Title: The Four Sides of Quatre Raberba Winner
Author: Tressa
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: My dear, sweet, adorable Quatre-sama, unfortunately, does not belong to me. Neither does the ever lovable Duo or any of the other pilots. They belong to Sunrise/Sotsu Agency and Bandai. Please don't sue. No money is being made off of this.
Authors note: I was playing around with Quatre's name when I realized his name meant four. I feel stupid b/c I knew this all along. Anyway, I decided that since Duo's name meant two and people were always discussing his dual nature, that they're had to be something with the other pilots. Thus, came the four sides of Quatre Raberba Winner.
Quatre Raberba Winner. What was there in a name? Certainly, parents had ideas in their head about the meanings of their children's' names. He knew for a fact that he had been named after his mother, Quatrine Winner. However, it was almost as if his mother and father had known something about him that didn't register with them at the time they named him. But now it was starting to fall into place.
Silently, sitting in his corporate office, he flipped through a book, filled with hundreds of words and their meanings. He was only mildly surprised when he found his name among some French words. His name, Quatre, meant four. Four. How appropriate. The four sides to Quatre R. Winner. Closing the book, he pushed it aside and turned his chair towards the window. The artificial day and night system was doings its job as the light in the colony had faded to a dark, peaceful, scene.
Four.
Closing his eyes, he imagined himself as others saw him. Business-like, friendly, and polite. This Quatre was all ears, willing to lend a helping hand for a good cause. His business was very resourceful and he was always offering his services for anything that needed to be done. He knew the business world like no other, as did he politically. There were many pictures of him with Vice Foreign Minister Darlian, or some other big shot political leader. He was prominent in the political world. No one, so the news vids stated, could play the game like he could. Opening his eyes, he stared out the window at the tiny lights below his office.
Quatre-sama, a political as well as a business leader.
Spinning the chair around, he narrowly avoided hitting his arm against the desk, instead, opting to accidentally knocked his coffee mug over, spilling the lukewarm coffee on him.
"Dang it," he whispered, standing up, letting the mug drop to the floor. Wiping at his now stained shirt, he exited his office and hurried to the nearest men's room. He quickly closed the door and removed his shirt, running it under the cold tap. As he let the water run, he looked to his right to see a full length mirror. Leaving the sink momentarily, he looked at himself in the mirror and winced. There was no mistaking the scar in his side and he subconsciously let his hand wander to it.
Memories from a time flooded his head and he could almost feel the pain of the weapon slicing into his body, as well as hearing the haughty voice of one Dorothy Catalonia. Images of others like him, fighting by his side surfaced again. He closed his eyes again and he could feel his hands clench as though they had taken hold of some type of controls. The squeeze involuntarily and he could hear the phantom screams of those he had hurt. Of those he had killed. He could feel tears trickling down his cheeks as he could feel the realistic control of the Zero System taking a hold of his mind. He could feel his body begin to quiver as he tried to take control again. Within a couple seconds, he had control. He didn't open his eyes for fear that he would see it again. Even with his eyes shut, however, he could still see. He could see the heat shorters drive their way into the mobile suits, slicing them to pieces, the wails of their pilots being cut off and drowned out by the explosion of their mobile suits. He could hear the tenseness in the other pilots' voices as the battle became more intense. He tried to ignore the sounds of war; he tried to ignore the screams and the smells. His hands tightened, his fingernails piercing the skin on his hands. His head throbbed and his heart began to hurt. Something wet began to splatter on the ground and his mind set immediately thought blood. People were dying because of him! But he needed to do this. For his family, for his friends. For all of humanity. He needed to stop this! He needed to save the innocents! It was too much, though! Too much! He couldn't handle it! He couldn't . . .
With a gasp, his eyes flew open, his hands unclenched and he stared at his haunted expression in the mirror. Gone was the battle field, gone were the mobile suits. But the pain remained. The screams remained. But so did the reassurance that he did the right thing. He turned to see the sink had over flowed, the water now running down the sides of the sink and onto the floor. He hurried to it and turned the water off, noticing the red that was left on the knob. Turning his palms face up, he finally took notice of the blood. It wasn't a lot, but enough to make him sick. Wrapping his hands in paper towels, he left his stained shirt in the sink, than ran quickly back to his office. After digging out a spare shirt, he stared at his hands, which were both physically and metaphorically stained with blood.
"I'm sorry," he apologized softly.
Quatre Raberba Winner. Pilot 04 of the Gundam Sandrock.
After plastering band-aids to his palms, he returned to his seat and continued the tedious work he had started earlier. He had barely begun to read the latest document when a flashing light caught his eye. It took him a couple seconds to realize that someone had left him a message. His secretary must have allowed them to leave the message on the machine rather then with her. He tapped the replay button, then waited. After a couple of seconds, a familiar face popped up on the screen.
"Hey Quatre, it's me, Karah. I suppose you've probably headed home, since you're obviously not in your office. I'll try and get in touch with you later. Take care, me sweet little brother."
He couldn't help but let a smile pass across his face. Ever since Iria, he had made it a point to get to know as many sisters as he could. As much as he enjoyed hearing from Karah, the last line in her message stung. 'My sweet little brother.' Was that really how people really saw him? As an innocent, sweet, naïve boy? Granted he still wasn't old enough to shave and people had told him that he had the face and demeanor of an angel. But they hadn't been war veterans by age sixteen, either. The smile fell from his face. Just like him, an angel falling from grace. Switching off the phone, he tried to concentrate on his work. But he just couldn't focus. What would his sister think, if he told her everything he had done? Sure, most of them knew he was a Gundam pilot. But what if he told them about Wing Zero and the colony he had destroyed. Would they still call him their sweet little brother? Would people still trust him?
"Now's not the time to worry," he said, answering his own question.
Quatre-san. The youngest, sweetest, and most innocent of all the Winners.
He finally was able to concentrate on his work, when one more item caught his eye. It was a picture of him as a boy, hanging onto the arm of his laughing father. His heart wrenched at the site. He had worshiped his father when he was younger, and it wasn't till later that the small break became a canyon. He regretted not spending more time with his father, but . . . He had a war to fight. He needed to protect them. As he stared at the picture, the battle hardened soldier left, leaving the remains of the young boy from all those years ago. And he was crying. He shivered, afraid of what the future held. He had experienced so much, the thought of anything outside his field of normalcy frightened him.
"What's wrong with me?" he asked the thin air.
Children were supposed to be optimistic. What was happening? He could feel the young boy inside him cry out for a protective father, wanting nothing more then to be held and comforted. For someone to tell him everything would be alright in the end. He wanted . . . he wanted someone else to do the fighting. Someone else to be the one that hurt. The boy inside him continued to cry, continued to reach out for the assurance and guidance he would never receive. He tightened his grip on the picture, unaware that it had slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. Sinking to his knees, he held his head in his hands and tried not to cry. He tried not to cry for help. Despite this, a small whimper escaped his throat. Holding out his hand, he could almost feel a stronger set of hands clasp around his.
Quatre-kun. The small, scared boy, afraid of his past, afraid of his future, and terrified of his present.
It was only when someone knocked on his door did he realize where he was. Without asking, the door opened slightly and a petite young lady entered.
"Mister Winner sir, I finished," she paused and took in his state. "Mr. Winner! Is everything alright?"
Not looking at her, Quatre simply nodded. "Everything's fine, Marie. Please, you're here late. Go home."
"Mr. Winner, sir, are you certain everything's . . ."
"Everything's fine, Marie. Please, go home."
He didn't raise his voice and he didn't need to. He heard her answer with soft, "Yes sir," before the door closed. Once it closed, he opened his eyes and looked at the picture. His picture perfect life had ended so long ago. He had no friends. He had no life. He was haunted by the war. His sisters didn't know him. And deep inside, he was a child, screaming for some sensibility in this world.
BEEP. BEEP.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself off the floor, ignoring the pieces of broken glass. Though in no mood for whatever it was, he did check to see what was paging him now. It was his computer and the beeping was from and email.
"Not another one," he muttered, referring to the continuous proposals of joining companies with other heads. He checked the address.
Schbeiker and Maxwell?
Frowning, he clicked on it. It was an email from a business alright, but it wasn't what he had been anticipating. As he scanned the short message, he could feel the weight on his shoulders lift. By the end, he was so filled with emotions he could explain, he couldn't help but cry.
Quatre,
This is Duo, incase you couldn't tell. I dunno how, but I have a feeling you'd be needing this. We've been through a lot together, so I'm doing this as a friend. A friend who understands you.
A glimpse into the past is all that it takes,
In order to understand the risks that we faced.
To see someone smiling so bright,
Alive to see another day,
Due to our choice to fight.
We've sacrificed a lot,
We've had our share of faults.
But please, when times get dark.
And when you have no where to go,
And it seems as though the road comes to an end,
Remember the good we've done.
Remember the lives we've saved.
We knew when we agreed,
That our lives we would give,
For the chance peace would succeed.
And guess what?
We did it!
Yeah, I stink at poetry. But I hope you get the point. You're not alone, Quatre. We all went through this as well. Cheer up!
Duo Maxwell
Quatre couldn't help but laugh. Duo really didn't know how to write poetry. But the point he was trying to get across did make its way into his mind. Yes, he did do all those things that he had mentioned. He thought he could only be one person. He thought he'd could only be one person. But it might not be a bad thing that there were all these Quatre's. So what if there were four sides to Quatre Raberba Winner. He was all of those. He clicked off the email and smiled. And Duo was right. They had to fight that war. They had to be there and doing what they had to do. He had killed people yes. But that didn't mean he couldn't be the sweet, innocent little brother that his sisters thought him to be.
Standing up, he stretched his back muscles, then turned off the computer. He flipped off the light and exited the room.
Life was looking a little better.
Hoped you all liked it. Granted it wasn't one of my best, but I liked writing it.
Author: Tressa
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: My dear, sweet, adorable Quatre-sama, unfortunately, does not belong to me. Neither does the ever lovable Duo or any of the other pilots. They belong to Sunrise/Sotsu Agency and Bandai. Please don't sue. No money is being made off of this.
Authors note: I was playing around with Quatre's name when I realized his name meant four. I feel stupid b/c I knew this all along. Anyway, I decided that since Duo's name meant two and people were always discussing his dual nature, that they're had to be something with the other pilots. Thus, came the four sides of Quatre Raberba Winner.
Quatre Raberba Winner. What was there in a name? Certainly, parents had ideas in their head about the meanings of their children's' names. He knew for a fact that he had been named after his mother, Quatrine Winner. However, it was almost as if his mother and father had known something about him that didn't register with them at the time they named him. But now it was starting to fall into place.
Silently, sitting in his corporate office, he flipped through a book, filled with hundreds of words and their meanings. He was only mildly surprised when he found his name among some French words. His name, Quatre, meant four. Four. How appropriate. The four sides to Quatre R. Winner. Closing the book, he pushed it aside and turned his chair towards the window. The artificial day and night system was doings its job as the light in the colony had faded to a dark, peaceful, scene.
Four.
Closing his eyes, he imagined himself as others saw him. Business-like, friendly, and polite. This Quatre was all ears, willing to lend a helping hand for a good cause. His business was very resourceful and he was always offering his services for anything that needed to be done. He knew the business world like no other, as did he politically. There were many pictures of him with Vice Foreign Minister Darlian, or some other big shot political leader. He was prominent in the political world. No one, so the news vids stated, could play the game like he could. Opening his eyes, he stared out the window at the tiny lights below his office.
Quatre-sama, a political as well as a business leader.
Spinning the chair around, he narrowly avoided hitting his arm against the desk, instead, opting to accidentally knocked his coffee mug over, spilling the lukewarm coffee on him.
"Dang it," he whispered, standing up, letting the mug drop to the floor. Wiping at his now stained shirt, he exited his office and hurried to the nearest men's room. He quickly closed the door and removed his shirt, running it under the cold tap. As he let the water run, he looked to his right to see a full length mirror. Leaving the sink momentarily, he looked at himself in the mirror and winced. There was no mistaking the scar in his side and he subconsciously let his hand wander to it.
Memories from a time flooded his head and he could almost feel the pain of the weapon slicing into his body, as well as hearing the haughty voice of one Dorothy Catalonia. Images of others like him, fighting by his side surfaced again. He closed his eyes again and he could feel his hands clench as though they had taken hold of some type of controls. The squeeze involuntarily and he could hear the phantom screams of those he had hurt. Of those he had killed. He could feel tears trickling down his cheeks as he could feel the realistic control of the Zero System taking a hold of his mind. He could feel his body begin to quiver as he tried to take control again. Within a couple seconds, he had control. He didn't open his eyes for fear that he would see it again. Even with his eyes shut, however, he could still see. He could see the heat shorters drive their way into the mobile suits, slicing them to pieces, the wails of their pilots being cut off and drowned out by the explosion of their mobile suits. He could hear the tenseness in the other pilots' voices as the battle became more intense. He tried to ignore the sounds of war; he tried to ignore the screams and the smells. His hands tightened, his fingernails piercing the skin on his hands. His head throbbed and his heart began to hurt. Something wet began to splatter on the ground and his mind set immediately thought blood. People were dying because of him! But he needed to do this. For his family, for his friends. For all of humanity. He needed to stop this! He needed to save the innocents! It was too much, though! Too much! He couldn't handle it! He couldn't . . .
With a gasp, his eyes flew open, his hands unclenched and he stared at his haunted expression in the mirror. Gone was the battle field, gone were the mobile suits. But the pain remained. The screams remained. But so did the reassurance that he did the right thing. He turned to see the sink had over flowed, the water now running down the sides of the sink and onto the floor. He hurried to it and turned the water off, noticing the red that was left on the knob. Turning his palms face up, he finally took notice of the blood. It wasn't a lot, but enough to make him sick. Wrapping his hands in paper towels, he left his stained shirt in the sink, than ran quickly back to his office. After digging out a spare shirt, he stared at his hands, which were both physically and metaphorically stained with blood.
"I'm sorry," he apologized softly.
Quatre Raberba Winner. Pilot 04 of the Gundam Sandrock.
After plastering band-aids to his palms, he returned to his seat and continued the tedious work he had started earlier. He had barely begun to read the latest document when a flashing light caught his eye. It took him a couple seconds to realize that someone had left him a message. His secretary must have allowed them to leave the message on the machine rather then with her. He tapped the replay button, then waited. After a couple of seconds, a familiar face popped up on the screen.
"Hey Quatre, it's me, Karah. I suppose you've probably headed home, since you're obviously not in your office. I'll try and get in touch with you later. Take care, me sweet little brother."
He couldn't help but let a smile pass across his face. Ever since Iria, he had made it a point to get to know as many sisters as he could. As much as he enjoyed hearing from Karah, the last line in her message stung. 'My sweet little brother.' Was that really how people really saw him? As an innocent, sweet, naïve boy? Granted he still wasn't old enough to shave and people had told him that he had the face and demeanor of an angel. But they hadn't been war veterans by age sixteen, either. The smile fell from his face. Just like him, an angel falling from grace. Switching off the phone, he tried to concentrate on his work. But he just couldn't focus. What would his sister think, if he told her everything he had done? Sure, most of them knew he was a Gundam pilot. But what if he told them about Wing Zero and the colony he had destroyed. Would they still call him their sweet little brother? Would people still trust him?
"Now's not the time to worry," he said, answering his own question.
Quatre-san. The youngest, sweetest, and most innocent of all the Winners.
He finally was able to concentrate on his work, when one more item caught his eye. It was a picture of him as a boy, hanging onto the arm of his laughing father. His heart wrenched at the site. He had worshiped his father when he was younger, and it wasn't till later that the small break became a canyon. He regretted not spending more time with his father, but . . . He had a war to fight. He needed to protect them. As he stared at the picture, the battle hardened soldier left, leaving the remains of the young boy from all those years ago. And he was crying. He shivered, afraid of what the future held. He had experienced so much, the thought of anything outside his field of normalcy frightened him.
"What's wrong with me?" he asked the thin air.
Children were supposed to be optimistic. What was happening? He could feel the young boy inside him cry out for a protective father, wanting nothing more then to be held and comforted. For someone to tell him everything would be alright in the end. He wanted . . . he wanted someone else to do the fighting. Someone else to be the one that hurt. The boy inside him continued to cry, continued to reach out for the assurance and guidance he would never receive. He tightened his grip on the picture, unaware that it had slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. Sinking to his knees, he held his head in his hands and tried not to cry. He tried not to cry for help. Despite this, a small whimper escaped his throat. Holding out his hand, he could almost feel a stronger set of hands clasp around his.
Quatre-kun. The small, scared boy, afraid of his past, afraid of his future, and terrified of his present.
It was only when someone knocked on his door did he realize where he was. Without asking, the door opened slightly and a petite young lady entered.
"Mister Winner sir, I finished," she paused and took in his state. "Mr. Winner! Is everything alright?"
Not looking at her, Quatre simply nodded. "Everything's fine, Marie. Please, you're here late. Go home."
"Mr. Winner, sir, are you certain everything's . . ."
"Everything's fine, Marie. Please, go home."
He didn't raise his voice and he didn't need to. He heard her answer with soft, "Yes sir," before the door closed. Once it closed, he opened his eyes and looked at the picture. His picture perfect life had ended so long ago. He had no friends. He had no life. He was haunted by the war. His sisters didn't know him. And deep inside, he was a child, screaming for some sensibility in this world.
BEEP. BEEP.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself off the floor, ignoring the pieces of broken glass. Though in no mood for whatever it was, he did check to see what was paging him now. It was his computer and the beeping was from and email.
"Not another one," he muttered, referring to the continuous proposals of joining companies with other heads. He checked the address.
Schbeiker and Maxwell?
Frowning, he clicked on it. It was an email from a business alright, but it wasn't what he had been anticipating. As he scanned the short message, he could feel the weight on his shoulders lift. By the end, he was so filled with emotions he could explain, he couldn't help but cry.
Quatre,
This is Duo, incase you couldn't tell. I dunno how, but I have a feeling you'd be needing this. We've been through a lot together, so I'm doing this as a friend. A friend who understands you.
A glimpse into the past is all that it takes,
In order to understand the risks that we faced.
To see someone smiling so bright,
Alive to see another day,
Due to our choice to fight.
We've sacrificed a lot,
We've had our share of faults.
But please, when times get dark.
And when you have no where to go,
And it seems as though the road comes to an end,
Remember the good we've done.
Remember the lives we've saved.
We knew when we agreed,
That our lives we would give,
For the chance peace would succeed.
And guess what?
We did it!
Yeah, I stink at poetry. But I hope you get the point. You're not alone, Quatre. We all went through this as well. Cheer up!
Duo Maxwell
Quatre couldn't help but laugh. Duo really didn't know how to write poetry. But the point he was trying to get across did make its way into his mind. Yes, he did do all those things that he had mentioned. He thought he could only be one person. He thought he'd could only be one person. But it might not be a bad thing that there were all these Quatre's. So what if there were four sides to Quatre Raberba Winner. He was all of those. He clicked off the email and smiled. And Duo was right. They had to fight that war. They had to be there and doing what they had to do. He had killed people yes. But that didn't mean he couldn't be the sweet, innocent little brother that his sisters thought him to be.
Standing up, he stretched his back muscles, then turned off the computer. He flipped off the light and exited the room.
Life was looking a little better.
Hoped you all liked it. Granted it wasn't one of my best, but I liked writing it.