AN: Hi, y'all! It's been a long time. This is an update for some chapters. I added a new character to the mix.
The circus was alive tonight! The white voluminous tent, festooned by gold and purple ribbon that adorned its frame in a celebratory circle, shimmering under the floodlights like liquid color bedazzled by the sun, and the roaming and crisscrossing searchlights, created an eclectic atmosphere of celebration, an allure of unbridled enthusiasm sparked by an evening fervor for the weekend. The searchlights dazzled the nighttime sky and acted as a beacon to draw throngs of boisterous weekenders, where bustling crowds were still, after a nearly two-hour performance, crowding the entrance to the tent.
The crowd soon grumbled and moaned their dismay when security closed off the entrance with a red rope barrier. The tent had exceeded past full capacity, and the crowd soon dispersed within the city, some loitering around concession booths and recreational areas. Inside, the sitting attendees eagerly awaited the next performance that would send their imagination abound in restless excitement.
Backstage, sixteen-year-old Trowa Barton sat in ponderous silence on an equipment box, waiting patiently for his turn once more in the spotlight. His gloved hands were folded in his lap, fingers intertwined and rigid as if they were made of stone. He sat like a statue, a picture of patience learned from years, and nothing could move him besides the summoning of his role.
Trowa had a face considered handsome, a white visage with ancestral ties to the European continent. His childish features were melting away into the man he would become in the future: a man he was not sure he thought he would fully see (and he was prepared for that); and though he looked young, there was something off about the teen. Those that looked upon him, that really took the time to observe him, did not see him as a child, for the shelter of innocence, the naivety of the world from those of his age, could not be found. He had lost his innocence when he realized his value lay only in the fires of war, a tool to be used.
His calloused large hands had been cut, burned, bruised, and were rough to the touch. They had lost their gentleness a long time ago, a time where Trowa was small and feeble and helpless. They had been used for rough handles of guns, for heavy work of construction and machinery, for killing, for piloting mobile weapons for long hours, for music and enjoyment. Now these interlocking hands moved with instinct, with weariness, with confidence as they remained still in front of him.
Trowa was a quiet teen. His dark forest green eyes often were his voice, and they bore a heavy if not critical gaze some would consider cold. His eyes manifested as a barrier that separated him from the world around him, the sea of leaves that hid the forest floor, it kept many at bay from plundering into its depths. To be caught in his gaze was for him to decode a person's true intentions. Nothing escaped from his eyes.
Everything was unraveled. Everything was evaluated. Everything was deconstructed. He could not afford anything – absolutely anything – to get past him. To get by him insured his own demise.
To stop any assault on his person – physical, mental and emotion -, Trowa's emotions were dissembled behind a stoic mask he often portrayed publicly, offset by his colorful and flamboyant costume of a smiling clown. He wore a white mask that covered the right side of his face, with a purple star painted over the eye that dipped into the mask's smiling red lips, which seemed to smile and hint as if it knew an open secret: there were two sides to Trowa Barton, and the mask held those two sides at bay: the mysterious, zealous, no-named performer and the gentle and reserved boy.
Trowa's unruly brown cascading bangs fell onto the right side of his face, stopping at his pointed chin, hiding most of the clown mask. The back of his head remained short and neat, a remembrance he kept from his days on Earth in his childhood. He had taken to the look as a child when he had, in a forgotten city, found that his long bangs obscured his features. It made him imperceptible, and somehow, among people, he could ghost through them unnoticed until he wanted to be seen.
Gold suspenders hugged his bare muscular chest that attached itself to ostentatious, green, balloon pants. The balloon pants for all its bagginess were quite light, constructed from the same cotton fabric of his previous costumes when he had joined the traveling circus in After Colony 195, a courtesy of Catherine Bloom. He had found the pants did not hinder or strain any movement and was quite pliable to the movement of his body, to how his legs bend and stretched with his body, like water.
He felt his new look gave him more freedom to define himself as a performer. It set him apart from the other employees. It was a new, minimized look for the young clown, a less flamboyant and caricatured version steeped in 20th century stereotypes of old. He had felt the world, the audience, needed to be on him.
Catherine had happily agreed, throwing gushing comments of how his new look would attract many admirers to their shows. She said if he had plans on wooing the audience and melting them into a gooey mess of enthrallment, then he had better prepare himself for the adoration. Of course, he did make the preparations and it seemed to have paid off.
Observing the audience and their coos and screams when he entered the tent from past shows leading up to today, he could say she was not wrong in her assessment. He, like always, ignored their adulation, their adoring screams that rang in the air when he appeared, remaining sedulous to his art, a dedication born from a marriage of meticulousness and his love for the arts and humanities he had studied as a child. The noise was more of a passing annoyance that rang silent when ignored, that became distant, distant muffled echoes.
Presently, Trowa's visible green eye remained fixed on the tent walls, transfixed not on the wall, but something past it, as he ignored the flashing lights and the fire-tempo of the carnival music blasting from the stadium speakers, vibrating his seat. Trowa's imminent performance was pushed to the back of his mind. It was not like it mattered as he had already memorized the routine. He could perform the routine with his eyes closed if needed.
It was trivial in comparison to the looming and existential threat facing him.
His mind dwelt on the future – a potentially dangerous future. Trowa's thoughts were engaged on a coming rendezvous with a friend, to deal with imminent threats facing the colonies and the Earth. He had not seen his friend in months, and he knew when he came, his position in the world would change. His time dwelling in peace would have ended, as short and abrupt as it was.
It's the consequence of those seeking power, he thought, listening to crowd roar in the arena.
Trowa's friend had messaged him a classified report from the Earth Sphere Unified Nation's Preventers, an intelligence agency formed to "prevent" any escalation of conflict, through the Gundam Circuit while he was touring in the sector with the circus troupe. Trowa had been scouring the Gundam Circuit that day, browsing for any information on the state of the world, when he had received the email. He had been keeping a lookout ever since Ralph Kurt's visit earlier in the year, he had been feeling uneasy, like the coming cold of night creeping on the skin. The threat was not visible, but it was felt intensely, hostilely, and only seemed to heighten his concern.
When Trowa read the report, he had found it disturbing as it was a rather scathing rebuke of this era's peace. The arduous work they gave their souls and bodies for, in the hopes of a promised peace fueled by a cataclysmic war, was really brittle. It was made of glass and someone was willing to break it.
Or maybe it was when men sought power, the power to override and destroy, they would trample over history to assert their dominance, their claim on an entity or thing. It was a truth Trowa was familiar with. He grew up at the feet of men dealing in game of death. Peace was a misunderstood if not wayward notion that many did not think about. They never had time too.
And now these men plotted conspiracy, refusing to bow to the majority of Spacenoids and Earthlings.
The people from his past were resurfacing from long-forgotten shadows and battlefields. And the light, a fierce light that continued to be tested, halting the expansion of the aggressive shadows, protecting this glass-like peace, was dimming, fading a slow death to evanescence. Soon the shadows would usurp the light.
Trowa knew it was only a matter of time before the coming darkness would take the stage and envelop the characters. He hoped to put a stop to it before it was enacted. The unknown actors still hadn't set the stage quite yet. Time was critical.
Time, which could not be prolonged, always came to ahead, holding no qualms for the state of the world or one's priorities. Trowa would have scoffed had time been generous in its outreach. He would have bought it flowers if it gave enough space for him to duck out and fulfill his own needs. Alas, it was not so.
Time was a selfish lover, and it certainly cared not for Trowa's relationships. He would have to extricate himself from them, for peace was a random time bomb in his life: no one knew when it would be set off or the destruction it would cause in his obliviousness. Trowa had noticed the all-too-familiar patterns of the world receding from its current era - political lines were drawn, discontent of soldiers looking for a new battlefield, the return of weapons to establish power – the hanging threats that could ferment into something insidious.
Trowa had always been aware. Any and everywhere he went he remained vigilant. He kept an ear out for anything suspicious. Traveling through the colonies, he had picked up on the quiet yet growing discontent from his fellow Spacenoids. They harbored deep grievances, rooted in blood and death. But it was loss that had gripped them the most – loss of life and loss of self. All stemming from and now blossoming from a seed of grief.
He heard the familiar stirrings of betrayal, whispered in passing, in enclaves congregated by hawkish veterans, fueled by anger and its powerful sibling grief. The colonies were in peace, but peace had not arrived for many. Peace had come with its own battle, its own complexities, and it was losing. It was like treading across the swinging rope of war, as the volatility of peace in space was unraveling at its fragile foundations.
During this change, the circus had come to space again, to Colony X-30098, in the L-3 colony cluster. The manager had said, since the war's end, he wanted to spread some cheer to the Colonies. Trowa had silently agreed, believing that the nation of colonies thirsted for fun and entertainment to alleviate the depressive atmosphere from the war. There was no fun in war; there could never be unless to stimulate a sadist. People had lost much, and many feared of losing more and falling prey, once again, into the lap of complacency.
However, from what Trowa had seen within his adopted region, happiness thrived. Space had never been so open and warm. The colonies were once again flowering with joy and excitement, where the war had left them bereft and afraid as hope, back then, was a dream, frozen by the hands of death, oppression, rebellion, war, and revolution. Peace was an afterthought last year.
Now, the colonies' denizens took to this new freedom, this newborn peace, like bees to pollen. It was a luxuriating feeling at to be ease in their homes without the iron grip of force and oppression hounding their heels. This attraction was intoxicating and so very welcoming. The colonies were free.
From this sense of freedom came the thrill of entertainment. Tonight, the circus troupe had attracted a large turnout, more so than last year. The people were delighted by their appearance, tickets sold out in hours, and crowds squished together, tightly packed, just to see the show. Trowa could hear the crowd gasp and cheer, their raucous applause reverberating like echoes in a cave.
Trowa knew the manager, Arthur Vitt, was nearly closing the show for the night. All that was left was his last performance on the tightrope, a job that came naturally to him. Trowa had always walked a thin line between life and death – for death was a constant companion, because his past, his childhood, was born, and bred for the battlefield. Trowa had found it amusing, for the tightrope became, in a way, a lifeline of what he was, an internal separation between his life of war and peace – which both could be housed together in an internal struggle for supremacy.
Inside the house, peace was winning but barely.
"We got a performance for you tonight!" the manager announced, breaking Trowa out of his reverie.
Trowa stood and glided his way to the opening flap. He stood at the entrance readying his mind and his body for the performance. He tightened his muscles somewhat, flexing, and relaxing, letting the quiet anticipation grow within him.
The tent was pitch-black except a lone strobe of light illuminating the manager in the middle of the floor. The crowd was nothing but amorphous silhouettes moving back and forth, their cellphones alight in the dark, like an undulating sea reflecting stars. The crowd quieted but unintelligible whispers steadily raised the volume until it was, once again, unbearably uncontrollable.
The anticipation was thick and heavy and seemed to make the crowd more riled, more vocal as if a contagious pathogen had spread, seizing the audience one by one, and turning their quiet anticipation into sedentary pandemonium; whistles and hoots and the drumming of stomps resounded loudly, thunderously, in restless anticipation, for the closing performance was at hand.
"Please give another round of applause for Trowa Barton, our star performer!"
That was his cue. The drum roll began its nightly, violent ritual. Trowa somersaulted and flipped to the center of the stage, the drums growing louder and louder, driving harder and faster, an uncontained fervor piercing the air and pounding the ears, like booming marching footsteps walking in unison, resounded after each acrobatic movement. He stopped and landed after a front double tuck facing the audience, and the drums, reaching its crescendo, crashed into silence. The spotlight found him, and he bowed graciously to his audience, welcoming them to the finale.
The crowd roared before him, hooting and cheering so loudly that his eardrums trembled. He could feel their enthusiasm, the vibrations booming in the air, raising his fine hair on his skin like an electrical current. It was music to his ears.
The tent brightened in light, and Trowa, using his extraordinarily powerful legs, crouched, and then jumped, and freely flipped in the air. He felt as light as a feather, twirling and spinning, as if the wind had swept up the feather in a furious gust. Trowa landed with the grace of a ballet dancer, on a taut tightrope high above the ground, the rope bouncing lightly under his feet. The audience, sitting in bleachers surrounding the stage, looked like blurs, but their cheers of elation met him in the air, ringing around him, filling the whole tent in sound.
Tonight, would be something different.
Tonight, he danced in fire.
Trowa had asked for something new, a personal finale of sorts. It would be his last performance for a while. He wanted the crowd to remember this feeling, this sense of joy that emanated from their performances. Trowa wanted them spellbound, utterly enraptured. He sought to fill their minds with awe, leaving them insatiable.
Yesterday morning, Trowa had suggested the use of pyrotechnics on the safety net. Catherine had marveled at the idea. He remembered her gray eyes gleaming at the challenge as the captivation of such a performance could only bring greater acclaim to their troupe. The manager wasn't sure, as he kept a careful eye on any suggestion Trowa made, learning from past experiences the teen's performances were extremely dangerous, as if Trowa liked teetering on the edges of life and death.
Trowa could not blame him; he had put them in harm's way when he used Heavyarms to destroy a local Organization of the Zodiac (OZ) base during a performance. He doubted Arthur would ever forget neither the incident nor the cost of Trowa's decision. Any idea Trowa offered for a performance was more than scrutinized; it was ruthlessly interrogated until all bases were checked and Arthur had the peace of mind to know the performance would not be an endangerment to his employees and himself.
However, Trowa and Catherine managed to convince the manager to his side. Trowa knew how to provoke a reaction from the crowd, and the manager couldn't ignore Catherine. Catherine was the assistant-manager, so her words held indubitable weight, and she was bit more lenient on Trowa's transgressions, much to Arthur's grumbling annoyance.
"Let's light things up!" the manager exclaimed. He turned to Catherine, motioning an arm to her, his face full of explosive excitement, though his eyes betrayed a deep-seated fear. "Ms. Catherine Bloom, please, if you will do us the honor and set the net ablaze!"
Below him, Catherine walked to the net, torch in hand. She held the flame under the net, and it licked the air greedily until it caught the taste of the high-density polyethylene material. The net was engulfed completely in fire. The audience gasped in fright and excitement.
The fire rose and rose, flickering and spitting, dancing dangerously below him. It wanted to devour him, writhing hungrily, angrily. The flames, amid their bellicose dance, felt familiar, as if they were hissing to him in a language of upheaval and violence that he knew, regrettably, all-too-well.
The fire called to him, and then it happened: the battlefield flashed in Trowa's mind.
All too soon Trowa's cacophonous past drowned out the audience as he stared at the fire, entranced by its writhing violence. He froze. He soon felt the sensation of tightness, like being squeezed through a tube. The audience's voices became indistinct and distant echoes at the cusp of his mind until he was, quite vividly, thrown into his war-ravaged past.
Vivid sequences of his battles exploded in his mind anachronistically. Trowa saw the titanic fires raging over demolished bases, the mortal cries of dying men and women, the thunderous explosions of mobile suits that glittered chillingly all around him, shredded and burned metal strewn over fortifications in heaps like ruins of an old age, the smell of rotting and smoldering corpses blackened and unrecognizable; the fusillade of Heavyarms's Gatling guns roaring at enemies, their empty clips ringing, ringing, ringing in melodious dissonance, each bullet piercing with deadly precision, perforating his enemies' metal bodies as if they were paper; the billowing smoke from the wreckage that blotted and dyed the sky an ominous and ugly black, that seemed to consume the very world, descending the world into turbulent chaos; desperation and redundancy of a freedom fighter without a cause.
It all crashed within him violently.
"What will our noble clown do?" echoed the manager from his podium, his tone masked in fright, which the crowd ate up, their whispers transforming into clamoring incoherence. The manager looked between him and the crowd, puzzled and worried, for, unbeknownst to the audience, Trowa hesitated. Catherine had her hand over her mouth; her grey eyes were wide, and she looked on in stunned silence.
The act had become real.
The past shattered into pieces around Trowa. The shards reflecting his life-defining moments ebbed into the fading darkness. The manager's voice had awakened Trowa from his trauma-induced dream. Trowa blinked, remembering where he was, high atop the swaying rope, in the middle of a performance.
Panic came like a flood, inundating every fiber of his being. He could feel his heart racing, his fingers fidgeting as if he were back in Heavyarms's cockpit, seeking the trigger of his joystick, the burning need to pull and eradicate all enemies with mechanical efficiency. Trowa forced himself to remain calm, to stop his erratic heartbeats that now came to his ears, blocking all but the sound of his heart's maddening plea to be heard and assuaged.
Trowa exhaled a long breath, fighting to compose himself, fighting not to betray himself to thousands of people. Trowa curled his fists into balls to attempt to stop his trembling. He knew if he could not stop, then traversing the rope would be a fruitless endeavor. When his body stilled and he could feel the tension of his muscles alleviate, Trowa re-centered his gaze to the end of the tightrope.
That was strange, he thought, perplexed by the sudden recalling of his terrifying memories. Does my past still torment me, like a child that never surmounts their phobia, triggered by the briefest of instances? Do the fires of war and steel still call to me, my bloody baptism as a soldier?
Trowa had never been so consumed by his past during a performance. It frightened and unnerved him. He had thought he had reconciled with his past by staying with the circus troupe and Catherine.
Catherine gave him hope.
She gave him a home to return to after the war. That should have settled his turbulent mind. Or so Trowa thought in his naiveté that peace with his family would shelter him from his inner turmoil, would ward off the shadows and fires of war that haunted his spirit. He guessed that there were fires that could not easily be quelled or extinguished through peace and silence. Some fires remained indelible.
Trowa narrowed his eyes and replaced his building worry with focus. He would cross that bridge later. Right now, the performance must go on. He could tell, by a sweep of his gaze, the manager's and Catherine's body language expressed shocked. It would not be ideal for him or the performance if he continued gazing listlessly into the distance or delay the show any more than he had.
Moving ahead, Trowa treaded across the rope, ignoring the fire roaring below him and the smattering noise of the audience. The crowd, now, calming, returned to his performance, many standing up to see if the boy would fall. He did not. He never did.
Trowa stopped near-halfway to the middle and turned his back. He slowly performed two back handsprings, his legs taut, stretching, one after another until he reached the middle. He paused as the amazed crowd cheered. He front-flipped, feeling his body rotate, his head dipping, and grabbed the rope in a one-handed handstand, his free hand outstretched to the crowd as if to invite them to join his suicidal performance. Of course, none would willingly indulge or take such an invitation.
To join Trowa would mean bearing the heaviness of the world and the Colonies and facing a harsher reality where tragedy made home and the terror of death, as omnipresent as an imperceptible light breeze kissing one's skin, shadowed one's every move. To take his hand was to, at bottom, willingly acquiesce one's humanity, and to erase and replace it, as a blank slate, into a weapon. It was a dangerous offering to take.
Finishing another front flip, Trowa brought his body into a one-handed handstand. Slowly, and quite deliberately, he let his body fall. Feet first then body. As his body fell, he let go of the rope. The fire raged closer.
Trowa felt the intense heat, its hot breath on his face, briefly, smothering, and landed next to the burning contraption, his knees bending from the impact. He let out an imperceptible grunt. The fire was quickly extinguished, leaving fingers of smoke rising in the air like smoldering battlefields. He paused, waiting, waiting under the heavy and stunned silence of the crowd. Their awe-open mouths and bated breaths filled the silence of the applause.
A lonely drop of sweat trickled down his forehead, winding its way along the landscape of his face. The droplet fell and splashed on the ground as he bowed to his audience. They drowned him in applause, muting the manager's ecstatic voice.
A hand squeezed his right shoulder. His visible eye followed the hand to Catherine's beautiful face, her short brown curly hair glowing in the light. She looked radiant, surrounded by light as if dressed in its brilliance, and compounded with the crowd's adulation, she glowed. She smiled beautifully, but her smile did not reach her large eyes. Catherine's eyes, gray circular mirrors that reflected Trowa, told him everything about his performance. Trowa's face remained blank, and he moved his eyes away from her, closing them in shame.
XXX
Shortly thereafter, Trowa was packing his duffle bag. He had on a blue long-sleeved turtleneck, fitting his muscular form, jeans, and dark blue boots. He was in his room, in the colony hotel Stardust. The room was modest: a single queen-sized bed rested against a bland beige wall, two armchairs sat by the open window, where pulled back purple curtains overlooked an immense view of the bustling city, a small closet, and a bathroom.
The television hanging from the wall was on, the anchor's voice competing against the indistinguishable noise of the outside world. From what Trowa could hear from the television, the anchor reported that a high and abnormal concentration of solar flares would be hitting Mars in a few weeks, due to the active (and explosive) sunspots caused by an irregular internal reaction. The anchor said it would be the strongest yet since recorded history.
The circus troupe was staying at the hotel for the remainder of the week before they travelled on to the next colony. The demand was enormous, and they couldn't pass on an opportunity like this. Trowa, on the other hand, was leaving. The report he had received from the Gundam Circuit came flooding into his mind. His worry returned, saturating his current thoughts.
The Preventer report stated that the Barton Foundation was proliferating weapons in the orbit of Mars on a resource satellite and at many Lagrange points hidden in the colony clusters. Each was an independent site under the guise of the Foundation's business and industries – proliferation of arms, capital, labor, and soldiers. The report was stirring, and it made Trowa uneasy at how quickly the Foundation was moving. He knew the peace obtained by the Gundam pilots during the war, as fragile as it was, could unravel and collapse, especially with Dekim Barton as the catalyst.
Dekim was making his move, and Trowa knew how important it was to stop him. Dekim Barton, the creator of Operation Meteor would be after his head. He would permanently silence Trowa through public execution, as a reminder – and a warning – for dissenters, for murderers and coconspirators against him, his reign, and his family. Absolute fealty to the Barton Foundation was demanded; deference, as always, to Dekim's will, was priority.
Dekim inspired loyalty, and it was no small feat he had so many revolutionaries pledging themselves to him and his cause. He had the power and charisma to achieve his goals.
Trowa, in an act to counter Operation Meteor's true objective, had taken the name of his son and acted out missions as the replacement for the original Trowa Barton. However, he was caught before the operation at Lake Baikal in Siberia, Russia. The flow of arms to Heavyarms had ceased at the realization he was a fake. Fortunately, he had no more trouble with the Barton Foundation until Ralph Kurt found him on Earth, demanding Heavyarms for the remnants of the White Fang and a certain man lurking behind the curtain, pulling the strings. Trowa was positive Dekim was that man, the enigmatic puppet master moving in the shadows, his hands were pushing and pulling anyone he could manipulate.
Dekim was a man born from the shadows and was simply biding his time before his grand entrance into the light, where he would bring a reckoning of catastrophe and authoritarianism. Trowa knew this with certainty. Indeed, Dekim's son often spoke of his father's grand ambitions for conquest of space and Earth, and Trowa couldn't find fault that the son was as egotistical and power-hungry as the father. The original Barton wanted Earth to genuflect to the ideals and wishes of the Barton family. Nothing could satiate that desire; revenge for the assassinated and venerated politician Heero Yuy or peace for the Colonies could not make an impact. Trowa thought it only fueled Dekim's desire for vengeance; vengeance against the death of his friend and vengeance the Relena's pacifism had taken away his ambitious cause.
And it seemed Dekim was still defiant, even after peace had come to the Colonies. Trowa had a feeling Dekim wouldn't stop until he conquered space and Earth. Revenge drove the old man's violent lusts and it would be revenge that would endanger him and the people close to his heart. Violence, for Dekim, was simply a means to an end – and it was always necessary.
Men like him knew only their narcissistic ideals could be realized through violence and bloodshed. Peace and democracy were only chains that limited their brutality, and bureaucratic frameworks only slowed the process. They needed total control to speed the system up if not obliterate it at its foundations.
Dekim was a merciless man and betrayal wasn't so easily forgiven. Trowa's death would be immediate and Heavyarms would be his possession once again, to subjugate the Earth as it was intended. Mercy was only in Dekim's vocabulary if one would be a pawn in his grand scheme. Dekim measured peace by how much authoritative control he had over people. The only thing that mattered to the man was submission to his conquest.
Trowa would take any method to undermine and subvert Dekim, even if it meant he had to play the pawn. He would make sure, when the chance presented itself, to assassinate Dekim. Trowa silently vowed he would continue to kill again to shelter others from the throes of violence and bloodshed. Dekim was just another target to continue peace in the Earth's Sphere.
Trowa breathed a heavy sigh, turning his thoughts of assassination aside. He was about to restart packing when he heard a soft rapping on his door. Quickly, he turned off the television and opened the door. He was greeted by Catherine's smiling face. An uncomfortable feeling grabbed hold of him, and it seemed to weigh on his skin the more he looked at Catherine.
There was something off about her. Her expression was downcast. Her smile was forced; there was tightness in her cheeks as if they were pulled by a rope; and sadness wafted from her like a depressing and slow mist, a sadness he could feel scream at his being.
"Catherine," acknowledged Trowa softly.
"Do you mind if we talk for a bit," she said, nervously wringing her hands. She bit her lip, a nervous or anxious reaction he had noticed when trouble dwelled in those gray irises. It usually was never good news.
Trowa nodded, welcoming her into his room by stepping aside. Catherine walked in and sat on the red covers of the bed. Trowa closed the door and leaned against it, watching her through his heavy lashes. Catherine was out of her circus costume, wearing a yellow tank top that revealed her pale white skin and her ample cleavage and was tucked into a pair of hip-hugging jeans.
She was svelte with healthy definition in her arms - from years as a knife-thrower and other acrobatic positions - and tall. She smiled wanly at him, a smile that made his heart clench, as her hands gripped the covers in a restless attempt to handle her nervousness.
Her nervousness won.
Catherine was afraid to speak. Her eyes said it the most: they were large and red and unshed tears, that were growing brighter by the minute, threatened to spill over a track of stained skin; and Trowa, then, knew, she had been crying just before she came in.
Trowa was the first to speak, to break the dreary silence. "I'll return. You don't need to worry, Catherine."
Catherine said, "Your foresight is always amazing, Trowa. It's kind of scary."
Catherine sighed, looking down at her lap. Her eyes seemed to be staring at nothing and everything. Sad gray eyes, finally, found Trowa's green. "It feels like I've just had you back with me, and now you're going away again. Off to fight. You always seem to be slipping through my fingers, each time going further and further away. You know, you're like the stars sometimes, like, you're out of my reach even though I know you're there. Even in front me.
"One day, I'm afraid, I… I'm going to realize that you'll be gone for good – and there won't be anything I can do to stop you!" Her voice had taken a somber tone, slightly cracking at the end, as if her hopes were vanishing before her eyes.
Pain, which tormented her in waves, echoed in her words. Trowa could feel her ache at his decisions to involve himself in battle. It was pain he was familiar with from Catherine. It was a raw pain he knew he could never truly assuage.
Trowa remained silent, choosing to listen and watch. He knew his sudden departures hurt Catherine. She may not have expressed it often, but he could see it in her eyes, feel it in his very bones. But he had to go! His past was a nonnegotiable matter, a bloody past that refused to remain buried, and it would be soon that they would target the people he held most dear - Catherine and the circus troupe, his adopted family – as leverage for Heavyarms.
Trowa did not doubt the madness men like Dekim would steep to, to recover what was his.
Trowa wouldn't let harm come to them, he would combat and obliterate them if they so much as touched them. He would sacrifice his life to do so. They deserved peace far more than anyone else, more than himself, a destroyer who takes life to become alive in the wreckage of his foes and near-death experiences.
Catherine knew what Trowa was going to do; he had no doubt in that fact. She knew he was going to fight and, though she understood, she completely hated it. She absolutely loathed the idea of fighting and war. She had always hated war.
War was a merciless, bloodthirsty beast. When war lifted its head and bared its monstrous fangs, no one, no matter who they were, could escape from its clenching jaw unharmed. War had taken her family away from her, leaving her alone, only surviving within the love and embrace of her circus family. It had left her physically unharmed but had drug its fangs and tore across her soul and mind.
Remembering her past was a constant torment for Catherine, and it rose in her every time she looked at him when his mind drifted far away, subconsciously latching onto memories he wanted to forget but couldn't, to disturbing memories that lingered quietly in the background of his thoughts. She was always watching him, and Trowa knew.
Sometimes he tried to reassure her. Oftentimes he would remain silent. She offered to listen to Trowa if his thoughts strayed to memories soaked in war, but he could never tell her. Those memories, those regrets, the dissonance of war and peace, those alone were for him to bear and endure until he became nothing. They were terrible to relive again, even if he had thought of them often.
He could not sully her already fragile heart with his deeds of destruction. Often recollecting on his past was unbearably ineffable to put into words, to speak, only for his words to be reduced to a crying and deafening, an abject and aggrieved and choked silence. It was best to say nothing and move forward.
Catherine had told Trowa after he tried to commit suicide by nearly self-destructing his Gundam (he had received a tearful admonishment later), when she was very young, of how her parents and her baby brother, Triton, were killed fleeing a UESA air raid. There was no sudden alarm or evacuation drill, the UESA had swept in because of reports of civilians harboring wounded mercenaries, bombing all indiscriminately. She was left an orphan, haunted by the staccatos and the crescendos of gunfire, the earth turning to fire and smoke, quaking like a reckoning.
She just wanted peace for herself and her circus family – and Trowa, now, was a part of her family, the surrogate brother that she never had growing up. She gave him a home, a place he could return, a place where he didn't have to be heartless, where he didn't have to fight to survive, and she accepted him without question. She gave Trowa a new chapter to life, but that chapter was slowly coming to an end all-too-quickly, the pages burning away, leaving embers that could blaze again and consume his life's story.
"It's something I must do," Trowa found himself saying. The words felt robotic on his tongue, but that did not mean they were any less true. Responsibility to this new world hung on his already burdened shoulders.
Catherine had to understand from his position he couldn't afford to leave them in danger, like when OZ captured them during the prelude to the Eve's War. He had nearly lost them to a madman's war to end all wars and the insanity of OZ's Space Force. And almost – Trowa's hands clenched angrily – by his own hand when he had piloted the Wing Zero. To do nothing was unacceptable.
"I know." Catherine looked up to him. Her gray eyes were bright. "I just… I just wish that you didn't. It's not going to bring you peace. I can see it, Trowa, especially after today's performance! Seeing you hesitate on the tightrope! Trowa" – Trowa's eyes narrowed, and his gaze bore, unflinchingly, into Catherine – "you never hesitate!
"I was afraid you'd fall. Your eyes back then look so haunted, so engrossed, like you were dreaming. It reminded me of when you lost your memories. You looked like a lost and scared child when I found you."
Catherine's sad expression changed into one of desperation, fueled by anger and fright. Her voice grew louder until she was shouting, "DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW LONG YOU WERE UP THERE?"
Receiving Trowa's silence as an answer, Catherine attacked, her eyes burning into him. "Three minutes! You were up there, motionless, for three damn minutes!"
To Trowa, being stuck inside his head, watching his memories, felt like forever. Time did not exist in his nightmare. Three minutes felt short in comparison to what he'd been through. But he knew on the battlefield, those three minutes of inactivity was death.
He frowned internally. The battlefield, as it seemed, would not let Trowa forget. And to speak his current thoughts, there would be no mistaking that Catherine would find fault in his thinking. He realized with contempt that the battlefield had become a part of him, like an unwanted and grotesque limb.
"Do you not know how frightened I was for you, Trowa? Even the manager was scared! We thought we might have to stop the show!
"Don't you see," Catherine continued, her voice becoming stronger and passionate, "To do this will destroy you! Trowa, you can't -!"
"It was a moment of hesitation, Catherine," Trowa interrupted, his voice leaving no room for argument, "nothing more. I was lax. It won't happen again."
Catherine opened her mouth as if to say more, but Trowa's leveled gaze bore through her, silencing her voice. She looked down. Her lips twisted into a long frown, trembling, then she bit her bottom lip to calm herself and her shaking shoulders. Trowa was as obdurate as any hardened veteran, and to change his position, after he already made his mind, was like moving a mountain.
He had drawn a line and made his resolution clear and demonstrable.
"However," – Trowa's eyes softened, and he smiled - "it will relieve me to know that you're safe," said Trowa, his voice softer as if to melt her fear away, "big sis." He walked towards her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
"You big lug, you called me big sis." Catherine's eyes glistened then and found his. She smiled brightly. "I could just hug you for that." And she did. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pressed into his hard frame in a warm embrace. The fragrance of her perfume and shampoo, an enticing, flowery scent of convallaria, flowed into his nostrils. The fragrance was, strangely, like her soothing hugs.
"Promise me you'll come back, Trowa," she said, her voice muffled by his neck. He could feel her moist, shuddering breaths, her body trembling against him, and a wetness, which he was certain, were her tears drenching his collar.
"Catherine, I…" Trowa tried to respond, but the words were trapped by his misgivings. His stomach tightened like tangled coils trying to unwind.
All missions held a strong probability of death; that was an inevitable truth and accepting it was the fact of his life. Tomorrow was not promised. To be a Gundam pilot meant facing death (whether by one's own hand or another's) and embracing it as a last option when all else fails. Death was an eternal companion. Death never slept, just merely waited for the opportune moment to envelop one, like an irrevocable caress, into darkness.
A Gundam was walking with death.
"Promise me!" she implored vehemently, tightening her arms around his neck. Trowa could feel her arms trembling; so overcome of her sorrow, she gripped tighter as if to permanently entrap him in this room, to still space and time.
Trowa was silent for a moment, feeling the turmoil of his decision. The coils in his stomach loosened. He relented, closing his eyes and holding her a bit tighter, as if to persuade himself what he was about to say was the truth. "Okay. I promise."
"Good." She eased her grip and held his shoulders, clenching his shirt, a watery smile adorning her face.
"Because if you didn't, I promise you I'll hunt you down whether in heaven or hell and I'll give you a piece of my mind! You're a brother to me, Trowa. I can't—won't lose you, too. Not like my friends. Not like my parents and brother. If you were gone I-I don't know what I'd do. It's too painful to think about it."
She sighed, lowering her hands down the length of his arms to his hands, holding them. "However," she said, looking up. Her eyes seemed to take in his whole being, his steps into adulthood, "you're grown up – you're making your own decisions. You have the power to define your life. Whatever choices you make, make sure your heart is in it, okay? I don't want you… I don't want you… you know…" her voice suddenly breaking.
Trowa nodded, touched by Catherine's candor and heart. Like a reservoir, Catherine's warmth filled him, easing any lingering anxiety at the corners of his mind. The growing fondness he had for her was overwhelming, and, strangely enough, exhilarating. It was a nice and soothing feeling that enveloped him in warmth and a pleasant peace. It was a feeling that made him want to protect her.
For a long moment they stared at each other, two people wishing time would spare them its unending ticking of life and leave them together to live as a family once more. Trowa seared her into mind: her tearful gray eyes, her curly brown hair, her full smile and red tearstained cheeks. He wanted to remember her like this, to remember a person special to him.
Her eyes again brimmed and overflowed with tears, and he gently brushed them away, as if to sweep all her worries away with a simple motion. He caressed her shoulders, while comforting her with a warm and gentle smile only reserved for her. She returned his smile with a watery one of her own.
Their moment came as swiftly as it ended when a loud rap sounded at the door. It was impatient, like the beckoned call of fate or destiny, telling him their brief time had ended, and the future, a ceaseless imminence, always looking over one's shoulder, had come. Pound, pound, pound! The knocks demanded to be answered and Trowa reluctantly knew he could not refuse them. He could not run away from fate.
"My ride is here," Trowa said, reluctantly leaving Catherine, his smile dissolving into his habitual stoicism.
He opened the door, and a young man, slightly shorter than he, was at the entrance. The youth's head was down, and a black cap covered his face. Unrestrained and unruly brown bangs sprung from beneath his cap like untamed weeds; they hovered over his face in disarray. He wore a red zippered turtleneck under a black leather jacket with its sleeves rolled up, showing his bare arms, and black pants accompanied with brown boots.
He raised his head up, revealing opaque black sunglasses and a cheeky grin set on his boyishly white features.
"Knock, knock, knock! The Shinigami, Duo Maxwell, has arrived! No extra fees will be needed for this house call unless you're payin' for the cab. So, are we ready buddy? Another dance with death is awaitin', and she's an impatient partner."
The young man peeked inside the room, spotting a disheartened Catherine standing awkwardly behind Trowa. "Hey, I see ya got someone in there. I'll give ya a few moments. It's never easy sayin' goodbyes."
"No," responded Trowa, "I'm ready."
"Ya sure?" Duo asked hesitantly, cocking his head to the side, his sunglasses dipping, showing his concerned cobalt blue eyes.
His eyes switched between Trowa to Catherine briefly, understanding shining in them when he returned his eyes back on Trowa. Trowa nodded and went to gather his duffle bag. It was time. What time he had left with Catherine would not be in the benefit of the mission.
Their time had run out.
Catherine had the bag in hand and gave it to him. She also gave in him another big hug.
"Be safe, Trowa," she breathed, and then she looked over his shoulder to the boy in the doorway, glaring. Duo raised a curious eyebrow in response. He seemed unsure as to why Catherine had singled him out in this farewell moment. But Trowa knew. Catherine's protective instincts kicked in, and Duo was in line of her caring ire, a controlled fury that became a tempest when unleased.
"You make sure Trowa doesn't do anything reckless. I already had one guy poisoning his mind, I don't need another!"
"What?" Duo questioned, turning to Trowa, a quizzical smile on his face. "Is there somethin' I'm missing here? I'm not one to brainwash another, so who was the last chump you had with you? Can't be a good role model, I guess if he got that scary look."
Trowa gave a small smile. He could not forget the tongue-lashing Catherine had given that day nor the boy she unleashed it on. The guy didn't say anything after, but his expression was none-too-pleased with him or Catherine's heated haranguing. The guy didn't say a word to him for a full hour after they had left Catherine's leering gaze.
"She's referring to Heero, Duo," said Trowa, a trace of humor slipping into his voice.
As if a light bulb went off in his head, Duo chuckled, shaking his head, his braided hip-length hair swaying at his waist with each movement.
The thought of Heero humored the boy as his chuckle erupted into full-blown laughter, and his head tilted back. "Hahaha! Don't I know it? I have a hard time figuring that guy out, too. Sometimes I don't think he uses his head too much, either.
"Those quiet ones are the ones ya have to look out for the most! You'll never know what half-baked plans come to mind when they're in the heat of the moment. Or flashy surprises for that matter. And they're always overdoing it in the grandest, flashiest ways possible. Unbelievable! Always starting or leaving the party with an emphatic bang. I swear - to make up for their silent personalities, their actions have to be that much louder. Gonna get us all killed one day."
"Just make sure Trowa uses his," she instructed, walking Trowa to the door. Catherine reached as if to restrain Trowa, to pull him back to her, her hand lingering over his shoulder, but the moment passed and it fell quietly, and limply, to her side.
"You can count on it," Duo replied, moving through the hallway. "We'll catch ya later, Cathy." He threw a wave and flashed a grin.
Trowa moved to follow him. "You be safe, Trowa," Catherine called. Trowa turned his head back and nodded, then continued after Duo.
The two left Catherine at the doorway, her eyes shining, and tears falling softly down her cheeks.