Lock in a Key
Chapter One – Something Wicked
The year is After Colony 206. Relations between the Colonies and the Earth Sphere are strained once more, old conflicts dragged back into the light by ex-soldiers and young upstarts. The Gundam pilots have scattered, and the Preventers are on the verge of being disbanded by Earth's Council... and things have not been going well.
- - -
Trowa was with the circus. Heero was unreachable. Wufei was with the Preventers. Duo had disappeared. And Quatre…
Quatre scowled, an expression not usually seen on the normally sweet and patient blonde. He was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk in a fine, fitted suit – complete with vest – and he was toying with a pen, trying to ignore the two businessmen who were attempting to get the support of his company behind them.
"Mister Winner, I believe we've illustrated quite well the ways in which our respective enterprises could benefit from this partnership," one of the men droned. He was American, just like Duo, and similarly prone to talking too much. Well. At least Duo was marginally interesting. "Now, if you'll just sign here…?" continued the American, thrusting a packet of papers into Quatre's face.
"No."
The man looked taken aback. "No?"
"No. That's my answer."
Now both of his visitors were looking affronted. Strangely enough, Quatre couldn't bring himself to really care. He flipped his pen in his hand and leaned forward in his chair, gesturing towards the door with the pen's gilded cap. "I believe you gentlemen can see yourselves out. Good day."
The other man stood up and bowed, taking his partner's arm in a restraining way as the American started to say something that would probably have sent him on a quick trip down the river of death had any other former Gundam pilot been there to hear it.
"We apologize for wasting your time, Mister Winner."
- - -
The brown-haired worker looked unaffected by the heavy labor involved in lifting box after box of heavy weaponry up to the shuttle's loading ramp, unlike his colleagues. All he did was wipe his forehead with the back of one forearm, sweeping his unruly hair out of a pair of intense, Prussian blue eyes. All around him, men and women of all shapes and sizes were doing the same work as he was – loading shuttles with weapons and supplies. Old, young, crippled and whole, everyone in the small village seemed to be pitching in.
The village itself was on the western border of what had once been Germany, and these people had clung desperately to their old ways; still speaking German, still having the old folk holidays and festivals, and forever instilling German pride into their children. The brown-haired worker paused for a moment, his gaze caught by a vidcast on a nearby television that someone had rigged up to keep the loaders from succumbing to lazy boredom.
"Colony manufacturing tycoon Quatre Winner has apparently been taken into some sort of protective custody."
Quatre?
"Reports as to what kind of custody this is are still unconfirmed, but whenever information is made available, we'll get it to you! In other news…"
The worker disregarded the rest of the nonsense. He frowned. He glanced up at the sky, shielding his eyes against its burning blaze. "Hn," he muttered.
"Herr Lowe! Back to work, we need to get these loaded!"
- - -
Applause.
Tremendous applause, as usual.
Trowa, balancing himself upside down with one arm on the highest tightrope in the brightly colored circus tent, didn't concern himself with the applause. It was old, and he had never been 'in it' for the fame or the fortune. He had always been in it for the family he had created.
Toned muscles in his lean arms and shoulders strained for a moment before he vaulted into the air like a spinning top, eliciting a sharp gasp from his audience – just like the trick always did. He landed with both feet neatly on the tightrope, arms outstretched, and then he took a bow.
The audience roared. They loved it. Life really hadn't changed much, though. Keeping his identity as a Gundam pilot under wraps wasn't all that hard; after all, who would suspect such a quiet, gentle man of being a trained killer? These days, the circus had brought him to L2. Vaguely, he remembered that Duo had made his home in the same cluster. Maybe he'd see him.
Maybe, but unlikely.
Part of Trowa wanted to meet up with the American – desperately in need of someone who would understand his feelings about the latest political developments. His sister Catherine tried to understand, she really did, but she had never –been– there. She had never fought in a battle or watched men die all around, defying them all by keeping no name and staying alive.
The other part of Trowa wanted to keep that life and those people from his past at an arm's length. That part of him didn't want to get involved with anything, wanted to stay civilian and out of the conflict. But the rumors of the Colonies issuing a draft to all able-bodied men and women hung over his head… and, indeed, the heads of everyone in the troupe. If that happened, then the Colonies would be shut off to transportation, trapping them all in the tangle of legal spiderwebs woven by the politicians.
Trowa didn't quite know what he wanted.
- - -
"We're reaching cruising altitude. Leaving the orbit shouldn't be a problem," Sally Po said briskly, reaching across the shuttle's small cockpit to give her partner, Chang Wufei, a quick poke to the shoulder.
"Hmm?" Wufei replied, turning his gaze away from the shuttle's windows and back to the other Preventer. "What're you thinking about that's got you so worried, Wufei? This is a routine mission." Sally said flatly, switching the craft to autopilot as she looked at the Chinese man expectantly.
He shrugged. "The injustice of this friction is going to cause another war. It's going to create more soldiers who know only of killing, and it's going to create that out of the children of the soldiers we fought against. If we must fight again, and I hope we do not, then I don't think I could bring myself to kill any of them. I'd feel too guilty."
Silence reigned the shuttle for a few moments, the only sound the steady hum of the engines as they left the Earth's orbit. Sally certainly hadn't been expecting a straight answer from Wufei, nor one that was so concise and emotional. She sat back, folding her arms thoughtfully. "Well, Wufei, whatever happens… I am confident you will do the right thing."
She seemed content to leave it at that, for she didn't say anything more on the matter. Chang Wufei, on the other hand, continued to stare out the window at the stars – just thinking.
- - -
Duo drummed his fingers nervously against his kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee. His salvage yard was gone, the rebels had seen to that. Thank the gods he had gotten Hilde out of the cluster before anything drastic had happened. His colony had shut down all outside contact, blocking off all passage of goods, people, and information. The only newscasts were made by slanted radical groups and the frantic governmental factions that were still around.
He couldn't even get to a vidphone without being watched, and Shinigami did not like being watched, under any circumstances. So he couldn't call anyone without rousing suspicion. Thankfully, none of the groups had been able to find him yet; he'd melted into the slums without causing even the slightest ripple, tapping his connections and pulling a few old strings.
So many things had changed. He was still young – in his prime! – but he felt like an old man. He had to hide himself from people for fear of being used. He had to change his name, his lifestyles, his residence, his job, his appearance… even his braid was gone.
Self-consciously, Duo reached to the back of his head, running his fingers through his hair. It was short now. Cut within an inch on all sides, almost like Heero's. It helped disguise him, though, and he supposed that's what mattered most… but he still winced whenever he acted upon an ingrained mannerism as if his braid was still with him. He'd had to give up his childhood – himself. Just to keep out of the troubles that were brewing around him. And he didn't like it. Not one bit.
Duo took another sip of his coffee.