The Mission
Author's note: Hmm, isn't it amazing how many reviews this hard-working author gets. Oh, yeah, heavy Trowa bashing in this part.
Disclaimer: No, Gundam Wing is not mine.
Rashiid eyed the gun to his head wearily. Cautiously, he began to raise his hands above his head. "What do you want Trowa?"
"You know exactly what I want," the man whispered gently into his ear. The antique gun in his hand was being cocked coolly while Rashiid gathered his thoughts. "I want your sweet Quatre. I want this house, and I want all the staff unloyal to me gone. You, I want dead."
"But why Quatre?" the big man whispered with fear for the boy he'd helped bring up. "Why Trowa?"
Trowa swept back the mask of hair from his face with one hand still on the gun. Both of his dazzling emerald eyes were visible, and their uncaring cruelty was shocking clear in their projection. "There are five Gundam pilots, and then two that might have rivalled us in strength. Treize is dead and Zechs doesn't care about us ickle little boys." He blinked both eyes, as if the light stung. "That leaves four people. Four things that could screw me over in this little operation. There are only two possibilities for these four screw-ups; they ally themselves with me or face termination. Even dear little Quatre."
Trowa paused for a moment to take in the effect of his words take their affect on Rashiid. The big man was staring in shock at the boy's dangerous expression. Trowa, his Quatre's dear Trowa was going to lead the world into another war, and with Quatre at his side. Rashiid knew that this boy was not born under the Barton name, but he was sure doing a good job to live up to his alias.
"Now please don't misunderstand me, I do hold Quatre very close to my heart." The chrome weapon was grated to the Arab's temple. "Even so, he is just a tool in this little game I'm playing. Like a favourite car, I'll feed him with sugary-sweet compliments and sex, and I return I get an ally who would spare his life for me."
"Why Trowa?" the man whimpered as the cold metal grinded against his weather-worn skin.
"It's simple dear Rashiid," His cold green eyes flickered with annoyance, one of the first emtions Rashiid had ever seen come from them. The Arab took his what would be his last look out onto the sun-blistered desert. He had been born in an underground base not many miles off where he had learned to fight for the land that he loved. He loved every square inch of harsh terrain that had taught him the lessons of survival; never forget your wineskin, your rifle and backup. "This world belongs to the soldiers that fought for it, not those peace-loving tree-huggers like Relena Peacecraft. I will take this world, our world and bring it into a war to get rid of the weak. All those that oppose me, will die."
"And what after this war? Then what Trowa? Who will you have left to fight then?" Head cocked in a thinking condition, Trowa thought about this for a second. He smiled a rare smile and nodded to himself.
"There will always be a war to fight amongst warriors Rashiid. That was their mistake in making me into this thing, this machine. I will not succumb to their rules and regulations. I will not become a service simply to be terminated when the user feels it necessary. But that is more than you truly need to know Rashiid." The lean youth closed a effeminate finger on the trigger, and the bullet exploded from the barrel. Rashiid doubled over with a cough, blood erupting from both the wound in his head and his gaping mouth. And then it was over, and the boy felt no reason to remain.