshot, she summed up the Vietnam War using a word that no historian had ever used before to describe it. Yet somehow it seemed appropriate.


With that, she ran as fast as she could down the hallway. Sandi wouldn’t have just left her there. Would she? She scrambled out the door to the parking lot… only to find that Sandi’s car was missing.

Impassively, she got out her cell-phone. Well, I figured it’d come to this. At least I can show Dad my quiz early. She dialed the number.


Jake ran behind his backyard tree, snow-filled hovel in hand. He’d get those bastards this time! Bury them in their own weapon. A sudden mental image of Sam and Chris, buried up to their necks in snow, came to him. Jake smirked at it, determined to make it a reality. The smirk turned into a chuckle; the chuckle to maniacal laughter.

Suddenly, it began to rain snow from the tree. "GAH!" cried Jake as a giant pile of snow landed on him, covering him to his chest in powdery-white coldness.

Sam and Chris climbed down from the tree, and began to laugh at him.

Meanwhile, the phone rang, unanswered.

"Come on, Dad! Answer the freaking phone!" cried Quinn. But it was no use. Either he was out doing something, or out cold. Knowing him it was probably the latter.

Well, I’ve walked home from school before, Quinn rationalized, and started to trek down the road leading away from the school.

Despite it being only four-thirty, the sun was already setting, and the sky was changing from blue to the reddish-gold that preceded the onset of night. Quinn shivered as the temperature began to drop, and her feet quickly lost feeling as she walked through mostly unshoveled sidewalks.

After walking along the sidewalks for what seemed like an eternity, Quinn decided to switch mainly to walking on the street along the curb. The road had been plowed this morning, and it seemed infinitely preferable to freezing her toes off in the snow.

It was a decision she’d soon regret. Quinn suddenly heard the sound of an automobile coming from behind her on the road. Her eyes lit up at the thought of some kind motorist giving a poor teenage girl a ride. Or any type of driver, for that matter, she thought. I don’t care if it’s some rapist, just as long as he takes me someplace warm! Quinn waved frantically at the car. It started to pull over… and then splashed into a nearby puddle, showering Quinn with water. "Jerk!" she cried as the car sped off.

Dripping wet, Quinn put her hands underneath her armpits for warmth as a fresh gust of wind blew from the direction she was heading. Teeth chattering, she once again treaded down the sidewalks, not wanting to risk another impromptu shower from a rude motorist. Her breath came out like cigarette smoke in front of her as her eyelids began to droop from exhaustion.

"Dying from hypothermia is so geeky," said Sandi.

Quinn forced her eyes open and made herself pick up her pace, knowing that the sooner she got out of this weather, the better off she’d be. She tried not to think about how cold she was. Thinking about it would just make it worse. Absently, she realized that she couldn’t feel her legs anymore, and each step made her feel as if she were gently falling.

"When you’re feeling mad or sad or glad, buy Doodads!"

Bemused, Quinn looked around. The houses had taken on an almost abstract quality about them, as if the entire town was an illusion. She suddenly realized that she wasn’t cold anymore. An odd warmth permeated her body, as if the temperature had no effect on her. Her eyelids began to sag shut, and she savored the delicious tiredness. It wouldn’t hurt to take a small rest, would it? And yet, some part of her still told her—screamed at her—to keep moving, because that was the only she’d stay alive.

A horn suddenly honked, and Quinn’s eyelids reflexively snapped open to see Trent’s car pulled along the curb next to her.

"Need a ride?" Trent’s lips didn’t seem to be quite in synch with his voice.

Wordlessly, Quinn opened the door and collapsed into the passenger seat. "Thanksh, Trent," she slurred. The seat felt nice and soft, yet oddly cold. "I got an A on my Hishtory Quish. I didn’t think it was poshible until today."

"Cool," remarked Trent. It seemed to Quinn as if it were from far away, instead of right next to him. "The car’s heater is busted, so don’t fall a—"

A black curtain fell on Quinn’s vision, cutting off what Trent had to say and placing her into a deep, dreamless slumber.

The year is After Colony 195. Five elite warriors pilot their custom Mobile Suits--Gundams--to preserve the freedom of the colonies from the tyrannical and facist forces of the OZ organization. However, unbeknowst to them, there is a sixth Gundam pilot out there, and her name is...

Quinn: Quinn Morgendorffer.

Now, the first word in Fashion, Dating, and Narcissism...

Quatre: Hey Quinn, you want to go to the dance with me?
Trowa: No, me!
Duo: No way! She's going with me! the last word in Mobile Suit Combat.

Quinn: [over viewscreen to male Oz soldiers.] Hi! I'm running a bit short on ammunition, so would you all be a dear and kamekazi yourselves into that ship over there? Thanks!

Quinn Morgendorffer, Gundam Pilot

Lady Une: [Hopping on all fours down a corridor past Quinn] Ribbit! Ribbit!

Coming Soon

Chapter 2