Warnings: language, violence
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing and the characters are not mine. I just fangirl them like nobody's business.

This is the POV so many of you have been waiting for. I hope you enjoy it as much as you've enjoyed the anticipation.

Captain Barton POV

Theme music: "I See Fire" by Ed Sheeran
Check out my LJ for a list of South African terms.

The third bankie from the end of the second row was empty. Our boy Trowa had left us four months ago, but no one was inclined to take his seat. It left a hole in the mess hall. It left a hole in all of us.

Not that I'd ever expected him to spend the sum total of his days with a troupe of old, leathery ooms like us. In truth, I'd never been happier when he'd told me his plans to head to America. I'd hoped our boy would move on to better things, but that bit of news had exceeded all my hopes. No one would have guessed that his friendship with Maxwell's lightie would bring such an opportunity. Trowa'd hit a luck there.

Of course, there was nothing to stop Dominic Maxwell from breaking my boy's heart, but if that happened, at least Trowa wouldn't be here. Wouldn't be just another hired fighter, renting out his life, putting himself between bullets and blades for his next meal. If there was one thing I could have said to Duo, it'd be this: Don't throw my boy Trowa away.

I wasn't a spiritual man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but that was the prayer I'd taken up the moment Trowa had been called away to Laos – the moment he'd leapt up from his meal and dashed off to the barracks with that larny mobile pressed to his ear and a scowl on his face. I'd known what was coming. I hadn't tried to stop him. Why would I? Trowa might be young, but he was a man. I was proud of him. I'd tossed Martins the keys to the bakkie, the one with three-quarters of a tank of petrol, and told him to crank the engine.

I'd taken the very same vehicle little more than a week later to drive our boy back to the airport. This time he'd been wearing a suit and toting a roller bag. He'd looked to have changed, but I knew his rucksack was tucked inside his suitcase. The necktie and brand names were just another layer of camouflage. My boy Trowa had a gift with camouflage. He had a good skill. He was needed. He was going to a better place than I could offer him. After all the close calls of his childhood, he was getting a fresh start. I'd taken him to the airport myself just to guarantee he wouldn't waste it.

On the way back, I'd reached over and fumbled open the glove compartment for a pair of sunglasses and found Trowa's knife, sheath and all. Not forgotten, but simply left behind. Even now, it was still there. And I was still here and so was that bloody empty bankie in the middle of the mess hall.

"Aweh, Captain," Wallace greeted, pulling me from my woolgathering. He held a heaping plate for me and I stretched out an arm to take it. "Quiet watch?"

"Ja-nee," I told him, biting back a sigh at the sheen of oil on the surface of my bredie. "Just tell me you didn't use the last jug of 10W30 in this."

He rattled the dented ladle at me. "Could be worse as you very well know!"

I did. Trowa's cooking was worse. A smile tickled my lips at the memory of trying to gnaw through his venison steaks. I recalled the persistent heartburn that his too-spicy bredie had given me. More than once, I'd spent a sleepless night wincing up at the ceiling of our makeshift barracks. If I happened to glance across to the neighboring pallet, I was guaranteed to swap looks of identical misery with Bryce. Old men like us didn't have bellies of iron pots anymore. Hell, there was one time I'd caught the boy adding coffee grounds to the beans. Of all things.

At least he'd grown to be a better fighter than a cook. His soup alone could fell an elephant.

Passing by the coffee station, I filled a metal cup for myself and waded into the crowd.

"Whatkind, Captain!" Kask coughed out around a mouthful of breakfast. The sight didn't make the portion in my hands look any more appetizing.

"Morning!" Martins exclaimed as I lowered my aching bones onto the seat beside his. After six hours marking off time on the pavement, my knees were howling. A lifetime of being on alert did that to a man. It wasn't going to happen to our boy, though.

Across the table, Bryce was wincing his way through his own meal, muttering about the dubious honor of the troupe's worst cook finally being transferred to a new chef. He startled suddenly, likely due to a boot to the shin.

"Watch it, man," Martins advised. "You wanna have kitchen duty next?"

He snorted. "Why not? I could do a damn sight better than this."

"I heard that!" Wallace bellowed.

A round of chuckles followed. It helped ease the first bite down my gullet. Didn't help it stay down, though. For that I had to guzzle half of my scalding hot coffee.

"You hear from the kid today?" Martins asked, but I only shook my head.

"Day three, still no email," Bryce assessed.

Ja, I didn't like it either.

"You send him a shout?" Kask called down the table.

I had.

"Eh, well. He's caught up in that American dream," he declared. Everyone in the room pounded on their table in optimistic agreement and Kask acknowledged the approval with a nod before turning back to his dish and spoon.

Martins and Bryce were less inclined to drop the subject.

"He's never missed a check-in before," Martins reminded me.

"Even sent us an email during his coffee break from them stupid security staff meetings he's gotta sit through," Bryce added.

"I'll go down to the housing office and send him an email when I'm off duty this afternoon," Martins decided.

I held up a hand. "I'm off now. I'll take care of it." I got a grunt of thanks from each man. The thickened atmosphere in the room lightened. I even felt a mite better for having made the promise.

We three tried to stomach as much of the stew as we could until Martins' belch echoed twice around the room and Bryce threw his spoon down in the congealing remains of his meal.

"Jesus, Martins. You could eat the ass outta a dead rhinoceros," Bryce complained, standing. "No wonder you can't get that cute little thing in building maintenance to kiss you."

"Shut it, Prince Charming. The last date you had was the four-legged variety."

The whole troupe guffawed and sniggered. Just like old times. But if this really were old times… My gaze moved toward the empty bankie again. Right about now, Trowa's full attention would be on his plate as he anticipated both men turning their banter on him.

"Our boy Trowa here could give you some pointers," Martins might have announced.

Bryce might have rebutted, "What do I need pointers for? I ain't the one eating the assholes outta roadkill."

At which point, Trowa would have quietly interjected. "No amount of pointers could make either of you moegoes right."

And that would have sparked another mealtime ruckus. Dropped plates and noses smeared with cooking grease. Battered and bent spoons flipping through the air to the tune of laughter as everyone lagged at the sight of our boy Trowa giving those two a good skopping.

None of that unfolded, but everyone pictured it. It was there in each pair of eyes that turned toward that blazing empty bankie.

Our boy had better not have landed his arse in trouble. I certainly hoped I'd – we'd – taught him to look out for himself well enough. I'd done my best, but given what he was up against…

I pushed away from the table as Martins and Bryce supposedly quit each other with a dismissive sweep of an arm and a roll of the eyes. The whoops and chuckles coming from their appreciative audience got even louder. This wasn't the end of it. Not by a long shot. I ducked out of the room before the next round of wysing started up and the men started placing bets on who'd be the first to lunge and who'd be the one in the headlock.

It was midmorning. A clear day. All the little ones in the residences had long since rushed off to the day's lessons and the entire compound seemed to breathe easier for it. I know that's what I did. Wasn't easy seeing those boys and girls racing around the courtyard's jungle gym every afternoon, overhearing their little boy and little girl arguments, their shrieks of joy and breathless giggles. That was never Trowa. Between toddling around, pointing his chubby finger at everything from butterflies – "Un, deux, trois!" – to mags of ammunition – "Un, deux, trois!" and holding his own flesh together with his bare hands as I'd sewn up the cut from his first encounter with a machete, he'd never gotten the chance to just be a child. In letting him go, I thought I'd made up for that.

I headed for the main office, but didn't push my way in to ask for a moment with the computer. I didn't trust any of the administrators or their machines. Not since I'd gotten the call two weeks ago:

"Barton," I'd answered despite not recognizing the number on my battered mobile's display.

"Your young friend, Trowa Barton, is in very serious trouble," the caller had informed me. "I'm sure you're aware of the men following him and his friend, Dominic Maxwell, in New York. They are on the payroll of my employer – who is incidentally your employer – Mr. Treize Khushrenada."

The plastic casing of the disposable mobile had groaned in my too-tight grasp. "You have ten seconds to convince me not to track you down and peel you like a bloody melon."

"You don't know what kind of man you're working for, do you? Allow me to enlighten you. Khushrenada is obsessed with obtaining some very specific information from Dominic Maxwell. He will use anything and anyone he can against him. Maxwell has lost his mother, brother, and father. Trowa Barton is next."

"Who are you?"

"Someone who wants what you want – Khushrenada's sudden and quiet disappearance from the face of the Earth. I'll contact you again when he makes his move. You must be ready if you want to have any hope of saving your son's life."

And with each passing day that I didn't hear from my boy, I was beginning to think that his life was already on the line.

I still had the phone number saved in my mobile's incoming call logs. Did I dare dial it? His parting instructions had been to warn me not to. Perhaps a payphone. Something less obvious. Something not connected to Khushrenada's empire. Something less likely to be traced directly to me and the men. I decided on the graffiti embellished phone box at the public library across town. My knees wouldn't thank me for the urban trek, and it likely wouldn't matter in the end, but it was the best I could do.

"We do the best we can and live with the rest."

Still, my boy Trowa deserved better that what little I could give him. I bloody hated having to live with that.

"Excuse me, Mr. Barton?"

I turned and offered a warm smile to the young lady Martins has had his eye on since we arrived. I knew her full given name, but the embroidered tag on her maintenance uniform read "Cathy" so that's what we all called her. "Ja, Cathy?"

"There's someone here to see you."

"Is it?"

She nodded. "I asked him to wait by his car while I came to get you."

"Ah. Good thing." As I looked out toward the road, a felt a touch on my arm.

"This— They aren't here because of Trowa, are they?" she fretted. "Have you heard from him yet?"

There was nothing I could say to ease her mind. Although Trowa hadn't been particularly impressed by her mothering in the two weeks he'd lived here, he had certainly made an impression on her. I'd asked her once about it.

"He reminds me of my father and little brother," she'd said. I'd seen enough grief in my life to know better than to ask about their whereabouts.

She fidgeted and her red hair seemed to shimmer in the sunshine. "If you need anything… I have a little bit saved—"

"You keep it," I encouraged firmly. The troupe wasn't especially short on funds, just information. "I'll let you know when I hear from him."

With that, we parted ways. I set my sights on the front gate and approached, leaning against the railing as I peered out into the street. Parked on the curb was a dusty, white limousine. I held my position and watched for movement. A full minute passed before the driver's side door opened and a man got out. He was taller than me. Wide in the shoulders, muscled from head to toe, and he had that flat look in his eye. It was the look of a man who has chosen to devalue his own life for the sake of his employer's.

"I am Rashid Al-Kubaisi, chief of security for Prince Reberba Winner of Qatar."

I nodded. "Bodrick Barton."

"If you have a moment, my employer would like a word."

I said nothing. The silence continued until Rashid Al-Kubaisi explained, "He is a friend of Lord Dominic Maxwell and would like to offer his assistance if you require it."

Only a fool would walk away from this without further investigation. "I'll speak with him."

Al-Kubaisi nodded and lifted his arm to mumble into the microphone strapped to the inside of his cuff. A moment later, I'd crossed the street and was seated in the air conditioned comfort of the limousine. To my surprise, it wasn't a robed, Qatari man who waited for me.

"I'm Quatre Reberba Winner," the young, blonde man informed me, looking more like a boy on his way to the golf course than a Middle Eastern prince. "Dominic Maxwell is a friend of mine. And, by extension, so is your son."

"You've seen Trowa?" I nearly asked, but knew better than to reveal so much upon a first meeting. I maintained my silence.

"Duo – Dominic, I mean – is heading into a very dangerous situation. I don't know where he is now, but he borrowed a plane and pilot from me. Their flight plan took them to Sakhalin Island, just north of Japan. He didn't make any effort to conceal his destination, so I'm sure he's been followed by a man named Treize Khushrenada."

"Ja," I answered. If he was unsettled by my stoicism, it didn't show.

"I have no interest in what Khushrenada is after. I just want to help Duo. We both do."

"We?"

"Myself and Heero Yuy. And of course Trowa Barton, wherever he is."

Heero Yuy. I'd heard the name. Trowa had spoken of him briefly, warning me that he'd been involved in the goings-on in Laos. What bothered me more than his reappearance was the mention of Trowa. He certainly wasn't in this larny vehicle and it sounded like he wasn't with his china, either. So where the bloody hell was he?

I had so many questions, but in the end the only one I asked was about Yuy, "How is Yuy involved in this?"

"He and his professors at the Tsukuba research facility in Japan believe they have a way of destroying the artifact that Khushrenada's after."

A valuable artifact, clearly. Something too valuable. So valuable it was slated for destruction. And my boy Trowa was caught up in the search for it along with his young man.

"We don't know where Duo's heading or if Trowa's with him, but we have a jet standing by." He handed me his card and a disposable mobile phone. I took both. "We'd like to assist you in helping them."

"In exchange for what?"

The young prince shook his head. "Duo's father and mine were old friends and business partners. And, I was there on holiday in Vientiane when Duo's father died. I wish I'd been able to do more for him. Maybe now I can."

Perhaps he could. The key would be ensuring that he did just that and no more. Good intentions were easily formed and twice as easily destroyed, most notably in the face of greed and ambition. Two things a lightie like Prince Quatre Reberba Winner would know a good deal about.

"I'll be in contact," I told him and knocked on the window. The door opened and I got out, squinting into the glare of the sunlight.

The moment the door shut behind me, I turned to Rashid. "If Khushrenada is really as dangerous as your prince fears, why are you letting him get involved?"

The bodyguard frowned fiercely. "It is precisely because he is dangerous that we must intervene."

To that horrifying truth, I had no reply. Only silence.

I watched as the car pulled away and fought to keep my breakfast in my belly. My boy was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to be starting a new life, but he was just as caught as the rest of us in Khushrenada's web. I had no doubt that our graft with a subsidiary of his company had been a carefully planned and executed strategy. Did Trowa know about it? If so, why had he missed his weekly check-in?

Stuffing the business card and mobile into my vest, I resumed my trek to the library, more determined than ever to reach my contact in Khushrenada's inner circle. Just as I stepped onto the pavement, my mobile buzzed from inside my trouser pocket. The air left my lungs in a rush when I saw that it wasn't a call or message from Trowa. It was in fact the number I'd been setting out to dial.

Pressing the phone to my ear, I glared up at the cloudless sky and barked, "Barton."

"I hope you and your men are prepared, Captain," the man on the other end of the line said. He never had told me his name or how it was he'd come to know Khushrenada's movements and intentions, but I knew I'd be a fool to discount him. Men had been trailing my boy Trowa and his china during their every outing in New York; I had the photos to prove it. And if this Prince Quatre was correct in his assessment of the situation… well, regardless, it was almost a relief to know there was finally something to be done about it.

"Tell me where Trowa needs us," I demanded.

He complied. "Japan. Yamanashi Prefecture. Kawaguchiko Station. Aokigahara Forest. Pack for a long hike."

A click and then the dial tone buzzed in my ear. I glanced down the road in the direction Winner's white limousine had gone. I still didn't know whether I could trust him, but it didn't matter. Trowa might need me – or he might need me to keep an eye on his china – and that's what it all boiled down to. My boy needed me, and I wasn't going to give him any less than my best.

Pulling out the new phone I'd been given, I made the call that would get me where I needed to be the fastest. "We'll meet you at the airport."

"Thank Allah," he breathed and then rallied his composure to instruct, "We'll be standing by in hangar twelve. Small aircraft entrance."

"Got it."

I pivoted on my heel, ignoring the shrieking of my old knees, and strode back to the mess hall. The doors banged open like a pair of gunshots. All movement along the now skewed tables and toppled bankies ceased. Bryce looked over his shoulder and swung about so that Martins – now in a firm headlock – could see the source of the commotion at the entrance.

I surveyed my men, weighed the risks, and gave the order. "Wallace. Kask. Martins. Bryce. Grab your packs. We're heading out. Our boy needs us. Now."

NOTES:

No, Trowa's not really the captain's son, but I think it's pretty obvious that the sentiment is there. I mean, Empty Nest Syndrome much? Besides, anyone with the resources to look into Trowa's background would find out that he was raised in the Barton Troupe. Stands to reason there's some sort of familial attachment going on there.

In other news, you guys can totally guess who the informant is, right? RIGHT?

And who's ready to geek out with me over the captain's given name? Yup, I do love me some Bodrick Barton.