By DuoLordOfDeath
Disclaimer: I do not own Gundam Wing, so there.
[1] Queer Street- A place dubbed so in old London where the poor and destitute resided. And yes, I did research on the attire of the times and the state of the poorhouses and asylums. This is as accurate to history as I can get. =)
In each of us there are two natures. If this primitive duality of man, good and evil, can be housed in separate identities, life will be relived of all that is unbearable. It is the curse of mankind that these polar twins should be constantly struggling...
- Henry Jekyll, "Jekyll and Hyde: Act One"
~*Prologue- The Good Doctor*~
Dr. Winner was a kind and generous man; so generous that, for long hours into the night, he would stay with his patients until they felt they could continue alone; regarding their own welfare much over his own. So kind that; in return for his long hours of service to the needy and mentally ill; he asked nothing but a thank you; and sometimes not even that was necessary. He felt that there were many physicians that cared for the rich and upper-class; but there were hardly none for the poverty-stricken and mentally ill; mainly because they were considered the terrible dregs of society that were to be undermined and overlooked. Such was the way in 1847; especially in cities such as London; where Dr. Winner resided. But soon; London no longer would be his home; for tomorrow; he was heading for New York City in the United States. There had been a terrible cholera epidemic that swept through; and the American doctors were running short. When he heard that it was especially hitting the disadvantaged slums; he immediately jumped to their aid.
As the young doctor stepped from his office for the last time; he pulled his overcoat closer around his body; for it was raining; and the cold night breeze was ripping through his clothing like knives. Shivering; he stepped down the steep steps and onto the puddle-ridden cobblestone streets. In the distance; the sounds of carriage wheels and a horse's whinny sounded over the shouts of the bobbies. There had been a mysterious murder recently nearby; there were no traces of who had committed the atrocity. The murderer had been very clever and skilled in his precision; the body wasn't mangled; but neatly cut at key points in the body to allow for maximum drainage of blood. Dr. Winner had even known the victim; it had been a young fellow by the name of Zechs Merquise, and he had been the good doctor's rival at medical school. It chilled him to think that the slaughterer was so slick and hard to catch; and also so near to him and his sister. He only prayed for her safety while he was in America.
He turned away from the direction of the police; they had blocked off the quickest route to his home; so he had to travel down a dank area of London that was commonly known as "Queer Street". [1] Only the destitute and lower class resided there; it was a dark and foreboding place where only the desperate went. The doctor glanced around and could see paupers hurrying for any kind of shelter that was readily available. Sometimes; this was merely a small, sopping wet shred of newsprint; long forgotten and nearly shredded. He felt such sympathy for them; but he knew sadly that there was nothing that he was able to do. He lowered his head and passed quickly underneath the dim streetlamps; his form indiscernible to any onlooker. Water sloshed angrily about his newly polished shoes as he trudged onward; lightening flashing above in the cloudy; smoke filled sky.
Then as he was turning a corner that led him back onto the main street that he usually met on his way home; he saw a sight that nearly tore his heart into shreds. Three small children, 2 young boys and a slightly older girl, scurried across the street in front of him and cowered in fear of the storm and his oncoming form. They were terribly soiled; and their frail bodies were barely covered by shards of what may have been clothing sometime ago. There was absolute fear in their small eyes; and their disheveled; dirty hair kept dripping relentlessly into their faces. Slowly, he approached them and knelt next to them gently. He could read the frightened expression in their small faces; but when they saw him remove his large; warm overcoat and wrap it around them gently; the trepidation in their faces quickly changed to gratitude.
"Do not worry…I do believe that there are some crumpets in that left pocket over there…help yourself; and you need not worry about returning the coat to me. You need it far more than I."
"Thank you, sir…" the girl said softly; the gratitude evident in her small voice. He shook his head.
"You needn't call me 'sir', child…Quatre will do just fine. Good luck to you all." With a small bow of his head; he turned and continued to walk down the street in only his clothing. He was amazingly cold; and the rain ran down his face in torrents; but he didn't stop smiling. He knew he had done the proper and good thing by helping those children; nothing could sway him otherwise. But he still didn't slow his pace; he had no wish to catch a fever before his journey to America. His boots splattered through the chilly water as he turned the corner and saw his flat come into view under the faint lamplight. Hurrying a bit more, he quickened his pace and began to run; knowing that he was an unstately mess and that his older sister wouldn't believe her eyes when she beheld him in such disarray. Hastily, he ran up the granite steps and stepped inside the door, shivering and wet. He closed the door shut before any more rain could fall onto the wooden floor. He took a few breaths, trying to warm himself a bit, when his sister Iria came in and stopped dead in her tracks. She was a tall, stately woman; obviously older than her brother. She made a great deal of taking care of him; she was the only family he had. Their parents had died; his mother first in childbirth, and his father only a few years ago.
"Quatre Winner! What on Earth are you doing? You're a mess! And where is your coat? Haven't you enough brains to realize that it's cold and raining outside?" Quatre looked up to face his irate sister with a sheepish smile and sighed, still quivering with cold.
"Yes, I know, but there was this small group of children with barely any clothing on their poor backs, so I gave them my coat and the crumpets that were in the pocket. They needed it more than I."
Iria smiled and shook her head as she removed a towel from a nearby linen closet and walked over to him. "You're too kind for your own good, Quatre," she said as she helped him to dry off. He chuckled lightly and waved her away slightly; yawning a bit as he did so.
"There's not enough kindness in the world, Iria, so I do what I can. That's why I'm going to America tomorrow; to help those in need. Speaking of which, I need to go change into my pajamas. I have a long voyage ahead of me, and I do not need to be late tomorrow morning."
Iria nodded and smiled. "I had the maid start you a fire before you arrived; that way you'd be able to get to sleep in a hurry. Good night now, Quatre."
Quatre smiled down at her tiredly as he made his way up the tall cherrywood stairwell; cold and anticipating the warmth of his bedside fire. He gently opened his door and lit the candle that sat on his night table, offering a bit more light than the fire would allow. He stepped over to his armoire and opened it, pulling out a long nightdress. He sat the candle nearby and stripped himself of his sodden jacket and waistcoat, then pulled off his trousers and laid them over a basket beside the armoire so that they would be picked up and washed. After pulling on his nightwear, he took the candle and set it upon his bedside table before sliding under the covers of his bed. He was thankful that his sister had dried most of his hair; he just hoped that she learned not to be so finicky. As he blew out the candle and began to fall asleep, he heard the shouts of the police and more horse whinnies down upon the streets of London. He only prayed that they would find the murderer quickly; or he would find only long, sleepless nights ahead of him in New York.
He awoke the next morning to a clear sky; the sun shining through his slightly open drapes. He shivered slightly and sat up tiredly, the warmth of the fire long died and now resting in the smoldering coals in his fireplace. He quickly got dressed and made his way downstairs; feeling strangely tired although he had slept a good long slumber. He met Iria in their kitchen; she had brought his belongings downstairs and set them by the door so he would be ready to leave on time. She smiled at him sadly as they both sat down to eat their breakfast.
"I hope you are well in America. Those Yankees are quite rude, I hear. And trust no one; you have no idea whom you might meet on the streets," she instructed him thoughtfully; worry obvious in her eyes. He smiled at her reassuringly.
"You needn't worry, Iria. I'll be fine; I promise I won't let anything happen to me. I'll write you as often as I can; telling you all the news that happens to me. I promise that I won't leave a thing out."
Iria smiled a bit. "Alright…but if I don't get a letter from you soon, I'm going to come over myself and track you down with the hounds!"
Quatre chuckled a bit and stood, his breakfast finished. "Alright, I understand; Iria. I must bid you farewell now, though. I fear that I may be late if I do not hurry to the port. Thankfully, our flat isn't that far from the Thames; so I should be able to walk there quickly." He stepped over and kissed his sister lightly on the cheek before striding lightly into the foyer; where his spare coat and luggage sat. Swiftly, he slid his coat on over his jacket and waistcoat, and picked up his luggage. He had already had his larger luggage taken to the port the day before so that he wouldn't have to worry about carrying it; he opted to walk the short distance.
As he stepped outside into the brisk London air, more shouts of the police echoed down the street above the whinny of horses and clatter of carriage wheels. Curious, Quatre walked towards Queer Street, where the sounds were coming from. As he turned the corner; he came across the small crowd of people gathered around one spot, all murmuring to each other in a hushed whisper.
"Excuse me, what's all this?" he asked lightly, stepping forward. A young woman turned her head to face him and shook her head in disgrace. "Oh, Dr. Winner; it's another murder. This time; it were three small children, it was. All that was near them was a bloodied overcoat and a few crumbs in the pockets. No identification was left in the coat. And the murderer was very precise; there be no traces of him left now!"
Quatre froze in his spot; stunned. The three children he had helped…why had they been the target of such a crime? As he numbly walked back down the main street and left the scene behind, his thoughts wandered.
"First Zechs…and then those children…I just hope that neither mean that this murderer is after me…but thankfully, I am leaving London…he can't easily follow me across the ocean…"