This was *supposed* to be out last Friday, but no, my stupid computer had to crash. . I don't like this version as much as the original one (the one that was *erased*), but I can't remember half of it so you have to put up with this. Sorry.
Title: Suspension (Part 3)
Author: Scheherazade
Email: desertrose@gundamwing.org
Archive: Please? *begs pathetically*
Pairings: Eventual 3+4, 2+H, and more as they come to me
Warnings: AU / fantasy / violence / language / eventual yaoi
Notes: I should make a couple things clear. One, Trowa and Catherine are in no way, shape, or form related in this fic. Two, Relena from the previous chapter and Queen Relena of Esanck are most definitely not the same person. Relena's most likely just named after the Queen (who is long gone, by the way!).
And chocolate chip cookies to anyone who figures out who the first speaker in the conversation at the beginning is! The second speaker is identified later, but I doubt anyone will get the first… ^_^
*…*--italics
/…/--thoughts
"You wanted to see me?"
"Yes. Do you remember the scouts we sent south?"
Pause.
"Pardon me. Do you remember the scouts we sent south, *my lady*?
"Of course. What about them?"
"They've found him."
"They've found--*What*?"
"He's in Al'Rassan."
Pause
"You're sure."
"Yes."
"I should have expected it. We finally give up looking for him, and he practically falls into our hands. The scouts are following my orders?"
"Yes. They won't succeed."
"Of course not. That's not the point." Pause. "He's right there, right in the city…it's perfect. Tell the troops we're moving out next week."
"They're not expecting to leave for two more months."
"I don't allow anyone to question me!"
"Acknowledged…my lady."
* * * * *
"Weak, weak, WEAK!"
Quatre launched into another series of roundhouse kicks that tore the punching bag from its hook and sent it flying across the small room. Fury blazing in his blue-green eyes, he threw himself after it, tackling it fiercely. Straddling the leather bag, he let loose a succession of punches that would have smashed his target to a pulp, had it been human. To him, it *was* human--Trowa Barton, to be exact, and he took out all his frustrations at the other man--and himself--as savagely as possible.
Weak, that's what he was. One question, and he let his defenses slip. One song, and they were gone altogether! Asinine, silly, *soft*! He slammed a fist where the face would have been, before roughly yanking the bag upright and rehanging it from the ceiling.
It was all Barton's fault. If he'd just stayed North where he belonged, Quatre wouldn't be feeling this way now. Him and his cursed flute--Quatre loosed another set of particularly brutal blows.
/I should just tell Duo where to find him./
But he knew Duo, and his way of revenge. Barton would die slowly, painfully, inch by inch. And as much as Quatre wished he could let his fellow assassin do such things to the man--as much as he wished he could do them himself--he know he'd never be able to willingly inflict torture like that on anyone, directly or indirectly.
The thought only made him more disgusted with himself. He was so damned *weak*!
And the punching bag was no longer Trowa Barton. It was Quatre's own faults and deficiencies, his failures and weaknesses. Driven by an unnatural fury, ignoring his strained and aching muscles, he threw himself at the bag, attacking again and again, faster and faster--
His knees buckled and he collapsed on a heap on the sandstone floor. Shaking, he pulled himself to his feet, sweat dripping from pale gold bangs. His head feel forward, like a puppet cut from its strings.
"Weak," he whispered.
* * * * *
A quarter of an hour later, an angry voice drifted up to the small room. "Where is he? The assassin?"
Quatre gritted his teeth. He did *not* want to deal with an enraged client right now.
He also didn't have a choice.
Carefully smoothing any trace of emotion from his face, he stalked out of the room and down the steep, uneven stairs. As he expected, the curly-haired man who had hired him stood glaring at Najia, the woman Quatre rented a room from.
"What's the problem?" he asked coolly.
The man swung around, fists clenched. Najia took that opportunity to slip away, her eyes wide and frightened. "Why is he still alive?" he demanded. "I have *orders* to make sure he's dead--d'you have any idea what will happen to me if he isn't?"
"Not really," Quatre replied off-handedly. "I don't particularly care, either."
The man's face darkened and he took a step forward, raising his fists. "Listen, you--"
Blue-green eyes slitted dangerously. "You're threatening the wrong person."
The man opened his mouth to reply when he noticed the knife that had appeared in Quatre's hand. He went from flushed to pale and stepped backward, lowering his fists.
"I'm not requiring any more payment until I've completed the job," the blond continued as if nothing had happened. "I will keep trying as long as you like--but don't come here again unless you've got something important to say."
"Why shouldn't I go to someone else?" the other challenged somewhat feebly.
Quatre shrugged. "Go, for all I care," he replied. "But I'm the best. Anyone will tell you that."
He turned and strolled out of the room.
* * * * *
As Quatre stood before the now familiar door, his smoldering anger flared again. This time he would make *sure* Trowa Barton didn't get away.
A tense moment passed. Nothing happened.
Carefully, silently, Quatre edged forward and gently tried the door. It was unbarred.
He nudged it open silently, tensed for an attack.
His jaw dropped.
Barton was just *sitting* there on the edge of the cot, staring straight forward. He glanced at the blond as he stepped inside, then returned his gaze to the wall in front of him.
What did that man think he was doing? Sitting there like--like--a practice target! Did he think this was that easy?
Quatre forced himself to focus, only to find a pair of dark green eyes fixed on him thoughtfully. He remembered the night before--those same eyes staring at him piercingly, as if they could see into his thoughts--
His anger went from white-hot to icy cold.
"Giving up already?" he asked derisively, putting as much scorn as possible into the words.
The eyes flickered, as though their possessor had been hit. Then they hardened. "Whatever I may have been doing isn't important."
"Really."
The other man continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I have--a favor--to ask of you." The words were forced out as if they were choking him.
The assassin leaned back against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. "Why under the stars should I help you?"
"Just listen first…please."
"Talk." Quatre had no intention of helping this man in any way, but his curiosity was getting the better of him again. What would drive anyone to ask a favor of the man trying to kill them?
"I would--appreciate it--if you could describe the person who commissioned you. Or name them."
And Quatre felt his thrice-damned conscience kicking in. Didn't everyone deserve to know why they died? Who killed them?
Hating himself for it, he answered "Fine."
Barton's green eyes flashed surprise before his lowered his head slightly, obscuring them by a fall of coppery hair. "Thank you."
"I don't know his name. He's middle-aged, fairly tall--taller than me, at least--and thickset. He's got curly brown hair and a medium-sized scar in the shape of a sunburst on the back of his left hand. That's all I can tell you."
Barton's face went dead white. "Nikol," he whispered almost inaudibly. "They're coming."
The total fear in his eyes jolted Quatre. "Who's coming?" he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Those same eyes abruptly went hostile. "Why should I tell you? You're only going to kill me. Speaking of which--" He hesitated for a moment, as if to make up his mind. Then, taking, a deep breath, he continued, "Speaking of which, hurry up with the question."
Quatre's eyed narrowed. There was something in his voice…
"You don't have to tell me," the blond answered, ignoring the last remark. He *was* going to figure it out. "I'm just curious, after my meetings with him."
"What did he say?"
"That he had orders to see you killed, and he seemed very afraid of what would happen if those orders weren't carried out. And you're both Northerners--there aren't many who'd chase someone all the way down here."
"I see. It's--definitely who I think it is, then."
"Someone other than you thought at first?"
"Yes."
Quatre waited silently.
Barton set his jaw. "One way or another I won't be around when they actually get here."
Everything suddenly clicked into place.
He was planning on being dead by then. He was going to purposely answer the question wrong so Quatre would kill him--evidently, it was better than being here when *they* came--whoever *they* were. He actually wanted to die.
And Quatre would be damned before he'd give him that kind of satisfaction.
He would have to sneak his question in somehow, so Barton didn't recognize it for what it was. And he had an idea…
"I can't imagine anyone from the North who'd track only one man all the way down here. You must be important."
Barton shrugged slightly. "They're--he's--extremely rich."
"He?"
"At first I thought it was a group, but now I know it's one man. He's got dozens of underlings who follow his every order, though."
/Come on…talk just a little more…/
"There's only one kingdom I know of that has such rich or powerful subjects--that is, I'm assuming it's not the king after you," Quatre commented, seemingly casually. "Are you from Ellthrie?"
Barton hesitated.
/Come on…/
"Yes," he answered quietly.
Quatre could barely restrain a grin of triumph. "Congratulations," he said. "You get to keep your life for another night."
Barton's jaw dropped. "What?"
"You answered the question correctly. I'm not killing you." He pushed himself away from the doorframe, as if he was about to leave.
The other man's mouth opened and closed in disbelief, giving him the appearance of a landed fish. "But--"
"I asked you if you're from Ellthrie. You answered yes," Quatre said, inserting a touch of impatience into his voice. Inside, he was exhilarated.
/I won this time./
And with that thought, his anger faded. He had outmaneuvered this mysterious foreigner who seemed to know everything. That was enough--for now.
"How did you know?" the Northerner asked abruptly.
"Know what?" Quatre replied, feigning ignorance.
"You know what I'm talking about." His voice was a mixture of accusation and--admiration?
Of course not.
The assassin shrugged. "I guessed. I can read minds. I can predict your every move. Take your pick." He wasn't going to explain himself again. He wasn't going to slip like last night.
Trowa didn't push the subject. Instead, he asked, "What else do you know about me?"
Quatre didn't mind a chance to show off a little. "You were once name Triton, the son of Reishin and Linnaea Barton. For reasons unknown, you changed your name to Trowa, disowned yourself from the Barton family, and disappeared. They sent out searches. What they didn't know was that you'd begun raiding their lands. Eventually they caught on, formally renounced you, and began trying to kill you. You've been continually on the run since then, but you've defeated every single assassin--well, almost. Sometime after that, you began taking selective assassination commissions yourself, which made you even more enemies, which caused even more attempts on your life. If you ask me, I don't know how you can be sure just who it is that's after you now."
Trowa regarded him with something close to amazement. He started to speak, then stopped, shaking his head. "Never mind. I doubt you'd tell me how you found it all out, anyway."
For a moment, Quatre wondered if his reaction to knowing out Duo was here would be as strong as Duo's had been to knowing *he* was here. Not that he was about to try and find out.
"As to how I know who it is--I know the man who hired you and who he follows. Nikol's--owner, practically--has a very, very good reason to kill me." He hesitated for a moment. "Have you ever heard of Heero Yuy?"
Duo's voice flashed through his mind. /"Then he met Heero Yuy, became screwed up in politics--among other things--, lost his so-called sense of 'right'--"/
"No."
"He's general--very intelligent, very rich, very powerful, and very corrupt general. In Ellthrie, that's the perfect soldier. I--used to think he was different, that I could make him different. I was only 18 or 19!" he said defensively, in response to the look on Quatre's face. "I'm not such an idiot now."
Quatre certainly hoped so. He wouldn't have thought Trowa to be that naïve. It sounded almost like he'd gotten some of his ideas from--
"I read a few too many idealistic books," Trowa said, actually sounding a little embarrassed. "I still spend far too much time reading for my own good--but not trash."
Quatre flinched inwardly. "I see."
/Talk about something else, anything else--/
"For instance, the so-called autobiography of Queen Relena of the Esanck Kingdom. She thought she could make the world perfect and that no one was truly wicked. She gives the supposed account of how she "saved" one man--a ruthless killer, emotionless and cold-hearted. She wrote that she brought out his inner kindness and humanity and "taught him how to live again", whereupon he fell in love with her. Completely fictional trash, but it's the type of thing I wanted to believe." He paused. "Have you ever read sometihng like that?"
Quatre stared fixedly at the wall across the room. "No. I can't read."
For just a split second, Trowa looked taken aback. "Oh," he said quietly.
Quatre gritted his teeth in frustration. *Why* did all his shortcomings have to show before this one man? Why couldn't they just stay hidden, like they had for so long--
That was when he noticed it was no longer pitch black outside. The sky was beginning to lighten--barely enough to be noticeable, but enough to tell Quatre that he should have left long ago. Without another word, he slipped out the door.
"Wait."
He looked back over his shoulder, only to meet those dark eyes again.
"We're probably going to be seeing quite a lot of each other in the future." The corner of his mouth twitched, as if in the beginnings of a smile. "Maybe--maybe you could tell me your name."
The blond hesitated. Why tell this man *anything*?
Why shouldn't he?
"Quatre. I'm Quatre."
* * * * *