"So, you're not going to tell me what this big surprise is?"

Quatre smiled to his reflection in the mirror in lieu of his secretary, pausing in the middle of tying his bow tie. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise anymore, would it? It's not that I don't trust you, of course, but I promised Trowa I'd keep mum until the big reveal. I've said too much as it is. You'll hear about it all soon enough."

"I'll be glued to the television, sir."

If Quatre's suspicions were correct, the whole Earth Sphere would be abuzz with news of Trowa's so-called pièce de résistance, and not entirely in a positive way. Trowa was taking a bat to a hornet's nest on this one, and Quatre still wasn't sure he agreed with the decision. It all depended on the timing. Unveiling a gundam was bound to open old wounds for Colonists and Earthlings alike. And Zero in particular might not be the best image to display to politicians and businessmen still on the fence about funding Trowa's pet project.

But would a collection chronicling the history of mobile suit warfare be complete without at least one of them?

"Anything else?"

She tried to disguise it, but Quatre could hear a trace of disappointment in his secretary's voice. "Yes, actually. I didn't want it to ruin your evening, but Mr. Kurama thought it was too important not to mention. Your office received another death threat, sir."

Quatre sighed. This was to be expected, he supposed. No different from when he was an anonymous gundam pilot. Only then it had required some extensive digging before someone discovered his real name and identity. "Thank you for letting me know," he said. "But I assure you, I'm not worried. Like I said before, if someone really wanted to kill me, they wouldn't warn me about it beforehand."

"I feel the same way, sir, and that's what I told Mr. Kurama your reaction would be," said his secretary. "But he thinks this one is too serious to ignore. Whoever the sender is, he's made threats before."

"And has acted on none of them. Now, of course I understand Rashid's concern. I understood why he didn't want me taking this trip with so little security, too. But that's why I agreed to hire whichever driver he recommended. I believe that's what they call compromise."

"I agree with you completely, sir."

But. He could feel it, unspoken, lurking behind her words. "For what it's worth," Quatre said, "security at the event will be impeccable. Director Une will be there, along with a significant Preventer presence, and I can guarantee she of all people will make sure there are redundant checkpoints in place at all entrances and exits—including the restrooms. But if it helps, you can tell Rashid he's first on my speed dial in the unlikely event of a terror attack or natural disaster."

Tie tied, he smoothed down the gentle waves of his hair that kept threatening to make trouble. Blond again, the last bits of brown washed out, Quatre looked less his father and more the "rock star" on the cover of Today. Thank God the new issue would be hitting stands in a couple days.

Bring on the criticism , he thought to his reflection. Tonight, just try and see if you can dampen my mood.

He shrugged on his tuxedo jacket, tugging it out straight, and finally turned to face his secretary on the video screen. "Well. How do I look?"

"Like your old self, sir. I think I speak for the rest of your staff here when I wish you the best of luck tonight."


Duo was right. Seven speakers was more than enough for the museum gala.

Personally, Quatre found Dorothy's story detailing the journey to the exhibit opening to be refreshingly entertaining—she did, after all, have a remarkable talent for rousing a crowd—and the speeches given by Lady Une and Gwinter Septem, son of the late general of the Alliance Space Force, were certainly important. Quatre's brief piece was received with enthusiasm, though he suspected part of that was the eagerness of the members of the press among the crowd to catch any misstep of his on record.

But by the time the Chief Administrator of the colony took the podium to declare the exhibit open, the guests were already exhibiting signs of restlessness. Quatre wondered if, in an emergency, they would have moved to the exits as quickly as they took off for the refreshments tables.

It didn't surprise him that Trowa had planned not to speak, even though the exhibit had been his brainchild from planning to execution. His character hadn't changed that much, and Dorothy more or less addressed every point that needed to be addressed as far as their bid to restart mobile suit production was concerned—in more diplomatic ways than even Trowa, for all his carefully chosen turns of phrase, would have been able to frame it.

He was more the type to contribute behind the scenes, where he could lose himself in the inner workings of a pneumatic joint or cockpit terminal rather than a politician's mind. And the hard work paid off. Colony officials marveled at the Tragos and Aries that once guarded the grand entrance of the Romefeller palace outside Bremen. Tallgeese gathered its own sizable draw. Easily the tallest mobile suit there, the predecessor of the gundams, it brought an element of long-lost nobility to an otherwise clinical collection of war machines.

Trowa had set up one of the Maguanac suits to allow visitors a more hands-on experience. It might have been designed to inspire new interest in mobile suits in visiting school children, but tonight grown men and women in tuxes and gowns lined up for a chance to sit at the controls, and experience for themselves what Quatre and his comrades had become all too accustomed to: being strapped into a tight box of recycled air with your only access to the outside world a wrap-around screen, and all the power of a 7.5-ton mobile suit at your fingertips.

Only without the enemy's weapon staring you in the face. Without the rumble of engines at your back, or the vibration of every heavy footstep jolting up through your bones. Surely there was something Quatre should have found worrisome in the thrilled laughter that spilled from the lips of the dignitaries who emerged from that cockpit, but tonight he was having a hard time nailing it down. The mood was optimistic, it was far removed from the reality of a war more than a decade distant, and it was infectious.

He wondered if the general public would have the same reaction.

For now, though, Trowa had much to smile about when he sought Quatre out of the crowd.

Swooping in like a savior, he managed to pull Quatre away from a business acquaintance and his wife, granting him some much-needed, if temporary, relief from the flashing cameras and sycophantic smiles.

"Wow," was all Quatre could say when they were out of earshot. "You sure clean up nice."

He'd seen Trowa in full formals before, but never did he glow in them quite like this. After all, Quatre supposed, this event was a little like celebrating the birth of his own child. He couldn't help wondering if Trowa would look as content as this on his own wedding day, as painful as that thought was.

Trowa spread his hands, a flute of champagne in each one, as if to say, I know, I can't believe how good I turned out myself. "You like the white jacket?" He handed one of the glasses to Quatre.

"You look like you just came from playing a waiter in an espionage movie. Which, I guess, is just another day in the life of Trowa Barton, man of mystery. Dorothy's doing, I take it?"

"Certainly wasn't mine. I keep worrying I'm going to get something on it."

In that case, Quatre hated to break it to him, but he wouldn't be a friend if he didn't point out the pale little spot on the front of his jacket.

Trowa looked around guiltily as he tried to wipe it away without being noticed, and Quatre stifled a laugh. He leaned in to further shield his friend from prying eyes. "Don't worry. I'm sure they've got club soda at the open bar. Next opportunity you get to sneak off to the little boys' room. . . ."

"Think I can get there without Dorothy noticing?"

"I'll cover your six, cause a distraction if I see her coming. She won't suspect a thing."

"Better not. If this shows up on the news, she'll kill me personally."

"It's hardly noticeable."

"You noticed it fast enough." There was probably something ironic, Quatre supposed, about a spot on a jacket being a former gundam pilot's biggest concern, but Trowa always had been a bit vain about the facade he showed to others. Perhaps accepting it was a futile battle, he surrendered with a sigh, and returned his attentions to Quatre. "Man, it's good to see you again."

"Three days we've been here, and you're just telling me that now?"

"What can I say? I've been a little sidetracked." Trowa gestured around the museum floor.

"Yeah, I gathered that much." Quatre had been watching him out of the corner of his eye all evening—watching and eavesdropping whenever he could as Trowa explained various exhibits to the attendees with a sort of dreamy cadence to his words more at home in an art gallery than a museum of science and technology. "It's awe-inspiring, Trowa, truly, what you've put together here. Your passion for these machines—not as weapons, but as marvels of human ingenuity, both tragic and beautiful at the same time—it really shows through. Of course, I wouldn't have expected anything less from you."

"Anal retentiveness. Can't call yourself a gundam pilot without it."

"I can drink to that."

It had been too long, Quatre agreed as they shared a knowing grin. Now that they were here like this, it seemed those years had passed all too quickly. How could he just let them go without a fight? Sure, they had both been busy with their own lives, but was that a valid excuse when Quatre thought of all they had missed? What was ever so important that he couldn't be bothered to call?

"I see you're not wearing your ring."

Trowa looked down at his hand as if just noticing. Of course his decision was better thought out than that; it was too much for Quatre to hope he might have lost his ring somewhere in the innards of one of these mobile suits. "Now wouldn't be the right time to advertise our union. It would look too convenient. I don't want anyone to think I'm only marrying Dorothy for her money or power."

"Of course that's not what you're doing." Trowa may have been tactical to a fault sometimes, as was Dorothy, but Quatre just didn't see it in either of them to marry for convenience alone. Still, he noticed Trowa didn't answer right away. "Is it?"

Trowa blinked. "If that was all I was after all this time, I could have just saved myself the trouble and married you."

Quatre nearly choked on his champagne. Was this Trowa's idea of a joke or was he baiting him? History was no help in that matter. Whichever it was meant as, Trowa should have known better. Unless he really was that oblivious to Quatre's feelings these past few days—

"Wonderful! Just the people I wanted to see, and you've already found each other. Makes my job that much easier."

Was it just Quatre's imagination, or did Trowa's ease disappear like a switch had been flipped when he heard Dorothy's voice? Oh, right. The stain.

"Don't you look cozy over here by yourselves," she purred, slipping one arm around Trowa's waist and gracefully receiving the requisite kiss on the cheek. "If I didn't know you two better, I would have thought you were flirting like a couple of old schoolmates."

Quatre could feel his face grow hot. He hadn't given it an ounce of thought. Was that how they appeared to everyone?

Trowa was a little more adept at ignoring the comment. Instead, he turned to Dorothy's companion. "Madam Director—or should I say, Ms. Une. Red certainly suits you."

"Charming, Mr. Barton, as usual. And, might I say, congratulations on the success of your exhibit."

In a draping blood-red dress that seemed to only enhance the power of her position, the former colonel of OZ was a presence in the museum hall impossible to ignore.

Not to be so quickly outdone, Dorothy glared at Quatre.

It was another second of staring before he got the message. "Dorothy! Don't you look enticing this evening."

"Why, thank you, Quatre," she said as though she had had nothing to do with the compliment. "How kind of you to notice."

As usual, Dorothy refused to let her status or her brains get in the way of high fashion. Her strapless black gown's neckline was borderline scandalous, the white lapels stretched across her breasts and black lace gloves that extended well beyond her elbows doing little to make the cut look stately. Yet Dorothy Catalonia managed to wear the dress and its plunging neckline like a business suit at a meeting with the board of directors.

Perhaps the analogy wasn't so far off. After all, she was here to rub elbows with important prospective investors. Dorothy certainly didn't need to use her looks to get her way—she had plenty of techniques in her repertoire without lowering herself to that—but as far as she seemed concerned, it never hurt.

"While you two were eluding your mingling duties," she scolded the men, "I've been in negotiations with a representative of the Lunar Port Authority about securing development space satellite-side. That is, of course, if Relena doesn't manage to convince the ESUN that our mobile suits violate the treaty first. Ah, a woman's work is never done!"

"That's great news," Trowa said. "Want me to talk to him?"

"Her, actually. And, no, there'll be ample time for that later, once we gain ourselves a little more high-profile support. I came over here to tell you boys it's time we unveiled our little surprise."

Our little surprise? The wording didn't escape Quatre, like he had somehow become enmeshed in a conspiracy of her and Trowa's making. Dorothy plucked their mostly empty glasses from their hands and dropped them on the tray of the next server to walk by. Quatre had no choice but to follow her toward the hall that housed Zero's remains, Trowa shooting him a look that promised they would talk more later.

"Duo and Relena have agreed to meet us at the hall entrance," Dorothy was saying, "so if we can just get our hands on Wufei . . . Where has Mr. Chang been hiding all this time, anyway, Madam Director?"

"Agent Chang had to cancel unexpectedly," Une said. "We caught a break in an ongoing investigation—too important to pull him away from."

"More important than having four of the gundam pilots together again in one place?" Dorothy huffed. As if Wufei's absence were a personal slight.

Trowa smiled. "We know where Wufei's true priorities lie."

"Oh, I'm sure he sends his apologies. I guess we'll just have to make this work without him. And look, they've already gathered a crowd for us."

A small podium had been set up at the hall entrance, where Relena and Duo were indeed already waiting along with Howard (true to character, in rumpled tux; though it wouldn't have surprised Quatre in the least if he'd paired a formal jacket with Bermuda shorts). As the others joined them, cameras flashed and reporters pressed in closer. Nearby conversations faded to anticipatory silence at the sight of the former gundam pilots together in public for the first time. Even if there were only three of them.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention, please," Dorothy addressed the hall. "We'd like to take this moment to thank all of you for coming to the opening of Colony C-421's Museum of Aerospace Technology and History's newest exhibit. Now that you've had a chance to ogle the various mobile suits in the collection, I'm sure you will all agree that one important piece is still missing. You didn't come here just to see Leos and mobile dolls, did you? No, of course not. Leos, while undeniably the backbone of the war machine in the last few decades of the past century, are still a dime a dozen. You came to see something a bit rarer—something extraordinary. You came to see a gundam."

She allowed a pause long enough for the full weight of the word to sink in. By the looks on some of the faces, not everyone had come here expecting that particular expectation to be met.

Dorothy beamed, knowing she had them all eating out of the palm of her hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said, with a triumphant sweep of her arm, "it is with great pleasure that I give you the first, and last, gundam: Wing Zero!"

On her cue, the lights came up in the dark hall behind them, illuminating the chamber's centerpiece with that same eerie blue light that had moved Quatre so unexpectedly the afternoon before. The effect was as though one moment they had been facing a wall of physical darkness, and the next, a metal titan like something out of ancient mythos was spontaneously born into being.

And Quatre was accustomed to the sight of a gundam. Not so the gala's attendees, who might at most have stood on the same grounds as a Leo or Aries, but never seen this now iconic image on anything closer than their television sets. Instead of the applause her earlier speech had earned, an awed hush now followed Dorothy's words. A few at a time the crowd trickled in, like pilgrims entering a holy place, treading softly and staring up at the lost idol that was Zero.

Maybe that analogy was stretching it a bit, but there was something to be said for the amount of respect both dignitaries and journalists alike appeared to share for Wing Zero—either for the machine's role in ending the Second Eve War, or for the pilot, who, as far as they knew, might even at that moment be mingling incognito in their company, or might have given his life to end the Barton Foundation's short-lived coup twelve years ago.

The media wanted photographs of the key players of the Eve Wars with the gundam. It was a natural backdrop for their questions, and so a natural place for the seven to answer them.

"Mr. Barton, Mr. Maxwell. You knew the pilot of Wing Zero. Can't you tell us anything about him? Don't you think enough time has passed for the truth to come out? How would you describe his character? Would he have wanted his suit to be put on display like this?"

"Is it true the it's been at the bottom of Lake Geneva these past twelve years? How did you locate the gundam, Mr. Howard? What was it like for your crew hauling that thing to the surface?"

"Director Une, what is the Preventers' official stance on the colony museum housing this machine? Even in its current state, the gundanium alloy must still be viable. In your opinion, does that violate the 196 treaty?"

"Ms. Catalonia, your group has expanded its operations considerably over the past few years, and now you want to single-handedly bring back mobile suit production for use in outer space. How do you respond to allegations put forth by some in the media that the Catalonia Group is the next Barton Foundation?"

"Please, gentlemen, I don't know how these rumors ever got started, but I find the comparison between myself and Dekim Barton to be utterly without merit. For one, if and when I decide to install my own global totalitarian regime, I certainly won't dress my minions in magenta."

Cue laughter. She even earned a wry snicker from Relena.

"Foreign Minister Darlian, how does it feel to be reunited with the suit that very nearly ended your life?"

"Well, for one, it didn't," Relena said. "I am very much alive, and, in fact, I believe I have the pilot of that gundam to thank for that. Without his efforts—and the efforts of all the gundam pilots—the Earth Sphere might look very different from the way it does today. Because of their noble example," she said as she exchanged glances with Quatre and Duo, "because they would not give up the fight for peace even when the odds were stacked so overwhelmingly against them, the people of Earth would not allow a dictatorship by the Barton Foundation. If there's anything we can still learn from the gundams, it's that peace is something we, as a people, must earn. Every day is a constant battle to maintain it."

Her answer set off a storm of new questions, but, as if he had anticipated their direction, Trowa was quick to fend them off.

"I think what Foreign Minister Darlian is trying to say," he said, his voice understated yet strong enough to rise above the hubbub, "is that the gundams have always been at their most powerful not as weapons of war but as symbols. Symbols of dissent, symbols of terror, yes, oftentimes, but also symbols of freedom from the forces of oppression. We gundam pilots have no wish to be hailed as heroes. Or villains, for that matter. We are only human."

That earned him some murmurs from the crowd. It was a loaded statement if Quatre ever heard one, coming from Trowa. But just like his humor, the various layers of meaning behind it were bound to be mostly lost on their audience.

"Ms. Darlian, are you saying you now support the Catalonia Group's bid to restart mobile suit production?"

Dorothy turned to her with an expectant smile.

But Relena's response was as diplomatic as always. "I cannot say at this point whether I support it or not. Ms. Catalonia and Mr. Barton have submitted plans for this new generation of suits to me, and I will submit my final recommendation—whatever that may be—to the Earth Sphere Unified Nation when I am done reviewing them.

"What I can tell you is that a prototype is already in use in the Martian terraforming project, and so far it has enjoyed wide success. However, I would urge people to remember that Mars is a fairly isolated colony, and conditions there are far different from what they are on Earth. Above all, we have an obligation to future generations not to create tools that have even the potential to wipe out life on Earth, as we came so close to doing thirteen years ago. If that means foregoing the use of mobile suits even for peaceful, constructive purposes, then I will stand by that position."

"And you, Mr. Winner? Do you share the Foreign Minister's trepidations?"

He blinked. That, at least, was a straightforward question. "Of course I share them. As a former gundam pilot myself, few know better than I do the awful price suffered for the proliferation of weaponized mobile suits. I lost my own father to that battle."

"Does this mean you will be giving a negative response to the Catalonia Group's request of material support?"

Material support? That was news to Quatre. Though he expected Trowa would approach him eventually about using the Winner resource satellites, he hadn't thought the first time he heard about it would be through a television reporter.

When he glanced over, Trowa was impassive, but Dorothy smiled back at him with confidence. Of course she would. She'd worked alongside Quatre long enough to know his official response before he did himself.

"On the contrary," he said. "I think I can say, for the record, that I whole-heartedly support Mr. Barton and Ms. Catalonia's proposal. We in L4 have enjoyed the benefits of a peaceful application of mobile suits for decades, without anyone using them to incite violence, and we believe the rest of the Earth Sphere is ready for the next stage in their evolution.

"Mankind is expanding its presence in space once again, and the Colonies are struggling to keep up with the demand for room and resources. If ever there was a time we needed mobile suits, it's now. Not as instruments of destruction, but as instruments of construction. Builders. Excavators. So long as the Catalonia Group can guarantee this new generation of suits can never be used for military purposes, the Winner Corporation's resources, including our supplies of neo-titanium alloy, are at their disposal."

And let the shit storm begin.

A volley of questioning aimed straight at Quatre erupted from the reporters, and he caught more than a few related to the campaign back in his home cluster. But tonight was about his friends, Trowa and Dorothy, and a new lease on the dream of mobile suit technology. Poll numbers and opponents' latest soundbites and attacks on his moral character could wait.

Besides, Trowa's hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently in gratitude and solidarity, would create enough chatter as it was without any words at all.


"I can't thank you enough, Quatre," he said when they had a moment alone out of the limelight, the three gundam pilots. "This wasn't how I wanted to ask you, but that little speech you gave out there in support of our project . . . Well, as I'm often reminded these days, that's why I'm an engineer and not a politician."

"Often reminded by whom?" Duo asked. "Dorothy?"

"Who else?"

"It was the least I could do," Quatre assured Trowa. "They might crucify me for it in the press back home, but it's the truth. How can we say we've learned any lesson from mobile suit warfare if we just toss away the technology wholesale?"

"Mm," Duo interjected, before swallowing a cocktail shrimp. "Speaking of lessons learned, how exactly do you plan to keep these new suits of yours from being weaponized?"

Trowa smiled. "That's where you two come in. If you don't mind, I'd like both of you to participate in the design phase. Quatre, you know more about AI programming than I do. Dorothy thought maybe you'd have some ideas about how to ensure the new suits can't easily be turned against human beings."

Because of the Zero System, Quatre thought, guessing the path of Dorothy's reasoning. The only one who knew its dangers more intimately than the two of them was Heero, and he was perennially unavailable. But if that same technology could be used as a safety measure. . . .

Duo brightened. "So this isn't just some political move for her."

"I know 'gearhead' isn't the first word to come to mind when you meet Dorothy," said Trowa. Duo looked like he was struggling not to supply Trowa with a few words of his own. "But it isn't all about speed and power with her. She hopes to be president of the Unified Nation someday."

"You're kidding. And what will that make you, huh, Trowa? The First Dude?"

"Funny." Trowa's eyes narrowed. "And am I to understand, Duo, that you've left the mother of your future child to fend for herself in that political jungle out there, so you could escape in here with what you snatched from the buffet?"

"Hey, they put the food out for a reason! Someone has to eat it. Besides, rubbing elbows with fat-cat celebs and big wigs? This is a dream come true for Hil. I'm not gonna ruin it for her and drag her away from the action. It's the politicians I'd feel sorry for if I was you. They came here expecting a party, not an inquisition!"

Watching his two old comrades trading jab for jab, Quatre covered a laugh. Like old times, sitting around some lobby without having to worry someone might mistake them for someone important.

"All this monkey-suit business ain't really my style anyway," Duo said with a sigh, folding the remainder of a crab cake into a cocktail napkin and dusting crumbs from his jacket. "But I put up with it because we're brothers, the three of us. And," he said more specifically to Trowa, "brothers support each other in whatever way they can."

"Mr. Barton?" a young woman interrupted with an apologetic look. In a navy business suit and scarlet tie, rather than formal attire, she was clearly working the gala rather than enjoying it as a guest. "Sir, there's a reporter here from The Daily Recap. He was wondering if you might have time to spare for an interview."

"I'll be right there." But the way Trowa's shoulders seemed to slump in a silent sigh did not escape Quatre. He knew others tended to view Trowa as a man of few emotions; but to Quatre, who was used to his mannerisms, the most subtle sigh from Trowa was an elaborate dramatic gesture.

He said to them when the young woman had walked away: "We can talk more about this later. Just promise me you'll think about my proposal before you make a decision.

"Both of you," he said while he stared at Quatre.

Duo stretched in his chair when Trowa had gone, folding his arms behind his back. "Man, I don't know, Quatre. Working on mobile suits again, together as a team. . . . Not to say it wouldn't come back to me, but there are some axes that are just better off staying buried. Know what I mean?"

Quatre smiled at his mix of metaphors. "Then what was all that just now about brothers supporting one another?"

Duo winced. "Hey, I'm not saying I won't consider it. But that's a part of my life I left behind a long time ago. I'm not like Trowa. Or you, even. I've spent the last decade just trying to be normal. A wife and a steady job and a kid on the way—at least one! I'm not sure I'd want to go back. The only reason I'm even here tonight is because—"

Quatre nodded. "Because it means a lot to Trowa."

It meant a lot for the history books, too, their reunion at this exhibit opening, but Quatre was no longer in a mood to wax poetical. "What I can't figure out is if this is Trowa's way of atoning for the past," he said, "or reliving it. Until the end of the war, mobile suits were pretty much all he knew."

"Maybe he feels like he really can't move on," said Duo.

Maybe. Sure, maybe that's it.

"I keep thinking back to when he agreed to dispose of Heavyarms," Quatre said. "He didn't hesitate, like he felt no connection to his gundam whatsoever that was worth holding on to. As if he was only too eager to destroy that part of himself responsible for participating in the war."

"In a way he has, though, don't you think? Maybe building mobile suits for peacetime is his way of starting over. I'm not the only one who feels that way, either. I mean, if you listen to Hilde."

Still, Quatre wasn't entirely convinced it was so simple for Trowa.

"Can I be frank with you, Duo?" he said, lowering his voice. Even in their private corner of the museum, he didn't want anyone to overhear and take what he said the wrong way. "No one else would understand like you would. Well, maybe Wufei, but I don't think he would just listen without trying to make it more complicated."

Duo sobered and leaned forward in his chair. "Sure, Quatre. You know I wouldn't judge."

"It's just, sometimes I miss Sandrock, Duo. I really do. He was more than a machine to me. Much more than a weapon. He was my first true confidante—as twisted as that sounds—the first thing in my life that wasn't telling me what to do or not to do, but just . . . guiding me toward a sense of righteousness within myself I had never felt the presence of before."

"I get it," Duo said. "He was your partner. I felt the same way about Deathscythe. It's probably blasphemous or something to say this, but being near him—being inside him, inside his brain—was easily the closest I've ever come to feeling like there's some kind of God watching over me. I know it's crazy, but it's the honest truth."

Quatre smiled to himself. It's not as crazy as you think, he wanted to say. He wanted to say how lately he'd longed to have that guiding presence back, something outside himself to show him what to do, how to go about this business of leading a colony, how to shoulder these new responsibilities. In many ways, fighting a war had been easier. Not necessarily right, but simpler. There was something about being behind the cockpit hatch that threw all the problems of the world, and all their possible solutions, into sharper relief.

He forced a laugh to banish those memories. "Listen to us. Talking about them like they were alive."

"Well, they were to us," Duo said. "Like Relena said, the gundams were a symbol for so many people. Just more so for us because they were a part of us. And maybe because, at the time, they were all we had in the world."


Quatre sighed and let gravity do its work. The backseat of a town car never felt so good as it did right now, at—he checked the time—two thirty-one in the morning.

Sakamoto turned at the noise. "Busy night, Mr. Winner."

The bow tie came off in two quick tugs, and finally Quatre felt like he could breathe again. "You have no idea. Sorry to keep you up this late, Mr. Sakamoto."

The man smiled. "Not at all. It's my duty, Mr. Winner. I sleep when you sleep. Besides, I've been watching CNN's coverage of the gala event." He gestured to the screen mounted in the dash. "Riveting entertainment."

Even now, recycled footage from earlier in the evening was playing, though Sakamoto had the courtesy to put it on mute.

As for Quatre, he just wanted to put the night behind him. It went as well as could be expected—even exceeded his expectations, to be honest—but it was a lot to digest. So many conversations to filter through—and there was no way he would remember all the names. It all just blurred together in his mind, as if he were trapped in a room of television screens each playing a different segment of his evening at the same time. Not for the first time did he wish he could cut and copy the evening's proceedings from his mind, and leave it empty and refreshed and ready for the next day.

"Well, if I'm lucky," he said more to himself than his driver, leaning his head back and resting his tired eyes, "I can still get about three hours of sleep before I have to start getting ready for the fundraiser tomorrow." Quatre groaned. "God, why did I think I could schedule them so close together?"

Sakamoto smiled to himself.

"I hope you don't mind me saying this, Mr. Winner, but I believe your father would have been very proud of you if he could have seen you tonight."

That made Quatre crack an eyelid and pay attention. "What makes you say that? I've just committed his forefathers' resources to mobile suit production—to a Barton and a Catalonia, no less. He would have disowned me. Again."

Sakamoto laughed. "You would think so, wouldn't you? But he was also a man who fought hard for what he believed in, and he believed strongly in innovation. Innovation for the good of mankind. He was an altruist, pure and simple. In that way, it's easy to see you're your father's son."

Quatre smirked. If he didn't hear those words again, it would be all too soon. Yet, somehow, the bitterness he once felt being compared to that man was strangely absent, and in its place he felt a warmth in the pit of his stomach.

Of course, maybe it was just that Quatre was physically and mentally exhausted, or that some residual memory from his childhood of the man who was telling him this made the words feel more trustworthy than they might otherwise.

"Sounds like you knew him," he told Sakamoto as his eyes fell shut, "better than I did."