For Warnings see the prologue. Thanks for reading! And please, review.
1.2: In the Beginning
Sunday was Quatre's least favorite day of the week. It was the one day he was required to spend with his family. Last year, before his father moved to Las Vegas to personally oversee the construction of City Center, the family visit had been annoying, but survivable. Now, confronted with his father's eternal disappointment and his eleven sister's constant nagging, Quatre woke up with a sense of dread.
He had spent all day Saturday catching up on homework. He still had no idea how he had managed to sleep through an entire day of classes, but he was already swamped with essays and readings, and he had devoted little time to the mystery as he stayed up late in the night to work.
Quatre eventually pulled himself out of bed and went through his morning routine on autopilot.
Clean and shaved, he stood in front of his closet and debated what to wear: presentation was everything with his family, and his father never ceased to criticize Quatre's wardrobe. If he wore a suit he was too 'foreign looking', if he wore jeans he was 'insolent' and the color of his shirts was often a source of deate. It was enough to make Quatre want to just show up naked.
At length he dressed in khaki's and a crisp, white button-up. It was the most undramatic attire Quatre could put together, and he hoped it passed muster.
When the driver pulled to a stop in front of the Winner's Henderson residence, Quatre thanked him and got out of the car.
Spoiled Brat.
Quatre turned around to stare at the driver incredulously, but the man looked back with a blank expression.
"I'll return at seven o'clock, Mr. Winner," he said.
Lucky Bastard. Wish I was filthy rich.
Quatre nodded and the driver took off.
What had that been about? He had heard the driver's words as clearly as though he had spoken them – but the driver hadn't actually said the words aloud.
"Mr. Winner, the family is on the veranda," Rashid greeted him.
"Than – thanks, Rashid. How is Miriam?"
Rashid smiled at him.
"She's well, the little one is keeping her up late, he's a handful." Rashid laughed good naturedly.
Quatre nodded and smiled, pleased at the happiness of the longtime family servant.
Poor kid. No one ever loved him like I love my son.
Quatre stepped away, filled with a sudden, aching sadness that felt alien. The words, the emotions, were not HIS.
"I'm, um, that's great news, Rashid. I should join my father now." And Quatre practically ran away.
His father and sisters were arrayed on the veranda, eating a light lunch and sipping mimosa's, his father's drink of choice for his 'American family.' Even though the Winner's were technically Muslim, Ali Winner forbid his daughters to cover their hair – he even encouraged them to wear miniskirts – and the family only attended mosque on the holy days. Quatre, as a youth, had gone through a spiritual phase when he collected Sufi writings and attended mosque every Friday, as well as prayed five times a day. His father had found out and sent him to a boarding school in Japan for a year: the rigorous schedule had prevented him from even trying to pray during the day, and the list of extracurricular activities his father had enrolled him in left him bone weary at night. It was with much resentment that Quatre had given up his religious quest, and only after his favorite sister, Iria, had cried to him that Ali would disown Quatre if he didn't give up on it. Ali Winner didn't want religion associated with his family – if he could, he would have emigrated to America and converted to Methodism, or something else that was NOT Islam. As it was all of his wives had been blonde haired and blue eyed, pale and perfect. As a result, most of his twenty daughters and his only son were all more Aryan than Semitic in appearance.
"Ah, at last, the prodigal son returns." Ali stood and greeted Quatre with a handshake.
Still weak. The words came to Quatre as soon as he had released his father's hand. Quatre clenched his fists in anger. He had no idea what was going on – maybe he was hallucinating all of this? Maybe all of his personal fears had finally gotten the better of him and he was going insane?
He sat down beside Iria, who smiled at him and passed him a glass of water, which Quatre accepted gratefully.
I hope no one notices. Quatre looked over at his sister, saw he rubbing her stomach. My little angel.
Quatre felt his eyes widen as a feeling of pure love washed over him. Not only that, but he felt a tiny tug, a small, almost insignificant sense of hope return the feeling.
"Iria…what did you just say?"
She looked over at him, her gaze fearful.
"I didn't say anything, Quatre. Are you feeling well? You look pale."
Maybe I should tell Quatre about Sam and I. He would understand. And about little Sarah.
"Iria," Quatre leaned closer, whispering to her, "Iria, are you pregnant?"
She jerked back from him, knocking over her own glass of water and spilling it all over her clothes.
Clumsy idiots. My two most beautiful children – my two greatest disappointments.
Quatre glared at his father even as he helped Iria mop off the water.
"Quatre, how did you know?"
"I… I don't know, Iria. I – I won't tell anyone. Does Sam know?"
Iria nodded and whispered back, " We got married two months ago. We eloped."
Quatre laughed.
"Iria, we're in Las Vegas – and you eloped?"
"To Reno. I know. Sooo romantic."
By this point they were attracted the attention of their siblings and so they resumed their seats. Quatre reached over and squeezed Iria's hand.
He felt a sense of relief and happiness from her and it made him smile.
"Well, Quatre, how was your first week of school?" His father asked him.
"It went well. My classes will be challenging."
"Hm. I'm glad that you dropped that sculpture class – it would have been a complete waste of your time. Taking another semester of Spanish is a much better use of your time."
"Yes father." Quatre had, in fact, signed up to take both classes – he would be auditing the sculpture class, which put his course load at twenty-one hours this semester.
"And you, Khadejiah? How is your graduate work progressing?"
Quatre and Khadejiah were the youngest, and Khadejiah had just begun her final year of graduate work for her law degree. All of Quatre's other sisters were married or working in the family business except for Iria, who had stubbornly refused to marry any of their father's friends and had instead gone to medical school. Two years ago she had moved back to Las Vegas to open her own free clinic with a friend from medical school, Sam Ford, who she was also dating.
Khadejiah gave her own progress report and Quatre allowed his thoughts to wander to his other sisters. He concentrated on Alima, seated beside him. Alima was thirty and worked as a marketing executive for Winner Inc. As a child, Quatre had been almost as terrified of Alima as he was of their father – she was mercurial and cruel and had always resented the fact that, as the only son of Ali, he stood to inherit the entire family fortune.
He tried to listen to her thoughts and feel her emotions – surely, if he wasn't crazy, he would be able to sense something from her.
"Alima, have you started the French advertisements?" Ali suddenly asked.
Beside Quatre, Alima stiffened.
"Of course, Baba. Tomorrow morning I will have roughs on your desk for you to approve."
After six years of doing this, you would think he would have some confidence in my abilities. There was a wave of resentment from her so strong that Quatre felt nauseous.
It was hours later, after an awkward family game of charades that made Quatre feel like a cheater, and an early supper that Quatre walked to the driveway and saw his car waiting.
Just before he escaped, however, his father caught up with him.
"Quatre. I want a word."
Obediently, Quatre followed his father into the first floor office.
Ali sat down behind his desk and lit a cigar.
"Quatre, are you familiar with Relena Peacecraft?"
Quatre frowned, then nodded.
"Yes, she edits the school paper. I'm in a class with her this semester."
"Good, good. I want you to invite her to dinner next week."
"Father?"
"Her family are important, and major investors in real estate. It would be beneficial for the two of you to be on good terms."
"I hardly know her, Father. She might not even like me."
Kids these days. So willful.
"That doesn't really matter. Her father and I have talked, and it would make both of us happy for the two of you to be friends. You do want to make me happy, don't you Quatre?"
He'd better not still have feelings for that boy. My only son will not be a queer.
Quatre felt his face flush at the memory of his father interrupting his first kiss.
"Of course I want to make you happy – but if I don't have feelings for her, it isn't fair to Relena."
His father's face clouded with anger.
"Quatre, I have raised to be a charming man. You will charm her. And she will be here with you next week. Or I'll cut you off."
It was a threat that had been used often on Quatre, the wayward child who flouted his father's authority at every opportunity. As before, it had little effect on him. Ali seemed to notice.
"It isn't only your future at stake. Think of your sisters. Think of Iria."
And that, of course, was the one threat guaranteed to keep him in line. Unlike Quatre, who had inherited a small fortune from his mother, Iria barely had enough money to run her clinic. Without Ali's support she wouldn't be able to continue to offer free medical aid to homeless and abused patients.
"I will certainly make every attempt to charm her into coming, Father."
Ali nodded and waved Quatre out of his office.
The driver stood by the car, waiting somewhat impatiently. He opened the rear door when Quatre appeared.
"Heading home, sir?"
Bet he's had the time of his life.
"Yes, please." Quatre tried his best to ignore the disgust rolling off the driver. He wondered how long he had resented Quatre, his job, and the family.
The thought was depressing, but not as depressing as the thought that Quatre might be going insane. But still – he had sensed that Iria was pregnant, when no one else knew. Was it possible? Maybe… maybe he wasn't crazy after all? Maybe he could sense the thoughts and feelings of those around him. But how? And why?
Monday morning came too quickly for Wufei. Sunday he had spent the afternoon at a local protest, organizing the participants and arguing with the police who threatened to throw them all in jail. He had returned home very late, after having to post bail for several of the protestors who had, actually, been thrown in jail. As a result he was up late, trying to finish homework that he would normally have done on Friday and Saturday – the two days that he had somehow, mysteriously lost.
Even though he woke late, Wufei still had time to prepare breakfast. Eating well was one of his priorities in life, and he always took the time to prepare his own meals when possible. That hadn't been possible yesterday, and he had instead spent the day chugging down smoothies.
Entering the kitchen of his small apartment, Wufei debated between an omelet and another smoothie. He decided that four in one day had been enough, yesterday, and walked over to the gas stove to turn it on.
As soon as he held his hand over the stove top the flame lit under the front burner.
Wufei scowled and fiddled with the knobs. Had he left it on all weekend? But that didn't explain the sudden flame, even if the gas had been on. He turned off the gas and the burner.
Testing the heat of the burner, Wufei turned on the gas and put his hand over it. Again, instant flame. Even though the burner was definitely off.
"What the hell?"
He definitely didn't have time to mess with the stove today, and with disgust, he grabbed a banana from on top of the fridge.
A horrible smell of rotting, burning fruit filled the kitchen. Wufei looked down to see that the banana in his had was on fire, smoldering and charring. Oddly, he didn't even feel the heat.
He threw the banana into the sink and turned the water on, irritated beyond words when the pipe turned red and poured out steam.
Wufei stepped away from the sink and forced himself to calm down. There had to be a logical explanation for all of this, he just needed to calm down and think about it rationally.
He finally managed to get his breathing and heart rate down, and felt his anger slip away. He reached out to turn the 'steam off.' At his touch, however, the steam instantly turned to water and doused the still flaming banana.
Wufei stared at the flow of water for a moment, confused and starting to get irritated again. He turned the water off and left the kitchen to go shower, determined to put the incident behind him. He would figure it out tonight. He would be running late to school, however, if he didn't get showered and dressed in the next ten minutes.
Once on campus, Wufei's day seemed to take a turn for the normal: he turned in his briefs in his international law seminar and he joined in the debate on euthanasia. Everything was going well until just after lunch, when he was struggling to finish his smoothie before going into his section lecture.
A blur of hair, riding a skateboard with no concern for anyone else, knocked into him, Forcing Wufei to spill the smoothie all over himself.
Even as the ice cold fruit stained his clothes and skin Wufei felt his anger burn inside of him.
"What the hell is your problem? Watch where you are going on that idiotic thing! Grow up and start walking like a human being and stop clowning around!" Wufei grabbed the boy, who he recognized as Maxwell, and forced him to look at him. As soon as his hand touched the boy's arm, however, Maxwell jerked back.
"What the fuck did you do to me?" Maxwell demanded, cradling his arm and the crisped edges of his shirt.
Wufei felt his blood turn cold. Had he really just… burnt Maxwell?
The braided menace was glaring at Wufei.
"Where's your lighter, Chang? Give it to me and let me return the favor, huh? I'm sorry I ran into you – but that doesn't give you the excuse to burn me. I'm not the freakin' American flag, asshole."
Wufei blinked, completely confused. And then he relaxed. Maxwell had no idea that it had been Wufei's hands that bad burned him.
"Grow up," he retorted and threw the smoothie into the trash and walked away, his heart still hammering at the close call.
"Well, how are things progressing with Group 13?"
Zechs frowned at his dinner companion.
"I didn't get to spend any time with them today, my class with them is tomorrow."
"Surely you have some preliminary observations?"
"Aside from the obvious fact that I don't seem to be affected?" Zechs ground out.
Across from him, Treize Khushrenada, president of Romafeller technologies, laughed.
"My dear Zechs, have patience. Clearly, we adjusted the serum to have maximum effect on the young adult body – we'll simply have to adjust it and make it a little stronger for you. Remember, it was you who pointed out that genetic manipulation was easier for younger subjects. But, let us focus on our successes, hm? What have you noticed?"
Zechs forced himself to set aside his anger and think back over the weekend with clinical objectiveness.
"It's obvious that Duo Maxwell has been affected – Thursday evening, twenty minutes after exposure, he was suffering the observed first symptoms."
"Good, very good. He's one of the most promising subjects."
Zechs raised an eyebrow at that.
"No home, no family, no future. He'll be easy to acquire, when the time is right, "Treize explained with an offhand gesture. "Now, what else?"
"Quatre Winner was showing signs of distress and anxiety today, so I feel confident that he has experienced…something. Wufei Chang was also exhibiting signs of anxiety."
"Good,good."
"Hilde Schiebecker was absent. I'm not positive that that is related – but it could be. Also, Relena Peacecraft was… almost subdued."
"And what of Heero Yuy?"
Zechs racked his brain. His first impression of the exotic looking boy had been one of disinterest: Yuy had no interest in his field and clearly wanted to get an A from the class with the least fuss possible. Today he had looked no different than his usual, cold self.
"He sat alone, at the back of the class, but did not seem to exhibit any symptoms."
"Good, good. Well, my friend, I need to go to a meeting. Please, send me an update after your class tomorrow? And don't worry about your own situation. We'll fix it."
Treize shook hands with Zechs briefly and then left, leaving the blonde scientist to glare at their empty plates.
He had signed on for the project two years ago, at Stanford, because HE wanted to be given the ability to mutate his genetic structure. He wanted the abilities that he was supposed to be cataloguing in his students.
And yet it seemed that he was merely relegated to the role of observer. Zechs decided that, for now, he would allow it. However, as soon as he could, he would strike out on his own and uncover the serum's secrets for himself.
TBC…
