Desert Rose
Author's babble: Keep the feedback flowing…actually there isn't any feedback, is there? But hey, I can sure god damn well hope!
Disclaimer: I don't have the ownership papers. But how do we know they do? Has anyone ever seen the papers? For all we know, there are no ownership papers.
Warning: Total Trowa bashing fic (which is odd for me, love that guy.)
Part Two: The Mole
Trowa realizing the absence of his tiny Arabian lover frowned angrily. His eyes creaked open sleepily, quickly the landed on a small note beside his hand. He groped for it, not fully awake to read. It was like his eyes always woke up ten minutes after the rest of his body. Actually, Trowa diverted his attention from the note for a while longer, it seemed that in reality one's body only fully woke up at night. And one was finally fully awake and alert they were obliged to sleep. This explained why Trowa often worked on seventy-two hour days. A little trick he had picked up from assassins in his earlier years, always be alert.
Finally his wary eyes readjusted enough to see his lover's tidy scrawl in the rapidly vanishing darkness. The paper was wet, wet and red. Holding it closer to his nose the Heavy arms pilot discovered a tangent, saline scent. Blood. Trowa reckoned that regardless the reason for Quatre's departure, he was being just a tad melodramatic with the blond. The Sandrock pilot had a flare for dramatics. Curiosity overpowering anger, he shifted the note further away from his face.
Trowa,
I really am sorry to have you wake up and find me gone. That's rather inconvenient of me, believe me that I'd rather be wrapped up in your arms gazing into your grey eyes than where I am now. Actually, I can't tell you where I've gone. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you even this much, but someone's after me. One of my closest friends risked their life giving me this message, so understandably I couldn't tell you anything else, even if I knew. Mostly, I just want to tell you that I love you. I hope that when all this is over you'll still be waiting. If not I could always settle down, marry and have a couple dozen daughters. I'm sorry, my attempt at a joke.
Your Desert Rose
Trowa would have liked to have sworn, or thrown something across the room, or perhaps ripped the note. Instead, his countless years of training kicked in. There could have been only one person to blame for this sudden departure. One person, and she was sitting downstairs…
Emotions completely under the mask that was his face, the former Gundam pilot opened the top drawer of his night stand. Under a few shirts, tidy black turtlenecks, lay his chrome nine-millimeter. He had suspected that eventually there might come a time when he might have to come to these extremes. But Trowa had not gotten this far from stupidity. No, first he must weigh the options.
Katherine was the head of his intelligence unit. Also a correspondent with members of her circus troupe. Everyday she went for coffee at the same place and most people in the neighbourhood knew her, if not well. It was part of her job to be able to gather information easily, and that was easier when people trusted you. Besides, he might like to have her around to announce his next betrayal. No, acid might work better… And she had always fancied that mask of his…
But that too was a little too drastic for his liking, he figured as he threw on one of the tidy turtlenecks and tight-fitted white jeans.
Instead he crept silently into the kitchen weaponless. Her eyes were glued on the same spot staring, but there was no Quatre. He had left already.
Katherine acknowledged her brother by turning her head slightly. A small frown that crossed her lips flipped into a smirk.
"Abdul, 31/12/199. 13:23, cause of death, suicide. Reason, fear of punishment that would come from his "anonymous" master's hand when he found out of his treason." The smirk played out it's stance, just daring Trowa to try something.
He nodded and turned, as if to leave. Instead, he drew a knife and plunged it into her leg without expression. The acrobat seemed to ignore her cry of pain. He didn't return the smirk, he didn't look her at all. Trowa slipped on a pair of shoes, grabbed a coat, threw his cell at his sister and exited.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Quatre heard nothing but the pound of his large feet on cold concrete as he ran. Then the tactician realized that number one, no one would recognize him as being Quatre from a distance and number two, no one trying to be conspicuous would be running. So he slowed and walked lazily into the coffee shop. He didn't really like coffee, but it was to be part of his role as the unremarkable person.
The Arabian studied his role; he decided on twenty-two from Hope, United North and South America. He was a student in this area that needed money to pay his education at the local U. He also was interested in the local armed forces unit because he heard the corporation paid for education of their employees. His music style would be a reflection of his outer style, a rock and metal lover. His attitude would be friendly with a sense of humour to an extent, but not so friendly that he would go out of his way for anyone. And into girls in a big way.
And coffee. This Michael Smith was going to be a coffee lover.
"Next please," the girl ushered Quatre to move forward in line. Her name tag read Rosy, and her hair was cut on the same fabulous angle he had noted last night. Only today it hung in a playful high ponytail. Quatre noticed her apparent approval of his looks, even his scar. He tried to disregard her speechlessness as he ordered.
"Hello… Rosy," Quatre pretended to have to read her name. "I'd like a cappuccino."
"A cappuccino," Rosy gulped, any of her skills around the opposite sex that she'd showed last night were disappearing.
"Please," Quatre smiled from ear to ear, trying to charm the girl as Michael would have if his character existed. "With extra foam."
"Would you like any toppings?"
"I like cinnamon on my cappuccino, but what I'd really like is your phone number." The second girl working there, a blond girl that was probably younger than Rosy jumped at the comment, spilling a good portion of the coffee down her shirt.
"My phone number?" Rosy fumbled around her apron pockets for a pen.
"Hey buddy, hurry up!" Somebody called from near the end of the line. Quatre frowned and glared down the line. He was quite proud of his acting skills actually, but he didn't let it show.
"Listen Rosy, how about I take my coffee over to that table there. And as soon as you get a break, we can talk."
"Uh huh," she nodded, shock mixed with happiness clear in her eyes.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Trowa said nothing as the engine of his red beater died while he was tail end out of his drive and into the street. The curses of the passing drivers that were forced to swerve around him were enough to suffice for Trowa's silence. Quatre had to be stopped if he knew anything about his operation. He couldn't do too much with a former Gundam on the loose, even if they didn't know anything. Especially Quatre.
Quatre was beautiful, and sweet but as dangerous as a cobra when he wanted to be. Fortunately, cobras were easily defanged, and then about as dangerous as a new born kitten.
And Quatre, as intelligent as he was would probably be running as far away from the source of power as possible. Duo's was probably a good bet on where Quatre was probably hiding. But he couldn't just barge in and ask directly for Quatre, it wouldn't be fun at all to alert the two. Trowa smiled wickedly. No, I will visit the Winner manner as schedule.
Besides, the office was getting dull and he needed a new base of operations. And perhaps a disappearance of a loved one would lure Quatre home.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Quatre was sitting at a table, thinking. He did need to be known to some people, but could he really afford to have someone fall in love with him. When this was all over he wanted to go back to being Quatre, and he wanted to go back to Trowa if he would take him.
Quatre thought of what he needed. A home, money, a job and an identity. ID's were easy enough to fake, but he had to be known in the community. He could access money from one of his accounts, but who was to say that who ever this person searching for him wouldn't or couldn't access his location with one withdrawal. The same with buying a home, even under a new name. Unless he could get a buyer to purchase it for him. But who would purchase a him without suspicion.
An apartment, he thought suddenly. An apartment on the bad side of town with a rep for trouble that keeps bad records, or none on their occupants. He smiled, that would work. And a job would take care of money. The only problem was the cash he held until payday. Quatre flipped through his black, fat wallet. Surprising he was carrying a thousand dollars in cash and five hundred dollars in store credits-
"Hey," a feminine voice broke through his line of thought. Rosy, Quatre was already beginning to recognize her voice. He slowly drew his eyes up, gathering in information from her appearance though she probably though he was checking her out. When he reached her eyes that she held coolly, though pink in the face, the girl smiled. Courage, he deducted through her simple actions. Though frightened and feeling stupid she did what she wanted, needed.
"Oh hi, Rosy." He draw the name out deliciously slow and grinned evilly as the girl turned an even lovelier shade of rose. He was even enjoying this game of toying with the emotions of others, which was surprising as he would have to hurt her when his need for her was over. For now Quatre decided that it would be enough just to worry about the present time, and he diverted his attention from his dilemma. "Why don't you pull up a seat babe?"
"Thanks," Rosy paused, straining her brain while trying to remember something. Something about stranger reminded her of someone, but she couldn't label who or why. Who ever he was, he certainly intrigued her. He may have been pretending to be a player, but Rosy was able to see through the ploy. Although he was attractive and obviously attention grabbing there was something remotely distant about this copper haired man. She seriously doubted that he was out looking for a girlfriend, but rather trying to establish something with someone or something she didn't know. The idea was somewhat unappealing and she began to wonder what he really wanted.
"So what did you say your name was?"
"It's Michael," Quatre told her before sipping distastefully at his cappuccino. She seemed to know more than she let on and he worried if she could see him as the drunken blond he had been last night. Something about her made him suspect that she didn't really work at the coffee shop, but perhaps she didn't if she had attended a Preventors party the night prior. She was probably working undercover, but for what he didn't know. Who ever was after him was moving quietly enough not to alert attention to themselves and seemed to be focused more on himself than global or colonial domination which was strange. Quatre also knew that news of his disappearance couldn't be out yet, Trowa was probably waiting for him to crawl back to his house with his tail between his legs and apologize for not trusting the heavy arms pilot. Why did everyone underestimate him? He wondered angrily.
"Do you mind if I call you Mike?" the girl opposite Quatre asked with a smile. Where did she know him? She wondered angry for not being able to identify him immediately. He probably even worked at her office, and like her was under cover to investigate the threat posed on the Sand rock pilot. Rosy had always been fascinated by the Gundam boys since the fateful day in Miss Relena's peace lectures that pilot 01 and pilot 04 entered the classroom. Though they had not been introduced as this, she'd known who they were. Rosy had memorized all of the quintet wonders' faces. Home colonies and histories, she knew it all discluding Heero's true identity. But it was the 04 pilot that interested her most, who had like 01 been able to master the intense inner workings of the zero system. How he was able to change from such a brat, into the well mannered young man all knew him as. And how a soldier could be so gentle, how he could kill in cold blood and hate the pain of others.
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Mike Smith, eh?" The tubby, cigar smoking man that owned the department store was beginning to irritate Quatre. Never having to work under anyone, Quatre had little patience for people that openly abused their power on others.
"Michael Smith," Quatre corrected, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left. There was a prolonged pause as the evident head honcho examined this new boy. Quatre was in the same instant taking in every thing of who might become his new employer. His eyes showed little signs of intelligence, and there were no remnants of what might have been muscles from earlier days. Greasy hair and skin, but expensive clothes from the shops Quatre once frequented. It looked to Quatre from all aspects that this man had got this job through relatives and luck.
This evaluation took Quatre the whole of ten seconds. The man, Mr. Mallory read his jacket, took longer with his evaluation. His eyes appreciatively at the hiding muscle on the boy that meant he worked hard. His eyes seemed honest enough, feminine golden lashes that didn't at all match his bronze hair framed them. His clothes were not torn, or ripped so he had some options in jobs. The only thing that this Mr. Mallory disapproved of was scar on Quatre's face that was beginning to puff out, probably infected. He showed this through a disgusted look on his face.
"How'd you get the scar boy?" He demanded of Quatre. "You've been fighting with anyone?"
"No sir," Quatre smiled inwardly. Fighting human against human without the luxury of mobile suits was not a common past time until recently. The adrenaline rush that came with the rush of punching and watching your blood spill on the floor was attracting more victims daily.
"How'd you get 'er?"
"I got it from shaving at five in the morning." The copper haired man's dislike for the lazy accented man didn't seem to rub off. Mr. Mallory instead was taking a liking to the boy that Quatre felt it would be better to break in the long run. Unremarkable sometimes meant impolite to an extent, but sudden disappearances were more inconvenient.
"I was a little distracted by the woman in the window across the street undressing. Got to love old houses. The windows are always so big. What a view!" Again Quatre made an inward grimace that were a sign of what he really felt for old Mrs. Hinkle who had lived next door, and at the same time he tried to hold a goofy smile on his face. The big man's lips pursed before deciding a station for the man.
"All right Michael Smith, you have yourself a job. I'm sure the boys in stock have need for you."
***
"Rashiid." Trowa greeted the tall Arab in his usual, confident fashion. The Arab felt no malice in the familiar face's words, and in turn gave him a small smile.
"I'm afraid Master Trowa, that your Quatre is out at the moment. This really isn't a good time for a visit."
"This isn't a visit." From the European's sleek jeans emerged a chromium weapon. With his same calm, cruel confidence, Trowa pointed it at the Arab menacingly. Rashiid's eyes widened, but the warrior stood cool.
"Well, that certainly changes things."
Author's babble: Keep the feedback flowing…actually there isn't any feedback, is there? But hey, I can sure god damn well hope!
Disclaimer: I don't have the ownership papers. But how do we know they do? Has anyone ever seen the papers? For all we know, there are no ownership papers.
Warning: Total Trowa bashing fic (which is odd for me, love that guy.)
Part Two: The Mole
Trowa realizing the absence of his tiny Arabian lover frowned angrily. His eyes creaked open sleepily, quickly the landed on a small note beside his hand. He groped for it, not fully awake to read. It was like his eyes always woke up ten minutes after the rest of his body. Actually, Trowa diverted his attention from the note for a while longer, it seemed that in reality one's body only fully woke up at night. And one was finally fully awake and alert they were obliged to sleep. This explained why Trowa often worked on seventy-two hour days. A little trick he had picked up from assassins in his earlier years, always be alert.
Finally his wary eyes readjusted enough to see his lover's tidy scrawl in the rapidly vanishing darkness. The paper was wet, wet and red. Holding it closer to his nose the Heavy arms pilot discovered a tangent, saline scent. Blood. Trowa reckoned that regardless the reason for Quatre's departure, he was being just a tad melodramatic with the blond. The Sandrock pilot had a flare for dramatics. Curiosity overpowering anger, he shifted the note further away from his face.
Trowa,
I really am sorry to have you wake up and find me gone. That's rather inconvenient of me, believe me that I'd rather be wrapped up in your arms gazing into your grey eyes than where I am now. Actually, I can't tell you where I've gone. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you even this much, but someone's after me. One of my closest friends risked their life giving me this message, so understandably I couldn't tell you anything else, even if I knew. Mostly, I just want to tell you that I love you. I hope that when all this is over you'll still be waiting. If not I could always settle down, marry and have a couple dozen daughters. I'm sorry, my attempt at a joke.
Your Desert Rose
Trowa would have liked to have sworn, or thrown something across the room, or perhaps ripped the note. Instead, his countless years of training kicked in. There could have been only one person to blame for this sudden departure. One person, and she was sitting downstairs…
Emotions completely under the mask that was his face, the former Gundam pilot opened the top drawer of his night stand. Under a few shirts, tidy black turtlenecks, lay his chrome nine-millimeter. He had suspected that eventually there might come a time when he might have to come to these extremes. But Trowa had not gotten this far from stupidity. No, first he must weigh the options.
Katherine was the head of his intelligence unit. Also a correspondent with members of her circus troupe. Everyday she went for coffee at the same place and most people in the neighbourhood knew her, if not well. It was part of her job to be able to gather information easily, and that was easier when people trusted you. Besides, he might like to have her around to announce his next betrayal. No, acid might work better… And she had always fancied that mask of his…
But that too was a little too drastic for his liking, he figured as he threw on one of the tidy turtlenecks and tight-fitted white jeans.
Instead he crept silently into the kitchen weaponless. Her eyes were glued on the same spot staring, but there was no Quatre. He had left already.
Katherine acknowledged her brother by turning her head slightly. A small frown that crossed her lips flipped into a smirk.
"Abdul, 31/12/199. 13:23, cause of death, suicide. Reason, fear of punishment that would come from his "anonymous" master's hand when he found out of his treason." The smirk played out it's stance, just daring Trowa to try something.
He nodded and turned, as if to leave. Instead, he drew a knife and plunged it into her leg without expression. The acrobat seemed to ignore her cry of pain. He didn't return the smirk, he didn't look her at all. Trowa slipped on a pair of shoes, grabbed a coat, threw his cell at his sister and exited.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Quatre heard nothing but the pound of his large feet on cold concrete as he ran. Then the tactician realized that number one, no one would recognize him as being Quatre from a distance and number two, no one trying to be conspicuous would be running. So he slowed and walked lazily into the coffee shop. He didn't really like coffee, but it was to be part of his role as the unremarkable person.
The Arabian studied his role; he decided on twenty-two from Hope, United North and South America. He was a student in this area that needed money to pay his education at the local U. He also was interested in the local armed forces unit because he heard the corporation paid for education of their employees. His music style would be a reflection of his outer style, a rock and metal lover. His attitude would be friendly with a sense of humour to an extent, but not so friendly that he would go out of his way for anyone. And into girls in a big way.
And coffee. This Michael Smith was going to be a coffee lover.
"Next please," the girl ushered Quatre to move forward in line. Her name tag read Rosy, and her hair was cut on the same fabulous angle he had noted last night. Only today it hung in a playful high ponytail. Quatre noticed her apparent approval of his looks, even his scar. He tried to disregard her speechlessness as he ordered.
"Hello… Rosy," Quatre pretended to have to read her name. "I'd like a cappuccino."
"A cappuccino," Rosy gulped, any of her skills around the opposite sex that she'd showed last night were disappearing.
"Please," Quatre smiled from ear to ear, trying to charm the girl as Michael would have if his character existed. "With extra foam."
"Would you like any toppings?"
"I like cinnamon on my cappuccino, but what I'd really like is your phone number." The second girl working there, a blond girl that was probably younger than Rosy jumped at the comment, spilling a good portion of the coffee down her shirt.
"My phone number?" Rosy fumbled around her apron pockets for a pen.
"Hey buddy, hurry up!" Somebody called from near the end of the line. Quatre frowned and glared down the line. He was quite proud of his acting skills actually, but he didn't let it show.
"Listen Rosy, how about I take my coffee over to that table there. And as soon as you get a break, we can talk."
"Uh huh," she nodded, shock mixed with happiness clear in her eyes.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Trowa said nothing as the engine of his red beater died while he was tail end out of his drive and into the street. The curses of the passing drivers that were forced to swerve around him were enough to suffice for Trowa's silence. Quatre had to be stopped if he knew anything about his operation. He couldn't do too much with a former Gundam on the loose, even if they didn't know anything. Especially Quatre.
Quatre was beautiful, and sweet but as dangerous as a cobra when he wanted to be. Fortunately, cobras were easily defanged, and then about as dangerous as a new born kitten.
And Quatre, as intelligent as he was would probably be running as far away from the source of power as possible. Duo's was probably a good bet on where Quatre was probably hiding. But he couldn't just barge in and ask directly for Quatre, it wouldn't be fun at all to alert the two. Trowa smiled wickedly. No, I will visit the Winner manner as schedule.
Besides, the office was getting dull and he needed a new base of operations. And perhaps a disappearance of a loved one would lure Quatre home.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Quatre was sitting at a table, thinking. He did need to be known to some people, but could he really afford to have someone fall in love with him. When this was all over he wanted to go back to being Quatre, and he wanted to go back to Trowa if he would take him.
Quatre thought of what he needed. A home, money, a job and an identity. ID's were easy enough to fake, but he had to be known in the community. He could access money from one of his accounts, but who was to say that who ever this person searching for him wouldn't or couldn't access his location with one withdrawal. The same with buying a home, even under a new name. Unless he could get a buyer to purchase it for him. But who would purchase a him without suspicion.
An apartment, he thought suddenly. An apartment on the bad side of town with a rep for trouble that keeps bad records, or none on their occupants. He smiled, that would work. And a job would take care of money. The only problem was the cash he held until payday. Quatre flipped through his black, fat wallet. Surprising he was carrying a thousand dollars in cash and five hundred dollars in store credits-
"Hey," a feminine voice broke through his line of thought. Rosy, Quatre was already beginning to recognize her voice. He slowly drew his eyes up, gathering in information from her appearance though she probably though he was checking her out. When he reached her eyes that she held coolly, though pink in the face, the girl smiled. Courage, he deducted through her simple actions. Though frightened and feeling stupid she did what she wanted, needed.
"Oh hi, Rosy." He draw the name out deliciously slow and grinned evilly as the girl turned an even lovelier shade of rose. He was even enjoying this game of toying with the emotions of others, which was surprising as he would have to hurt her when his need for her was over. For now Quatre decided that it would be enough just to worry about the present time, and he diverted his attention from his dilemma. "Why don't you pull up a seat babe?"
"Thanks," Rosy paused, straining her brain while trying to remember something. Something about stranger reminded her of someone, but she couldn't label who or why. Who ever he was, he certainly intrigued her. He may have been pretending to be a player, but Rosy was able to see through the ploy. Although he was attractive and obviously attention grabbing there was something remotely distant about this copper haired man. She seriously doubted that he was out looking for a girlfriend, but rather trying to establish something with someone or something she didn't know. The idea was somewhat unappealing and she began to wonder what he really wanted.
"So what did you say your name was?"
"It's Michael," Quatre told her before sipping distastefully at his cappuccino. She seemed to know more than she let on and he worried if she could see him as the drunken blond he had been last night. Something about her made him suspect that she didn't really work at the coffee shop, but perhaps she didn't if she had attended a Preventors party the night prior. She was probably working undercover, but for what he didn't know. Who ever was after him was moving quietly enough not to alert attention to themselves and seemed to be focused more on himself than global or colonial domination which was strange. Quatre also knew that news of his disappearance couldn't be out yet, Trowa was probably waiting for him to crawl back to his house with his tail between his legs and apologize for not trusting the heavy arms pilot. Why did everyone underestimate him? He wondered angrily.
"Do you mind if I call you Mike?" the girl opposite Quatre asked with a smile. Where did she know him? She wondered angry for not being able to identify him immediately. He probably even worked at her office, and like her was under cover to investigate the threat posed on the Sand rock pilot. Rosy had always been fascinated by the Gundam boys since the fateful day in Miss Relena's peace lectures that pilot 01 and pilot 04 entered the classroom. Though they had not been introduced as this, she'd known who they were. Rosy had memorized all of the quintet wonders' faces. Home colonies and histories, she knew it all discluding Heero's true identity. But it was the 04 pilot that interested her most, who had like 01 been able to master the intense inner workings of the zero system. How he was able to change from such a brat, into the well mannered young man all knew him as. And how a soldier could be so gentle, how he could kill in cold blood and hate the pain of others.
* * * * * * * * * * *
"Mike Smith, eh?" The tubby, cigar smoking man that owned the department store was beginning to irritate Quatre. Never having to work under anyone, Quatre had little patience for people that openly abused their power on others.
"Michael Smith," Quatre corrected, shifting his weight from his right leg to his left. There was a prolonged pause as the evident head honcho examined this new boy. Quatre was in the same instant taking in every thing of who might become his new employer. His eyes showed little signs of intelligence, and there were no remnants of what might have been muscles from earlier days. Greasy hair and skin, but expensive clothes from the shops Quatre once frequented. It looked to Quatre from all aspects that this man had got this job through relatives and luck.
This evaluation took Quatre the whole of ten seconds. The man, Mr. Mallory read his jacket, took longer with his evaluation. His eyes appreciatively at the hiding muscle on the boy that meant he worked hard. His eyes seemed honest enough, feminine golden lashes that didn't at all match his bronze hair framed them. His clothes were not torn, or ripped so he had some options in jobs. The only thing that this Mr. Mallory disapproved of was scar on Quatre's face that was beginning to puff out, probably infected. He showed this through a disgusted look on his face.
"How'd you get the scar boy?" He demanded of Quatre. "You've been fighting with anyone?"
"No sir," Quatre smiled inwardly. Fighting human against human without the luxury of mobile suits was not a common past time until recently. The adrenaline rush that came with the rush of punching and watching your blood spill on the floor was attracting more victims daily.
"How'd you get 'er?"
"I got it from shaving at five in the morning." The copper haired man's dislike for the lazy accented man didn't seem to rub off. Mr. Mallory instead was taking a liking to the boy that Quatre felt it would be better to break in the long run. Unremarkable sometimes meant impolite to an extent, but sudden disappearances were more inconvenient.
"I was a little distracted by the woman in the window across the street undressing. Got to love old houses. The windows are always so big. What a view!" Again Quatre made an inward grimace that were a sign of what he really felt for old Mrs. Hinkle who had lived next door, and at the same time he tried to hold a goofy smile on his face. The big man's lips pursed before deciding a station for the man.
"All right Michael Smith, you have yourself a job. I'm sure the boys in stock have need for you."
***
"Rashiid." Trowa greeted the tall Arab in his usual, confident fashion. The Arab felt no malice in the familiar face's words, and in turn gave him a small smile.
"I'm afraid Master Trowa, that your Quatre is out at the moment. This really isn't a good time for a visit."
"This isn't a visit." From the European's sleek jeans emerged a chromium weapon. With his same calm, cruel confidence, Trowa pointed it at the Arab menacingly. Rashiid's eyes widened, but the warrior stood cool.
"Well, that certainly changes things."