Author's Note: Heh-heh... ^^;; Sorry for the delay, minna. I got a summer job, and this means that I have to live away from all civilization (a.k.a.: My Dad's House) and this means (dun Dun DUN!) no Internet. Waaaaaahhhhh!!!! I hate my job, too. Pity me.
Thalia: Oh, quit yer bitchin'! You gots it easy.
Eros: Yeah, you should try being a ~muse~! It's hard work?
_ Yesterday, you sat on the couch, drank soda, and watched all my Escaflowne tapes, or got up to pester me with song-fic ideas when you KNOW I can't write song-fics.
Psyche: You think it's EASY coming up with song-fic ideas?
Well, considering that you gave them to me for EVERY song I heard at work, yes.
Thalia: Shut up, you fools!
Psyche: Heh, that's funny. The Muse of Comedy calling ~us~ fools.
She's right, though. We have a fic to write, and no time to do it in. Now, let's get started.
Muses: Yeah, yeah, whatever...
DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gundam Wing. So there. Nyah! * thoughts * ~emphasis~ *(psychic/empathic thoughts/emotions)*
PART EIGHT
Trowa padded silently down the hall, trying to bury his nervousness behind a cool facade.
* There is nothing behind me. I will not look over my shoulder. *
His nerves were tingling. Whatever had happened in the main room of the basement was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. He fought with his senses over the incident. His logical mind desperately tried to rationalize while his superstition and memory contradicted every theory he could think of. It was not a hallucination. Three unconscious pilots attested to that fact. But was it really a... ghost or poltergeist that was causing all these problems, as Wufei seemed to think?
Trowa resisted a snort of contempt. He was not unfamiliar with the mindset. At the circus, there was a fortune-teller. She read tarot cards, palms, tea leaves, and the stars to "predict" the circus-goers' future. It was a bit suspicious that almost all the people had the same future: they'd meet an attractive person of their sexual preference and come into a goodly sum of money. Almost everything she did had some sort of superstition attached to it, and she'd talk in depth and at length about her "powers" if one was too foolish to stop her.
Granted, Wufei did not seem at all similar to her, and was capable in all other things. Something odd indeed was going down, but could such things as psychics and spirits truly exist?
* ...If they don't, then how do you explain all this? How do you explain what happened to Quatre? *
Quatre... the walking contradiction. The pacifist warrior. He was so open and gentle and caring, yet he was an enigma. He confused Trowa to no end, calm and self-possessed one moment, blushing and stammering the next. Assuming it wasn't a spirit that was doing this to him, what was it? A disease? Or something psychological? Trowa found himself seriously doubting these theories. Diseases have symptoms, as do mental disorders. Pilot 04 had exhibited no sign of either.
* Unless you count spontaneous facial capilary expansion. * Trowa thought in a rare flash of humor.
He was well aware of Quatre's interest in him. The thought was alien to him. Not because it was a male that was attracted to him, but that it was ~Quatre~. His tainted purity, stained innocence was so sad, and drew Trowa like a moth to the flame. The boy filled him with emotion every time they met. And it was... troubling. He'd thought himself totally devoid of feeling and had been adapting to that. But one smile from Quatre would set his heart beating.
He didn't want to feel this way. There was a war going on. They were supposed to be completely focused on fighting, on creating peace. Personal lives were insignificant, nonexistent to a true soldier. Not to mention the complications a relationship with a fellow gundam pilot would create. And yet...
* I held him. I had my arms around him... even if it was only to keep him from convulsing. *
He felt warm, despite the cool air of the hall.
He'd reached Heero's room. A cursory check proved that Duo and Heero were not there. He continued down the hall.
* And even if it'd been psychosomatic with Quatre, how could you explain what happened to Heero? *
Heero was definitely not prone to nosebleeds. Even if he was, it would be a bit of a coincidence that one would begin seconds after grabbing onto Wufei and Duo. And Duo was an entirely different matter, playing the role of the reluctant participant. The whole thing didn't add up, at least not ~logically~.
* So that leaves only one viable solution: There is something Wufei, Duo, and Quatre can sense that affects the rest of us, even if we ourselves aren't able to sense it. *
Duo's room had all its lights on, but Trowa's hopes of finding a conscious person to help him organize a plan of action were in vain. Heero lay half-sitting and shirtless, and Duo himself was sprawled across the remaining portion of the bed. Trowa frowned. He'd have to carry both of them back to the living room, where he could keep watch on them. He sincerely hoped that they all would recover. He didn't even want to think about how long it would take to repair all four gundams alone.
When he's arrived at Heero's side, he reached down and took his pulse. While he counted the appallingly slow beats, he observed Heero's pale and exhausted face. His skin was cool to the touch. If it weren't for the fact that his heart was indeed beating and his breath was coming evenly, Trowa would have thought Heero to be a corpse in which rigor mortis had not yet begun. The tall pilot repressed a chill. He released him, possibly with more haste than absolutely necessary, and moved on to Duo. The braided boy was doing slightly better, more color to his face and his breathing not quite as labored.
Satisfied that they were safe to move, he heaved their limp forms up over his shoulders. He was profoundly glad that his balance was good enough to handle both burdens with a minimum of staggering. It would be a long walk back to the common room.
Heero woke with uncharacteristic leisure, his consciousness sliding on the black border of sleep. His dreams had been either nonexistent or untroubled; he had no recollection of them. He basked in warmth created by his own body, flexing his fingers around the edge of the blanket and drawing it closer. He sighed slightly, almost slipping back to sleep. He was dragged roughly back, though, by a sudden loud ~thud~ from the area next to his head.
He sat up instantly, hand reaching for a gun - only to find that it wasn't there and then grab the edge of the couch in an attempt to steady himself. The room was spinning... or was that his head? When the dizziness had passed, he looked down to ascertain from whence the sound had originated.
Duo lay half-on, half-off his couch, his upper body sprawled across the carpet and his legs still propped on the cushions. He hadn't woken up in his fall or the landing. Heero glanced blearily around, wondering who'd brought them out here and if that person was around to help. Quatre and Wufei were lying unmoving on their makeshift beds, looking worse for wear. Trowa was absent. He assimilated all this rapidly, then sighed again, even more unnoticeable than before. He heaved his leaden limbs up and slid out of the blankets, the bite of the chill air dispelling the last remnants of drowsiness.
He was immensely pleased that he was no longer too weak to move, and soon was gathering Duo's torso in his arms and lifting him back onto the sofa. It took more effort than it should have, leaving Heero panting and trembling with exertion. After he finally managed to shove Duo back onto his bed, he collapsed and leaned against the couch for support while he tried to catch his breath. He tilted his head back to gulp the air, his eyes closing of their own accord.
Suddenly, there was something warm and heavy draped over his shoulder. He jerked and looked over. It was Duo's forearm and hand; the American had shifted in his sleep. Heero froze and stared at the hand. It was tanned and long-fingered, calloused like his own from the controls of a mobile suit and the maintenance work. It rested just past his shoulder but not quite to his chest, and was very warm to his bare skin, causing the flesh around it to contract. Duo made a small murmuring noise into his pillow and flexed his fingers. It felt...
Heero roughly pulled away, scooting in a rather undignified manner back to his own couch. He scrambled up into his still-heated blankets, and glared at the ceiling as he fought for control. He felt like his whole body was blushing. It was not acceptable. How long had he felt this way without realizing it? And what ~exactly~ was he feeling? He could deal with lust. It was a distraction, and he could handle distractions. But if it was based in honest emotion... which emotion would that be? He was certain that this went past the boundaries defined by comradery or friendship. Then was this... affection? Caring? Alien from such things, Heero didn't know.
And it certainly wasn't the time to be fixated on trivial things. There was the matter of what went on last night after he'd passed out. Since Duo had said he didn't know, and Wufei and Quatre were incapacitated, that left only Trowa, who was nowhere to be seen. This left him only two options: go back to sleep and recover, or get up and try to find Trowa.
He was disgusted with the slow motions of his arms and legs as he got out of his blankets for a second time and began to stagger towards the stairs. He fought back dizziness as he went along, determined to find the pilot of Heavyarms even if he had to crawl to do it. After an arduous fifteen minutes, he finally got to the top of the stairs, and he very nearly collapsed again. He leaned against the wall and rested for a few moments, catching his breath.
"You shouldn't be up yet," Trowa's soft baritone floated to his ears through his haze of exhaustion. He turned his head slightly to see Trowa coming down the hall to his right.
"Hn," he managed to respond. Trowa wordlessly came up to him and slipped his arm around his shoulders. Though at once grateful for and insulted at this, Heero let it be and asked, "Where were you?"
"Rashid's office. I was doing a little research," Trowa said, leading Heero down the hallway. The Japanese teen quirked an eyebrow at this, but decided to wait and see what exactly he meant.
Rashid's office was a large room with darkwood bookcases lining the walls. The thick carpet was deep red, patterned with black swirls. Trowa maneuvered him across the plush expanse to a desk cluttered with papers, knick-knacks, and the odd small mobile suit component. Heero allowed himself to be ensconced in the over-stuffed, worn leather chair in front of the computer terminal. He scanned the screen; the data displayed seemed to be dates and times.
"What's this?"
"The email message record for this base. I wanted to know just where the Maguanacs went, so I could contact them if the situation got worse. I found something... unexpected. Look here."
Trowa used the keyboard to cue up a specific record. A message appeared. Heero read it, trying not to squint as his sight went in and out of focus. He frowned. It was extremely vague, but worded so urgently as to demand immediate attention. The exact problem and location were merely hinted at; the sender had used private references to supposed colleagues and such to describe things.
"This means nothing," Heero concluded.
"Right. So I traced the mail. I thought it would give me a clue," Trowa once again leaned over to tap at the keyboard. The screen went blank and then abruptly brightened, various information flashing by too quickly to follow. Eventually it slowed and then stopped completely, the cursor blinking at the end of the last line. Heero felt his eyes widen fractionally.
The sender address was the same as the receiver address.
"Who sent that email?"
Trowa shrugged. "There are many terminals in this house, and no video cameras. And even if we did know who was at which computer, it could have been on a time-delay send mode, and impossible to trace anyway."
A creak alerted them to the study door opening. In the doorway stood a very disheveled and sickly-looking Quatre. The blonde stared with blank eyes at them, then began to creep across the floor. He walked like a string puppet, his movements too jerky and unrefined, not at all with the grace Quatre usually had. Heero felt his skin crawl. Something was very, very wrong.
The air in the room thickened, reeking of carrion and dust. Trowa seemed to be stunned into immobility as Quatre emotionlessly plodded across the floor and drew back his fist. Whatever little strength Heero had was sapped from him, and he couldn't reach out in time to stop him. Quatre spun the computer screen around and punched through the glass. Trowa leapt over to the wall and yanked the cord out of the wall just as the smell of burnt hair permeated the room. Quatre drew his bleeding hand out of the wreckage of the computer screen, his hair standing on end from the brief electrocution he'd received.
"Quatre!" Trowa finally seemed to have found his voice. "What are you doing?"
Quatre turned a blank stare at him and opened his mouth. A voice like the howling desert wind poured out, relentless, dry, almost shrieking.
"WE ARE NOT QUATRE," the thing that wasn't Quatre said.
"Who are you?" Heero asked.
Quatre opened his mouth again, the ungodly howl of wind beginning then flickering out into a human shout. Quatre face contorted with sudden pain, and he crumpled to the carpet. Trowa rushed to his side.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Trowa pulled Quatre into his arms. The smaller boy was shaking uncontrollably in agony. He clung to Trowa like a limpet.
"T-Trowa! I - I fought it off for a second... I'm sorry. I'm not strong enough to - throw it off completely, I - " Quatre babbled breathlessly. He squinted his eyes in pain, a strained whimper issuing from his throat. "I - c-can't fight it much l-longer!"
"Quatre, stay with me," Trowa said, his voice a strained whisper.
"I'm - trying. Trowa, it might be t-too late for me... It's too dangerous for y-you or the others to stay. Get away before this thing gets you, too!" Quatre gave a wordless cry, tensing against Trowa's chest. The tall pilot clutched him tightly until it passed.
"Quatre, how can we help? How can we save you?" Trowa demanded, his eyes pleading.
"I - don't know. Ask Wufei, when h-he's better, I think - he'll know. It's weak now, I think that controlling my body takes - a lot of its - energy. That's why I can - get thro- " the word turned into another almost-scream. When it passed, Quatre's big aquamarine eyes were tear-filled as he stared up at Trowa. He reached his trembling uninjured hand up to caress Trowa's face."It's c-coming back. I- don't have much time. I w-want you to know that I - love y-you, and -"
He went limp, his sweaty palm falling from Trowa's cheek. Then he tensed again. Trowa felt ill as the beautiful eyes that stared at him went cold and dead.
"LEAVE THIS ONE. HE IS OURS NOW," the voice of the thing said through Quatre's lips.
Quatre's body once again became a deadweight, and perfect silence reigned. Trowa barely heard Heero get out of the chair, and only responded when he felt him shaking his shoulder.
"We have to get him downstairs. Then we can prepare for when Wufei and Duo wake up."
"Yeah," Trowa heard himself say in a dull, thick sort of voice.
"Trowa."
"Yeah?" He turned to look fully at Heero, hoping he wasn't giving away all his emotions. Heero looked deadly serious.
"We're going to save Quatre," he promised. Trowa felt a glimmer of hope at hearing him say it, and realized he was rubbing his cheek where the unconscious boy had touched him.
"Yeah."
END PART EIGHT
Psyche: I'm surprised. It seems you actually struck a plot.
No thanks to you three.
Eros: And look, it only took eight parts, and a prologue.
_ Shut up. Just shut up.
Thalia: REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVVVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEWWWWW!!!!
Thalia: Oh, quit yer bitchin'! You gots it easy.
Eros: Yeah, you should try being a ~muse~! It's hard work?
_ Yesterday, you sat on the couch, drank soda, and watched all my Escaflowne tapes, or got up to pester me with song-fic ideas when you KNOW I can't write song-fics.
Psyche: You think it's EASY coming up with song-fic ideas?
Well, considering that you gave them to me for EVERY song I heard at work, yes.
Thalia: Shut up, you fools!
Psyche: Heh, that's funny. The Muse of Comedy calling ~us~ fools.
She's right, though. We have a fic to write, and no time to do it in. Now, let's get started.
Muses: Yeah, yeah, whatever...
DISCLAIMER: Don't own Gundam Wing. So there. Nyah! * thoughts * ~emphasis~ *(psychic/empathic thoughts/emotions)*
PART EIGHT
Trowa padded silently down the hall, trying to bury his nervousness behind a cool facade.
* There is nothing behind me. I will not look over my shoulder. *
His nerves were tingling. Whatever had happened in the main room of the basement was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. He fought with his senses over the incident. His logical mind desperately tried to rationalize while his superstition and memory contradicted every theory he could think of. It was not a hallucination. Three unconscious pilots attested to that fact. But was it really a... ghost or poltergeist that was causing all these problems, as Wufei seemed to think?
Trowa resisted a snort of contempt. He was not unfamiliar with the mindset. At the circus, there was a fortune-teller. She read tarot cards, palms, tea leaves, and the stars to "predict" the circus-goers' future. It was a bit suspicious that almost all the people had the same future: they'd meet an attractive person of their sexual preference and come into a goodly sum of money. Almost everything she did had some sort of superstition attached to it, and she'd talk in depth and at length about her "powers" if one was too foolish to stop her.
Granted, Wufei did not seem at all similar to her, and was capable in all other things. Something odd indeed was going down, but could such things as psychics and spirits truly exist?
* ...If they don't, then how do you explain all this? How do you explain what happened to Quatre? *
Quatre... the walking contradiction. The pacifist warrior. He was so open and gentle and caring, yet he was an enigma. He confused Trowa to no end, calm and self-possessed one moment, blushing and stammering the next. Assuming it wasn't a spirit that was doing this to him, what was it? A disease? Or something psychological? Trowa found himself seriously doubting these theories. Diseases have symptoms, as do mental disorders. Pilot 04 had exhibited no sign of either.
* Unless you count spontaneous facial capilary expansion. * Trowa thought in a rare flash of humor.
He was well aware of Quatre's interest in him. The thought was alien to him. Not because it was a male that was attracted to him, but that it was ~Quatre~. His tainted purity, stained innocence was so sad, and drew Trowa like a moth to the flame. The boy filled him with emotion every time they met. And it was... troubling. He'd thought himself totally devoid of feeling and had been adapting to that. But one smile from Quatre would set his heart beating.
He didn't want to feel this way. There was a war going on. They were supposed to be completely focused on fighting, on creating peace. Personal lives were insignificant, nonexistent to a true soldier. Not to mention the complications a relationship with a fellow gundam pilot would create. And yet...
* I held him. I had my arms around him... even if it was only to keep him from convulsing. *
He felt warm, despite the cool air of the hall.
He'd reached Heero's room. A cursory check proved that Duo and Heero were not there. He continued down the hall.
* And even if it'd been psychosomatic with Quatre, how could you explain what happened to Heero? *
Heero was definitely not prone to nosebleeds. Even if he was, it would be a bit of a coincidence that one would begin seconds after grabbing onto Wufei and Duo. And Duo was an entirely different matter, playing the role of the reluctant participant. The whole thing didn't add up, at least not ~logically~.
* So that leaves only one viable solution: There is something Wufei, Duo, and Quatre can sense that affects the rest of us, even if we ourselves aren't able to sense it. *
Duo's room had all its lights on, but Trowa's hopes of finding a conscious person to help him organize a plan of action were in vain. Heero lay half-sitting and shirtless, and Duo himself was sprawled across the remaining portion of the bed. Trowa frowned. He'd have to carry both of them back to the living room, where he could keep watch on them. He sincerely hoped that they all would recover. He didn't even want to think about how long it would take to repair all four gundams alone.
When he's arrived at Heero's side, he reached down and took his pulse. While he counted the appallingly slow beats, he observed Heero's pale and exhausted face. His skin was cool to the touch. If it weren't for the fact that his heart was indeed beating and his breath was coming evenly, Trowa would have thought Heero to be a corpse in which rigor mortis had not yet begun. The tall pilot repressed a chill. He released him, possibly with more haste than absolutely necessary, and moved on to Duo. The braided boy was doing slightly better, more color to his face and his breathing not quite as labored.
Satisfied that they were safe to move, he heaved their limp forms up over his shoulders. He was profoundly glad that his balance was good enough to handle both burdens with a minimum of staggering. It would be a long walk back to the common room.
Heero woke with uncharacteristic leisure, his consciousness sliding on the black border of sleep. His dreams had been either nonexistent or untroubled; he had no recollection of them. He basked in warmth created by his own body, flexing his fingers around the edge of the blanket and drawing it closer. He sighed slightly, almost slipping back to sleep. He was dragged roughly back, though, by a sudden loud ~thud~ from the area next to his head.
He sat up instantly, hand reaching for a gun - only to find that it wasn't there and then grab the edge of the couch in an attempt to steady himself. The room was spinning... or was that his head? When the dizziness had passed, he looked down to ascertain from whence the sound had originated.
Duo lay half-on, half-off his couch, his upper body sprawled across the carpet and his legs still propped on the cushions. He hadn't woken up in his fall or the landing. Heero glanced blearily around, wondering who'd brought them out here and if that person was around to help. Quatre and Wufei were lying unmoving on their makeshift beds, looking worse for wear. Trowa was absent. He assimilated all this rapidly, then sighed again, even more unnoticeable than before. He heaved his leaden limbs up and slid out of the blankets, the bite of the chill air dispelling the last remnants of drowsiness.
He was immensely pleased that he was no longer too weak to move, and soon was gathering Duo's torso in his arms and lifting him back onto the sofa. It took more effort than it should have, leaving Heero panting and trembling with exertion. After he finally managed to shove Duo back onto his bed, he collapsed and leaned against the couch for support while he tried to catch his breath. He tilted his head back to gulp the air, his eyes closing of their own accord.
Suddenly, there was something warm and heavy draped over his shoulder. He jerked and looked over. It was Duo's forearm and hand; the American had shifted in his sleep. Heero froze and stared at the hand. It was tanned and long-fingered, calloused like his own from the controls of a mobile suit and the maintenance work. It rested just past his shoulder but not quite to his chest, and was very warm to his bare skin, causing the flesh around it to contract. Duo made a small murmuring noise into his pillow and flexed his fingers. It felt...
Heero roughly pulled away, scooting in a rather undignified manner back to his own couch. He scrambled up into his still-heated blankets, and glared at the ceiling as he fought for control. He felt like his whole body was blushing. It was not acceptable. How long had he felt this way without realizing it? And what ~exactly~ was he feeling? He could deal with lust. It was a distraction, and he could handle distractions. But if it was based in honest emotion... which emotion would that be? He was certain that this went past the boundaries defined by comradery or friendship. Then was this... affection? Caring? Alien from such things, Heero didn't know.
And it certainly wasn't the time to be fixated on trivial things. There was the matter of what went on last night after he'd passed out. Since Duo had said he didn't know, and Wufei and Quatre were incapacitated, that left only Trowa, who was nowhere to be seen. This left him only two options: go back to sleep and recover, or get up and try to find Trowa.
He was disgusted with the slow motions of his arms and legs as he got out of his blankets for a second time and began to stagger towards the stairs. He fought back dizziness as he went along, determined to find the pilot of Heavyarms even if he had to crawl to do it. After an arduous fifteen minutes, he finally got to the top of the stairs, and he very nearly collapsed again. He leaned against the wall and rested for a few moments, catching his breath.
"You shouldn't be up yet," Trowa's soft baritone floated to his ears through his haze of exhaustion. He turned his head slightly to see Trowa coming down the hall to his right.
"Hn," he managed to respond. Trowa wordlessly came up to him and slipped his arm around his shoulders. Though at once grateful for and insulted at this, Heero let it be and asked, "Where were you?"
"Rashid's office. I was doing a little research," Trowa said, leading Heero down the hallway. The Japanese teen quirked an eyebrow at this, but decided to wait and see what exactly he meant.
Rashid's office was a large room with darkwood bookcases lining the walls. The thick carpet was deep red, patterned with black swirls. Trowa maneuvered him across the plush expanse to a desk cluttered with papers, knick-knacks, and the odd small mobile suit component. Heero allowed himself to be ensconced in the over-stuffed, worn leather chair in front of the computer terminal. He scanned the screen; the data displayed seemed to be dates and times.
"What's this?"
"The email message record for this base. I wanted to know just where the Maguanacs went, so I could contact them if the situation got worse. I found something... unexpected. Look here."
Trowa used the keyboard to cue up a specific record. A message appeared. Heero read it, trying not to squint as his sight went in and out of focus. He frowned. It was extremely vague, but worded so urgently as to demand immediate attention. The exact problem and location were merely hinted at; the sender had used private references to supposed colleagues and such to describe things.
"This means nothing," Heero concluded.
"Right. So I traced the mail. I thought it would give me a clue," Trowa once again leaned over to tap at the keyboard. The screen went blank and then abruptly brightened, various information flashing by too quickly to follow. Eventually it slowed and then stopped completely, the cursor blinking at the end of the last line. Heero felt his eyes widen fractionally.
The sender address was the same as the receiver address.
"Who sent that email?"
Trowa shrugged. "There are many terminals in this house, and no video cameras. And even if we did know who was at which computer, it could have been on a time-delay send mode, and impossible to trace anyway."
A creak alerted them to the study door opening. In the doorway stood a very disheveled and sickly-looking Quatre. The blonde stared with blank eyes at them, then began to creep across the floor. He walked like a string puppet, his movements too jerky and unrefined, not at all with the grace Quatre usually had. Heero felt his skin crawl. Something was very, very wrong.
The air in the room thickened, reeking of carrion and dust. Trowa seemed to be stunned into immobility as Quatre emotionlessly plodded across the floor and drew back his fist. Whatever little strength Heero had was sapped from him, and he couldn't reach out in time to stop him. Quatre spun the computer screen around and punched through the glass. Trowa leapt over to the wall and yanked the cord out of the wall just as the smell of burnt hair permeated the room. Quatre drew his bleeding hand out of the wreckage of the computer screen, his hair standing on end from the brief electrocution he'd received.
"Quatre!" Trowa finally seemed to have found his voice. "What are you doing?"
Quatre turned a blank stare at him and opened his mouth. A voice like the howling desert wind poured out, relentless, dry, almost shrieking.
"WE ARE NOT QUATRE," the thing that wasn't Quatre said.
"Who are you?" Heero asked.
Quatre opened his mouth again, the ungodly howl of wind beginning then flickering out into a human shout. Quatre face contorted with sudden pain, and he crumpled to the carpet. Trowa rushed to his side.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Trowa pulled Quatre into his arms. The smaller boy was shaking uncontrollably in agony. He clung to Trowa like a limpet.
"T-Trowa! I - I fought it off for a second... I'm sorry. I'm not strong enough to - throw it off completely, I - " Quatre babbled breathlessly. He squinted his eyes in pain, a strained whimper issuing from his throat. "I - c-can't fight it much l-longer!"
"Quatre, stay with me," Trowa said, his voice a strained whisper.
"I'm - trying. Trowa, it might be t-too late for me... It's too dangerous for y-you or the others to stay. Get away before this thing gets you, too!" Quatre gave a wordless cry, tensing against Trowa's chest. The tall pilot clutched him tightly until it passed.
"Quatre, how can we help? How can we save you?" Trowa demanded, his eyes pleading.
"I - don't know. Ask Wufei, when h-he's better, I think - he'll know. It's weak now, I think that controlling my body takes - a lot of its - energy. That's why I can - get thro- " the word turned into another almost-scream. When it passed, Quatre's big aquamarine eyes were tear-filled as he stared up at Trowa. He reached his trembling uninjured hand up to caress Trowa's face."It's c-coming back. I- don't have much time. I w-want you to know that I - love y-you, and -"
He went limp, his sweaty palm falling from Trowa's cheek. Then he tensed again. Trowa felt ill as the beautiful eyes that stared at him went cold and dead.
"LEAVE THIS ONE. HE IS OURS NOW," the voice of the thing said through Quatre's lips.
Quatre's body once again became a deadweight, and perfect silence reigned. Trowa barely heard Heero get out of the chair, and only responded when he felt him shaking his shoulder.
"We have to get him downstairs. Then we can prepare for when Wufei and Duo wake up."
"Yeah," Trowa heard himself say in a dull, thick sort of voice.
"Trowa."
"Yeah?" He turned to look fully at Heero, hoping he wasn't giving away all his emotions. Heero looked deadly serious.
"We're going to save Quatre," he promised. Trowa felt a glimmer of hope at hearing him say it, and realized he was rubbing his cheek where the unconscious boy had touched him.
"Yeah."
END PART EIGHT
Psyche: I'm surprised. It seems you actually struck a plot.
No thanks to you three.
Eros: And look, it only took eight parts, and a prologue.
_ Shut up. Just shut up.
Thalia: REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVVVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEWWWWW!!!!
