Umm . . . This is
where my story takes a darker turn. I'm
sorry if you're opposed to it—but I had to!
Warning: uh…there's a
little bit of, ah, death and angst in this section.
Disclaimer: They're
not mine; please don't take legal action!
C&C always
welcome!
From Forever to
Forever
Part Ten: Do Us Part
June 29th,
AC 208—Trowa Barton—5:39 a.m.
I wake up with a start. Glancing at the clock, I notice that it's
not even six.
Something's wrong.
For a moment I wonder if someone has
broken into my apartment—everything feels strange. But it's quiet, except for my pounding heart.
Was it a nightmare? I vaguely recall hearing
something—someone—calling my name.
It must've been a dream.
I lay back down, hoping to catch
another hour of sleep before I have to get ready for work. But every time I close my eyes, my heart and
my head begin pounding again.
Danger. Trouble. It's like a
flash—a red alert going off subconsciously. Vague sensations from my dream still course through my mind. I can fell my muscles tensing involuntarily,
and somewhere in the back of my mind, it all feels familiar. I've felt this way before—when we were
fighting on the Libra.
I keep thinking that I can almost
hear someone calling my name again.
Quatre.
His face. His voice. Both flash into my mind.
What if it's not a dream? What if there's really trouble?
It's probably just my reoccurring
nightmare—the one where I don't make it in time to save Quatre from that
bullet.
But this feels remarkably different.
I get up and pad my way to the
kitchen, taking a bottle of water from the refrigerator.
I turn on the tiny television set;
it's still on the twenty-four hour news channel.
For a moment, the images don't
register. My mind is still floating somewhere
between dreams and confusion. Then
reality hits me.
Quatre.
I set down the water and flip off
the TV, making my way to the bedroom.
Pulling out an old suitcase, I begin
to pack everything I may need for my trip to his colony.
"Wait for me, Quatre."
June 29th—Heero
Yuy—8:14 a. m.
"Good morning," Relena says with a
sigh as she walks into the kitchen. She's already dressed for work and looks like she's been awake for
hours, though I know she's hardly been up for twenty minutes.
"Morning," I reply, handing her a
cup of coffee. "How's Rina doing?"
"Better," she answers, taking a
sip. "Her fever has gone down and her
cough is almost gone. I was going to
ask you to let her sleep in again today; she needs her rest."
"Do you want me to call you if
anything changes?"
She smiles wearily. "Only if it's drastic. You always take better care of her when
she's sick, anyway." She leans against
me, offering a quick kiss before sitting at the table.
I sit next to her and pass the newspaper
to her. I usually don't have anything
for breakfast, but today I pour myself a cup of coffee.
Relena immediately turns to the
business section, ignoring the front-page headlines. It's all sensationalism anyway, I can hear her telling me in my
head. I can barely make out the picture
of debris floating in the ocean, and a Preventor salvaging crew. Part of the headline is visible: "148 People
Killed in Shuttle Crash Off Spanish Coast."
Damn. There hasn't been anything like this in the past few years;
safety regulations are too strict for accidents of this magnitude.
Relena turns the page, and suddenly
I'm able to read the article's subheading: "Among the casualties is L-4
Representative Noventa-Winner."
Silvia.
I grab the newspaper from Relena,
showing her the feature article. She
says nothing, just holding one hand over her mouth and reading with wide,
tear-filled eyes.
"W-when did it happen?" she asks,
scanning the page frantically.
"It says it was around 5:30 this
morning." The article doesn't mention
Quatre. Was he there? Certainly they'd mention his name if he
was. And what about Maja?
I scan the columns again, looking
for any mention of the other casualties.
Oh God.
Casualties. My chest aches just thinking about it. Silvia is dead. Gone. And Quatre and Maja
could be alive, possibly discovering it all right now.
Oh God.
I look at Relena; she's rereading
the front page, shaking her head in denial. "No," she murmurs, wiping at her eyes. "It can't be—I just talked to her yesterday . .. "
Oh God, I can't help but hope, for
Quatre's sake, that he was with her on that shuttle. How can he live without her?
Could I live without Relena, now
that I've devoted my life to her? Just
Irina and me?
No.
Life would be meaningless. Empty. Cheap.
I take the paper, noticing a small
biographical article about Silvia's accomplishments in the Parliament. The last line catches my attention. "Rep. Noventa-Winner is survived by her
husband, multi-millionaire Quatre Winner, and their daughter."
Oh God.
Quatre has to continue his life
without Silvia, taking care of Maja alone.
June 29th—Sally
Po—8:12 p.m.
I feel sick. We've been working for the past fifteen
hours, along with some former members of the Sweepers and other salvaging
teams. Digging up parts of a destroyed
shuttle isn't fun. It's frustrating
work, even when you're detached.
But I don't have that advantage now,
do I?
I didn't want to accept leadership
of this particular project. But we have
to look for evidence of sabotage or any signs of foul play—and Une had pointed
out to me that no one in the Preventors was more experienced or more adept at
salvaging than me.
And WuFei came, too.
I told him not to, but I think he
wants to see it all for himself—it will force him to accept the truth.
Silvia's gone.
I hand WuFei a cup of coffee and he
lifts it to his lips with trembling hands. His face is pinched; his eyes are bloodshot.
"Do you want to call Quatre?" I ask,
laying my hand on his shoulder.
He shakes his head. "Trowa's with him, I'm sure."
He stares vacantly across the deck
of the ship, watching the crew work diligently.
"We don't think the shuttle was
tampered with. It looks like it was a
malfunction of the thrusters or the fuel injection. We won't know for sure until we find the flight recorder."
He closes his eyes, dropping his
Styrofoam cup and bringing his hands to his face. For a moment I don't understand—I thought it was better that
it wasn't foul play.
But then again, I know WuFei. I know how he thinks; he can wear his heart
on his sleeve, much to the surprise of others.
He'd rather have someone concrete to
blame.
His crying hurts me more than
anything. I pull him into my arms,
feeling his entire body shake. I let
his grief seep into me and I begin to cry with him.
"There's no use, is there?" he asks
through his tears. "Even without war,
deaths are meaningless. Quatre—Maja—what do they do now?"
He mumbles incoherently, clutching
my shoulders as sobs rack his body. I
know that he's lost in his own nightmare, thinking of her, and remembering what
it's like to feel useless while losing a loved one.
I lead him to our cabin, below deck,
wiping my own tears on my sleeve. As I
fumble for my keys, he gently lifts my chin with his calloused fingers. His dark eyes are glistening and red-rimmed.
"It could've been you," he whispers
insistently. "And I'm so ashamed for
being relieved." New tears course down
his cheeks and I pull him close again, burying my head in his neck.
Overwhelming surges of love and
relief floods through my mind, making my grief multiply tenfold. I feel like my heart is swelling, ready to
burst with an overflow of pain.
And I know that someday I'll be able
to look back without pain—and that makes me cry harder.
We stand there, sobbing in the
corridor and clinging to each other like life preservers.
Click here to
go on to Part Eleven
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