Wings of Love

Part 3

Kasage Starrunner

Feb. 14, AC197: 22:08

Two soldiers stood guard outside the door of the cell where the red-headed child called Marimeia was being held. The two were fairly young, and were not quite ready to give up the fight that the child had started over a month before. They were tired of being abused, discarded and would rather die than live where they were worthless.

The taller man went by the name Donaldson. He was a stout chested man, with dark hair and eyes, who had played football at his local highschool before being pulled into the war. The call of fighting was like a magnet and pulled him into the OZ Specials, where he had been trained by a young and inexperienced Lucrezia Noin. The result was a less than moral soldier, who cared only for the bloodshed and his own worth. He would have been better as a spy. As it was, when OZ fell he was at the side of the Barton Foundation, and when that too fell he looked for the first sign of organized rebellion.

His partner was a red-headed lad by the name of Peterson. As an American soldier, he had rebellion in his blood. He wasn't so sure about the fighting and was a more noble lad, yet quick to temper, like the father who had sent him into the military to learn respect and discipline. He didn't care much for Donaldson and this was made evident by the nervous glance of his warm brown eyes. He was the type of person one expected to meet working as a scientist or teacher even. There really wasn't the look of a fight about him, but there he was just the same, dragged into new battles by collegues who were a little more than coniving and treacherous. Peterson was a fairly bad judge of character.

Turning around so that his back was to Donaldson, Peterson leaned into the window of the cell. Marimeia was sitting asleep in a chair just inside, weary of her screams of protest and their inherant incompetance and rudeness. Peterson shook his head as he remembered. "Is this any way to treat the in-in-invalid!" she had stuttered, ferociously forcing out the last word in a fit of rage worthy of Lady Une's less than kind alternate personality.

"She's a real brat, en't she," stated Donaldson, as he turned to see what the heck Peterson was looking at. "She en't changed since Barton lost her, 'cept she doesn't want to take over the Earth Sphere any more." The Scotsman laughed. It was a deep laugh, full of contempt for the small child lying wheezing in that chair. He turned around and spat, watching the rusty color of his chew hit the floor with a disgusting splat and then laughed again. "She's got a temper ... If she weren't useful to the Branch I'd out and pop her little carrot head off right now."

Peterson sighed, but said nothing. Donaldson was drunk ... Again. What was he to do if those damned ESUN Preventors showed up to take the child back. They be dead in a heartbeat and all because the idiot guard wasn't sober.

Peterson looked down and pulled out a key with his left hand. "Listen, Donaldson, I'm going in to check on the kid. She's not well and you know that. Stay out here and keep watch."

The Scot shrugged and pulled a flask out of his uniform. "Yeah, I'll keep watch for you-you pansey."

The red-head just shrugged and opened the door, trying to ignore the stench of whiskey. At least Donaldson could have chosen a drink with more class. Then again ... He was Donaldson, and he had no class.

Quietly, the young guard stepped in, letting the door swing carelessly on its hinges. He knew that the child couldn't run, and it wasn't likely that anyone would be coming this way anytime soon, otherwise they would have heard an alert a good while ago.

He smiled as he saw the sleeping child. He couldn't help it. For all his temper, he had always liked children. Marimeia wasn't near so bad as Donaldson made her out to be. In fact, she seemed much less spoiled now than she had been.

The red-headed child stirred in her sleep and a blue eye opened drowsily. Peterson's smile widened when he saw her wake. The kid'd be alright, so it seemed. "Morning, Miss Marimeia," stated the soldier amicably. He had been one of the soldiers under her direct command before, though she likely didn't remember it. As she blinked her eyes confusedly, the older red-head became more certain that she did not recognise him. "I hope you had a good sleep."

The child's eyes narrowed. "You drugged me,"she accused.

"No you wore yourself out."

This only caused her to glare more fiercely. "You lie. You drugged me to keep me quiet. You wanted me out of the way."

"Trust me, miss, if I wanted you out of the way, you'd be dead. As it is, I can't do better than this."

Her expression sobered a little. At least this man had respect, and was honest-blunt even. "Why am I here?" she asked.

It had been the first time the child had asked a question instead of making blatant accusations at the men who had brought her here. It made Peterson feel a lot more comfortable. He sent her another smile before he answered.

"Miss Marimeia, we've brought you here to-"

His statement was broken off by a large thud. "Donaldson!" the youth cried out, his eyes not leaving the child. "Donaldson!-" He started to turn around. "Dang it, I told him he would pass out on the-" Suddenly he was a very startled soldier in the face of a very unsure Quatre Raberba Winner. Just behind him stood Trowa, who had just finished the job of removing the obstacle of Donaldson. The 'obstacle' was a real joke, considering how drunk the man was. Trowa had barely even made an effort to knock the Scotsman out.

Face to face the two very different soldiers were quite stunned. Kind nature fought kind nature in a very strange sort of half staredown. However, the blond hesitated only a moment before knocking Peterson out. Unfortunately that gave the hapless American just enough time to hit the emergency button in his right pocket.

The blond grimaced and Trowa looked down at his watch, 22:25. They had approimately five minutes to get out of that room before being made into sitting ducks by the chaos that would likely ensue from the emergency signal. Trowa gave a sharp look at his partner. Now they would have to escape through a tirade of gunfire.

Quatre flinched at the look, but turned his attention to the startled red-head staring with young, fearful eyes. The Arab knew from the pleading look on that once proud face that Miss Mariemeia could no more walk in this condition than a man could swim in quicksand. However, he also knew better than to argue with a little girl who would rather walk herself out of her own cell than be carried like an infant. After escaping 'herself' the child would be quite content to be hoisted into the air and carried hurriedly away from the Barton Followers base.

The ocean eyed blonde looked imporingly at Trowa, who bent down to take the quavering child's tiny hand. "Come, Mariemeia. We're taking you home."

Those few steps out the door seemed to take hours instead of the minute that it truly took. The quiet tap-tap of Mariemeia's aptent leather shoes resounded off the walls like cannon balls in the ears of the not-so-content rescuers. Quatre led the way, his pistol poised and ready to fire. With care he stepped over the unconscious body of Donaldson, watching with careful blue eyes as the famous child and his beloved koi did the same.

The two turned their back once again when they came to the hall door. It had closed behind them as they had entered in the first place, and now the two were forced to reopen the door. Trowa had the key and he released the red-head's hand to Quatre as he dug the key card again from his pocket. The Arab crossed the room, given the Latin man room to breath and work, letting the child's gaze stare imploringly up at him.

Quatre tried to smile comfortingly. Mariemeia was depending on him to protect her from whatever fighting would ensue. She trusted him and Trowa completely to keep her fragile body out of the cross-fire. For a moment the youth contemplated the mystery of childhood and how it had fled so fast from his chubby hands as his body and mind had changed, forced to become a man by the sorrows of war. Who killed Innocence anyway ... Was war and Experience always straonger in the end?

The sharp eyed nomad look up as he caught a glimpse of movem,ent from the corner of his eye. A soft gasp escaped his delicate lips as he realized what was going on. Donaldson was no longer unconscious and his gun was pointed straight at Quatre's beloved lion.

The gleam of hatred in that Scotsman's eye was unmistakable as he focused in on his target. A leering grin filled his tan face as spittle ran down his chin. He looked to all the world like a rabid dog, drooling with anger and cruelty.

Trowa turned around, the door open just as Donaldson pulled the trigger, but he would not hit his intended mark. Something possessed the Arab soldier to waste his own life in that instant. He had promised to protect Trowa and on an instinct of love his body was thrust between the bullet and its intended victim, letting his body fall at the impact of the lethal piece of lead.

Something told Quatre that this was all that was left for him. Either he had to die or Trowa did and Trowa had not had happiness yet. It would be wrong for him to live on and the Lion to die without having felt happiness once in his life. These thoughts and others passed through his mind. It seemed he fell for an eternity. All went balck and memories flooded his frightened, caring mind, but still he fell downward ... Ever downward.

And he was back where he began. No color, no feeling, just emptiness. A vague depression filled the soul of Quatre Raberba Winner. He was dead ... He was a prisoner of Death and he might never escape to see his koi again. Unmoving the spirit stayed curled where he had fell, trying again to pull at the hapy memories. At least he could immerse himself in those, but it was to no avail. All he could think was that he had betrayed his beloved Trowa, betrayed him by leaving him as he had promised that he never would. Then his mind sank into emptiness like the world around him and his heart poured out the tears of a thousand forgotten wounds to an unforgiving Limbo.