Author's Note: All warnings should apply in this fic, providing specific warnings would ruin the plot of this story. An appreciation of Shakespeare is recommended ^_~ If shonen-ai, shojo-ai or hetero relationships between GW characters offend you this fic may offend you, yet these topics will not be prominent in the story and there will be no graphic sexual situations. Any obvious or not so obvious irregularities from the original Gundam Wing storyline are NOT mistakes; they are clues, so watch for them!

The First of April

By Midii Une

~*~*~PART I: Dark Changes Behind the Scenes~*~*~

Like his father he was a pacifist. The Winner family was one that the people of space could point to as being firmly against war. They were the unnamed successors to the dead pacifist leader Heero Yuy, and in their quiet way stood for the continuance of peace in outer space. They were a powerful, influential family, owning the majority of the natural resource satellites that provided for the livelihood of space colonists in clusters at every LaGrange point.

And yet, in secret, a fugitive scientist was using Winner family resources to construct a weapon of destruction the like of which had never been seen. Even the EarthSphere Alliance and its military counterpart, the Organization of the Zodiac (OZ) had nothing close to comparing to the Gundam Mobile Suit Sandrock.

Quatre Raberba Winner, slight of build, glorious platinum blonde hair that belied his Arabian heritage and startlingly beautiful aquamarine eyes was the intended pilot. Instructor H looked at the boy and felt nausea rise at the thought of the kind-hearted youth strapped into the machine he had created, transforming himself into a ruthless killer in the name of peace and justice.

The peaceful exterior of the young man hid steely determination however and he would try, Allah knew he would try. He would see if he could push down his ideals, push them down deep into a hidden, protected part of his soul. But it was hard, so hard. To deny his father and all his family stood for. To deny what he himself believed so desperately. To fight was wrong. To kill was wrong. What he was about to do made his heart ache and caused it to beat erratically. The closer the time came for Operation Meteor to commence the more uncertain he became. Something had to be done, it was true and building Sandrock had been a powerful step by the Winner family to show their disapproval of what the EarthSphere Alliance and OZ were doing on Earth and their growing ambitions toward space.

Can we do more, Quatre thought, staring into the dead green eyes of Sandrock. Can I do more?

He longed to talk to someone and it wasn't his father or his favorite sister Iria he wanted to speak with. Father especially would not understand. He had no inkling that Quatre planned to pilot Sandrock himself, even should it mean his own death.

Rasid. Rasid Kurama, leader of the Earth's Maganac Corps. He fought for peace and he would know. He would know whether Quatre should or even could do the same.

With the Maganacs Quatre felt more comfortable than even with his family. His stern father and doting sisters loved him he knew but the Maganacs and he were the same. They were the product of genetic technology, as he was, and with them he felt a kinship that even family could not offer. Always they had shown him how to accept himself as he was.

He would take Sandrock to the desert. He would let Rasid guide him toward the path he would choose. A measure of peace entered Quatre's heart as he turned his back on the Gundam.

It was the First of April, After Colony 195 . . .

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Heat shimmered over the endless sands, the peaceful vista obliterated by mobile suit fire and the endless battling of the Maganac mobile suits against yet another surprise attack from the Alliance.

They were feisty and relentless these Maganacs. Fierce, Arabian fighters, bred for war by geneticists that wanted to build a force to resist the grasping dominance of the EarthSphere Alliance. This dry and desolate corner of the Earth had been a battleground since Biblical times and so it would continue. The Maganacs were born to fight and they had no family but each other.

The Gundam hesitated at the edge of battle, the pilot whispering an unconscious prayer to his God for forgiveness. He closed his eyes briefly, then narrowed his lids before grimly pulling down the goggles he wore to protect his vision in the powerful light of the desert.

Sandrock seemed almost to know what to do of its own accord. To Quatre the Gundam had always seemed to almost have a mind of its own. In a way he almost loved the lifeless suit, he had watched it being built, they had seemed to grow up together.

Sandrock's mission was the correct path, but was it also his mission? He saw his friends, the Maganacs, fighting furiously under the pounding assault of the Federation's mobile suit troops. Some were dying despite the efforts of them all, each to protect the other. They were losing their lives.

Suddenly the Gundam was there, in the middle of the battle, missiles bouncing off its invincible hull like harmless pebbles.

"Drop your weapons and surrender. I have no intention of harming you," Quatre said, trying to make his voice strong, but it was what it was, the voice of a boy not yet a man.

The enemy fired on him and Sandrock's heat shorters dispatched them with no further protest from Quatre. At least not verbally, but in his eyes something died, some small piece of his soul traded for the lives of those he killed.

"I told you to surrender," he said unconsciously, his voice tinged with sorrow.

The rest of the battle passed in a blur, mercifully short for the uninitiated warrior who tasted his first blood that April day. The Alliance troops were cut down almost too easily by a weapon they had never seen before and so Quatre's first battle ended within minutes of when it had begun. The few surviving enemy suits limping away to tell the tale of an almost unbelievably strong mobile suit appearing in their midst and bringing victory to the enemy that had seemed on the verge of defeat.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Rasid handed a towel, wringing wet with cold water, to his young master. The boy mopped his face then hung his head over a bowl and vomited weakly again. The cries of men, trapped inside exploding mobile suits kept ringing in his ears and tearing at his sensitive heart, wrenching him with pain he could hardly bear.

He had been good, Rasid thought, looking down with something that resembled tenderness at the boy. Killing swiftly and mercifully. His instincts in the cockpit that of a seasoned, hardened fighter. There was no malice in his actions, only a desire for what was right and to end the battle quickly with as little loss of life as possible. He had saved them that day, that much was certain. The force the Alliance had sent was intended to wipe them out and they had come too close for comfort. He closed his eyes as a shaft of agonizing pain reminded him of his own injuries sustained as he tried desperately to protect the others and failed.

But, it took a different kind of soul, one so unlike the one Master Quatre possessed, to fight these battles. If he continued in this path, Rasid had no doubt he would kill that something inside him that made him so special. People like Quatre would be needed if this war ever ended, needed to guide the people on the path of peace so it should never be lost again. But he was getting ahead of himself, Rasid thought sadly. First peace must be won.

But must Master Quatre be the sacrifice? His huge hands tightened into fists. All of them loved they boy as if he were their own son. But what other way was there?

Rasid's dark eyes glanced around the room as if seeking an answer. His eyes widened. Someone was watching them silently from a corner and he met the figure's eyes in a long penetrating gaze. The slight figure turned after a bit and walked away. But the idea was now lodged in Rasid's mind. He looked at the Gundam in the corner, the green eyes that glowed so fiercely in battle dead and quiet now while the machine was at rest.

"Allah," the Maganac leader begged silently as he mopped Quatre's hot forehead with the wet cloth. "Show me the right path."

Quatre looked up at him then, as if he'd heard the silent prayer and smiled, the expression weak but brave. It tore at Rasid's heart, but his decision was made.

"When you're better, I wish to speak with you Master," he said, his head hung so that the boy would not see the expression in his eyes.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Trowa cursed silently, he was a seasoned soldier and he recognized the danger he was in, sitting out in broad daylight in his Gundam. He had pushed it too far, but then again he had met more resistance than he expected at the Corsican base. The calm on his face belied his irritation as he discarded the heavy weaponry that weighed down the arm of his mobile suit and took a fighting stance. A soft growl escaped his throat, to lose like this when the battle was only weeks old. To lose simply because he had failed to ration his ammunition properly. A rookie mistake, one a pilot like himself should not have made. He failed to see that he had had no choice, he had been overwhelmed by the enemy and forced to expend his artillery as he had.

The emerald green eyes partially hidden by auburn bangs that tumbled over his face moved swiftly toward the monitor as a soft beeping sound hailed the approach of another mobile suit.

"It's just like you HeavyArms," he thought, fascinated with the other suit's approach despite not knowing whether it contained friend or enemy. It most likely was an enemy, Trowa had no friends. He fought this battle as he did everything in his life—alone.

An enemy then. Trowa threw up the arms of his mobile suit to ward off the enemy's approach and they tangled almost as if in a dance, straining against each other but close in a way that only lovers should be.

"We shouldn't be fighting each other," the voice of the other pilot said. It was soft and lilting and Trowa subsided a bit although he still didn't let the other suit get the upper hand. However, he knew the battle was futile, the black and white suit before him was obviously a Gundam like his, a Gundam that hadn't shot out its weaponry in a losing battle. He locked his suit's arms into position and slowly unstrapped the safety restraints that held him into the cockpit. He opened the hatch and stepped out, his hair hiding his face as he studied the mechanics of the door disinterestedly, his hands raised in an air of surrender.

"Please," the voice of the other pilot said. "We are not enemies. Besides, I'm the one who surrendered first."

Trowa looked up, his eyes meeting the other Gundam pilot's for the first time and he slowly lowered his hands. The pilot was his age but smaller in build. The bright Corsican sun gleamed off pale blonde hair and Trowa felt pulled into huge sea blue eyes that studied him curiously.

"I'm Quatre," the pilot said. "Quatre Raberba Winner."

Trowa said nothing.

Rasid raised an eyebrow as the familiar blonde mop of hair and blue eyes appeared on his screen. The encounter on the landing strip between the two Gundams had shaken his soul. There was another one. But Sandrock had held its own against the other suit with seemingly no trouble at all. He seemed to have chosen the correct answer to his difficult decision. The young pilot had handled the skirmish with tact and skill. Now those crystal-blue eyes sparkled with an unreadable emotion he had never seen in them before although over time those eyes had become as familiar to him as his own reflection in the mirror.

"I want him to come back to the desert with us Rasid," Quatre announced, trying to sound matter of fact but there was a hint of pleading in the voice too, begging Rasid to trust his judgment and allow the intrusion of an outsider at their secret headquarters.

The other pilot was a good fighter but he did not have a soldier's instincts, Trowa thought as he cast a sideways glance under his lashes at the slender boy next to him. He offered his name with no apprehension, invited a stranger to his base of operations with no proof at all that he wasn't an enemy.

Trowa felt a bit sorry for him. In time he would learn that there was no room for trust like that in a war. He would learn that lesson if he lived long enough. Trowa had learned it himself years ago. It was a mistake a soldier would make only once.

The fierce, dark-haired Arab with the wild haircut had more wiles, Trowa thought, catching Rasid's suspicious eyes upon him. He was not as certain as his young companion that they should give up their secrets to a stranger, a stranger with a powerful weapon and the ability to use it.

The Maganac base was astounding; it would be impossible for anyone to find its location below the unmarked desert sands without prior knowledge. Even with all his experience, a lifetime of fighting, Trowa wasn't sure he could ever pinpoint it again even if his life depended on it. And despite what he thought about Quatre giving his trust too easily Trowa found himself falling asleep as soon as he was left alone in his room.

The battle on Corsica had wiped out Trowa's reserves. It had been non-stop fighting and scrambling to find a place to hide himself and his Gundam since he'd reached Earth. He'd barely adjusted himself to the idea that he was now Trowa Barton, a Gundam pilot engaged in Operation Meteor. It was a lot to absorb, even for someone as imperturbable as he.

The sun peeked around the heavy blinds that kept the room dark and for a long, disturbing moment Trowa had no idea where he was. He wasn't in the small cell-like room he'd been allotted as a Barton Foundation technician or on the couch of Cathrine Bloom's trailer at the circus. But the feeling was the same, he felt as uncomfortable in this soft feathery bed as he had on the curly-haired girl's cozy sofa. He didn't belong here. The battlefield had always been the only place he felt at home.

The soft sound of someone touching random piano keys and creating an odd, disjointed melody rose up through the floor, the sound muted slightly by the thick Persian rug beneath his feet. Trowa splashed cool, scented water from a convenient pitcher on his face and ran an impatient hand through his bangs. How long had he been here? He raised the shade and covered his emerald eyes instinctively as the sun pierced the window. From its height in the sky he could perceive it was already late afternoon.

One of his eyebrows shot up quizzically and the ghost of a grin flashed across his face as he followed the sound to its source, a sudden discordant keystroke the cause of his uncharacteristic amusement.

"Do you enjoy music," Quatre asked as Trowa peered into the luxurious room, sunlight pouring through a dazzling skylight dome in the ceiling. The blonde spoke as if they were continuing a conversation that had been merely interrupted by Trowa's long sleep.

"I don't play the piano," Quatre admitted, looking at the instrument with regret as his slender fingers ran gently over the keys. His touch brought forth a kind of strange music though, Trowa thought, despite his denial of any skill with the instrument.

As he thought this, another sound filled the room, the mournful strains of a string instrument which quickly evolved from sorrowful to hopeful and covered an astonishing array of emotions. The music went where Quatre couldn't, into Trowa's heart and soul, questioning, demanding an answer. Who are you? What are you feeling? Why do you fight?

Trowa tried to close himself off from the feelings evoked by Quatre's music but it was impossible to ignore. He couldn't fend it off like he could spoken words or a touch. He looked up at Quatre, bathed in a shimmer of sunlight, his eyes closed and his cheek pressed gently to the silken-honey veneer of the violin. It was as if he was alone in the room, playing to no audience, his heart open to anyone who happened by. Trowa adjusted his estimation of the other pilot. He had something, it wasn't a soldier's courage although he certainly had the skill. It was almost a kind of magic, it wove around him like a spell and he found a flute in his hand, found himself answering the other pilot's questions with his own music.

It seemed timeless, the sun slid lower in the sky and still they played, their melodic conversation cementing their friendship far stronger than the exchange of past histories in mere words ever could.

A small smile curved Quatre's lips as he peered at Trowa beneath his lashes, instinctively knowing this was something rare from the quiet Gundam pilot.

Simultaneously they lowered their instruments, a tiny frown of disappointment crossed Quatre's forehead, the flute player would not meet his eyes. He seemed unchanged by the moment they had shared. Yet there had been something . . .

"Master Quatre," Rasid's rough voice filtered into the room, a touch of impatience in it that caught the young pilot's full attention.

"Yes," Quatre said, turning his eyes toward the older man.

"The repairs on the Gundams have been completed," the Maganac captain said.

That remark at least caught the other pilot's attention, Quatre thought, as Trowa looked up from the floor and then carefully replaced the flute in the cabinet.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," Quatre said. Wasn't he going to stay any longer? It seemed not, he turned and left the room with unhurried but purposeful strides. He moved with the stealth and grace of a wild animal.

Incredible, Quatre thought, watching the taller boy sling his duffel bag over his shoulder and walk away without another word. It was as if he could only justify his existence on the battlefield. He couldn't linger in a place like this. Sadness welled in the stormy blue eyes. Could it be?

"Do you have a name," Quatre called out the window.

"I have no name," Trowa answered, surprising himself at the revelation he was exposing to the other pilot. "But if you must call me something, call me Trowa."

"Trowa," Quatre thought.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Out of the corner of his eye Trowa glimpsed a slender, familiar figure at the dock and he began to hurry his movements. He didn't hurry enough that it was noticeable but his fingers shook a little as they checked the cords that fastened the tarp around HeavyArms and for some reason he didn't dare glance over again.

Another glance would be an invitation, an admission of acquaintance if not outright friendship. The ghost of a memory of violin music, sweet and soaring, played in his head and his hand lingered on the rope he was tightening, fingers tightening on it tensely.

When he looked up again from his work, intent on jumping into the truck's cab and taking off somewhere to sleep for the night, Quatre was there. The blue eyes seemed stormy in the dusk but Trowa almost cracked a smile, one of the facial gestures the girl at the circus was always pleading with him to indulge in.

It was fated we meet like this, tonight, Quatre thought, willing himself to not to exclaim loudly over the fact. Trowa was confused and not accustomed to trusting. He fought alone, he lived alone. Quatre was a threat to that mentality, he could sense that. He did not doubt Trowa had his reasons for clinging to solitude and a shadow of sadness and understanding and regret darkened his blue eyes briefly.

"Trowa," Quatre said, finally, breaking the silence and exchange of uncomfortable glances. An odd emotion rose inside at the thought that his presence meant something to Trowa, even discomfort. A reaction was something, a feeling, a feeling for him.

"So you're here too," Trowa said, granting the other pilot sparse words of acknowledgement. He was secretly pleased that Quatre had remembered his name, now that he had one of his own.

Quatre glanced up into the veiled emerald eyes of the other pilot and felt his own lids drop to hide his own emotions. The corner of his mouth turned up as he felt a flash of envy for Trowa's sheltering hair. Now wasn't the time to approach Trowa. Apparently they'd be on a battlefield tomorrow. He could prove his trustworthiness to the other pilot there if nowhere else.

Trowa was surprised then when Quatre turned away with a small nod, making no further attempt to talk to him. A breeze blew in from the ocean, ruffling the wavy blonde hair and the sunset tipped the ends with glowing red. Quatre tipped his head back and closed his eyes as the salty Pacific wind caressed his face, the sensuous enjoyment of such a small thing causing a twinge almost like jealousy in Trowa's soul. Even the wind loved Quatre, he thought. Confusion clouded his senses again. What should it matter to him if Quatre loved the touch of a breeze or the glow of a beautiful sunset? Trowa glanced over the ocean, the sun was being pulled down into the deep blue water at the end of the world. The part of him that appreciated the sight of beauty and the lilt of music, the part being reawakened by merely knowing Quatre acknowledged the amazing aptitude of nature to put on these little displays.

When he looked back the other pilot had already disappeared. Trowa scanned the dockyard and spotted the stairs leading down to the shore and a tiny beach. An ugly, rocky beach in comparison to the white, sandy stretches further down the coast. But there was a rough, wild beauty in it, he supposed. The sounds of gulls soaring and squawking punctuated the air and Trowa stood indecisively at the top of the stairs. Quatre was down there, bathed in the rosy light, platinum hair seeming to glow in the gathering darkness.

The taller pilot wasn't annoyed when a look of pleasure lit the other's face. He was pleased that Quatre said nothing. Still, it was a welcoming silence and Trowa sat beside Quatre on the rock and stared at the crimson-tinted water as the sun sunk below the waves.

It grew dark and they were still quiet, Trowa having no desire to talk and Quatre not wishing to be the one to shatter their companionable silence. The air grew colder as the mist came in from the ocean, cool and damp. Sitting so close to Trowa, Quatre could feel the warmth radiating off the other pilot and thought that he could sit there all night, the night before the battle, basking in Trowa's body heat and looking at the stars twinkling through the fog.

Surprisingly it was Trowa who spoke first, but the words were mundane and Quatre's heart inexplicably fell.

"It's getting late and tomorrow will be important," he said.

Quatre turned to look toward Trowa at precisely the same time Trowa turned to glance at him. Unconsciously Quatre had edged closer to Trowa as they sat there in the darkness and their noses almost brushed against each other.

In the soft light that wavered down from the pier Trowa could see each individual silky eyelash as they lay darkly against Quatre's pale skin. He felt it again, that urge to reach out his hand, just to touch, to make contact, he felt pulled like a magnet.

The purple twilight cast a dreamlike quality over them and Quatre shut his eyes, leaning forward a bit and their foreheads bumped. Trowa drew back, but his movements were awkward and embarrassed, Quatre flushed and stood hurriedly, he brushed his unruly blonde bangs back off his forehead and let the brisk sea breeze cool his hot cheeks.

"What am I doing," both of them wondered, stealing a glance at each other then looking back out at the water, their motions in almost perfect sync.

Trowa felt a strong desire to remain there all night, just looking out over the water. Had he ever dreaded a battle before? This one seemed too easy somehow, the destruction of OZ at hand, his well-honed instincts protested but there was nothing to back up his suspicions.

He almost opened his mouth to voice his misgivings, but thought better of it.

"See you tomorrow," Quatre said softly as Trowa walked away. "At New Edwards?"

That was where he was going to be. They had the same mission. He looked back at Quatre still sitting there, following his emotions and looking out over the water as he had also wished to do. But training and habit were stronger. It was the night before a battle, you ops checked your mobile suit, loaded your ammunition and slept 8 hours.

Quatre didn't follow the rules, maybe he didn't even know them. Trowa shrugged and disregarded the lure of the ocean, disappearing into the darkness to follow a stronger call.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Rage caused by intense worry and hidden fear glowed in Rasid Kurama's dark eyes as he stared down at the slender blonde pilot's bent head. It was in his mind to withdraw his help and approval for any further missions.

"I cannot lose you to this war," Rasid insisted once again. "You promised not to go off alone, without the support of the Maganacs. It was what we discussed and you agreed to."

"I wasn't alone," the young pilot repeated. "The others were there. We were meant to fight together. I couldn't risk your lives. You've done so much for me."

Rasid was silent. Sandrock would leave again, go into battle without their protection. The words were unspoken between them but that did not stop them from being true.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was amazing and unbelievable, Iria Winner thought as she studied the young pilot, sleeping under the influence of pain-killing drugs. As she watched the pale lids fluttered to reveal eyes of stormy blue, the color of an angry Atlantic sea. Puzzled, sad eyes.

"Where am I," the pilot faltered. "I need a shuttle. I need it immediately."

Iria's eyes widened and the pilot's eyes dropped.

"I'm sorry to be rude. You don't understand. This is important. I have to. . .

"You are hurt. Badly hurt," Iria interrupted, gently pushing the injured blonde back down on the bed as her practiced gaze interpreted the pain the small movements were causing her patient.

"Please, just let me borrow a shuttle. I'll see it's returned to you," the Gundam pilot persisted.

Iria pulled up a chair and tucked a lock of shimmering dark gold hair behind her ear as she took a few precious moments to consider her words. She reached out a gentle hand to trace the lines of the suffering face on the pillow with her cool fingers.

"You have to listen to me," she said carefully. "You are very badly injured and your full recovery will take at least two months. I am a doctor. I am . . . your sister. Iria Winner."

"Iria," the pale figure repeated wonderingly.

"You don't need to worry about anything. Just rest," Iria repeated, watching in satisfaction as the lids drooped down over the tired blue eyes. Such a strong will, she thought, fighting off the effects of those heavy drugs, just to continue the fight . . .

"What happens now," the young woman thought as she turned out the light and quietly shut the door. "What happens now?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Iria felt she should intervene with Father on Quatre's behalf, but her younger brother was insistent. He had decided on this course of action himself and he would take the responsibility. Even now he was intent on replacing Sandrock somehow. He could hardly fathom that the Gundam was gone. He could see the mecha perfectly in his mind's eye. But already he knew there was something available that might be more suited to the battles to come, he hadn't spent this time rashly. He had realized early on that something more powerful than Sandrock could become necessary. Months of searching computer files had just recently turned up something he could use—it was called Wing Zero. Already it was under construction, he had spent all this time supervising the work. And this time he would be ready to fight for what he believed in. What had happened on Earth just a week before and the reaction of the colonies' to the Gundam pilots' actions had struck him deeply.

Her heart filled with maternal concern when her young brother came out of Father's office, she'd heard the shouting.

"Is Father right," Quatre whispered, his confidence shaken as he wondered aloud. "Have I only made things worse?"

Iria went to him and held him softly in her arms, it had been so long since he had been young enough to seek comfort from her like this. But he needed her now. So much was happening all at once. She loved Quatre so, they all did, even Father. Why then, she wondered, were all of them forced to keep so many secrets from each other?

"You did the right thing," she said softly. "What happened wasn't your fault. We all believe in you. Even Father I think, though he can't admit it. He has to stay strong in his pacifist beliefs, but deep down you have his support Quatre. He'll realize that you're right."

Quatre favored her with a wavering smile. "There's someone I need to talk to," he said and she nodded understandingly. She looked at her father's closed door and sadly decided against trying to convince him to forgive Quatre. He could be immoveable at times like this.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Guilt and sorrow for so many things overwhelmed Quatre as he stared up at Wing Zero, complete now at last. He had made so many decisions that had affected so many people and now it was time to make one last choice. The colonies were no longer the peaceful space habitats they had been intended to be. They were eager for war, hungry for power and military might. They had no idea. Memories of his battle with Sandrock in the desert when Operation Meteor was launched assailed him. The death, the screams, the explosions. He was ready for that again, more than ready now, at last, if that was what it took.

What was to stop him? His father and his beloved sister were dead. Killed for their beliefs that space should remain demilitarized, but the people, crazed by OZ's planted suspicions had turned on the Winners.

Unheeded tears streaked his pale cheeks as he thought of his sister, dying to save him when the satellite Father had been on exploded and sent their small shuttle out of control. In a way Father had died fighting for peace. Now Quatre would teach the colonies a lesson. There was no reason for their existence if they couldn't exist in peace. It was better that they were destroyed rather than become a battleground between OZ and the Alliance. Far better.

He knew what to do.

He would destroy everything.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Trowa and Heero approached the unknown mobile suit cautiously. OZ was terrified of the thing out there. Terrified enough to put a weapon like Mercurius in the hands of Heero Yuy. That in itself was a testimony to OZ's desperation. They wanted this suit destroyed. They said it was a Gundam.

Both of the pilots knew there was only one person out there with the capability to construct and pilot such a suit.

It had to be Quatre.

Heero knew nothing of the 04 pilot, he'd only had a glimpse of the others at New Edwards and his mind had been occupied with his failure. But of all the others Trowa felt closest to Quatre. That was an understatement he admitted as he considered the situation as they drew closer and closer to the coordinates they'd been given. Begrudgingly and almost against his will he'd learned to trust Quatre in the few times they'd fought together.

It didn't matter that only one other had ever gained his trust like that. Didn't matter that that had been a mistake on his part. In a way he didn't really regret that instance, it had been a no-win situation for everyone involved.

He forced his mind back to Quatre, making his plans. They would engage in a battle, he thought, enough so that OZ would believe it was genuine. He could make Quatre see that he had to wait, just a little longer, until the other Gundams were operational again. Then they could all fight again. A tiny doubt flickered in his common sense thoughts. Quatre should know better than to pull this, know better than to take on a fight like this now.

"Trowa. This pilot is Trowa,' Quatre thought, the name cutting like a knife through his sorrowful madness. A voice from far away making a guilty admission. "I love Trowa," the soft voice said. "I love him."

Could he fight Trowa?

"Get out of here! I'll kill you all," he warned again, his voice shaking as the voice insisted again. "I love Trowa."

Trowa was speaking, saying things, reasonable things that were meant to swerve him from his course. That's not me, Quatre thought, listening in spite of himself. You don't know me, Trowa. You don't know.

"I love Trowa."

Trowa was in his way. It was Heero that he wanted to hit, Heero was trying to stop him. But Trowa was in the way.

"I love Trowa."

Trowa was in his way.

"You are kind, believe that Quatre," the voice surrounded him in his cockpit. It reached him, something clicked.

"I love Trowa."

"Trowa," Quatre screamed. He couldn't let Trowa die, it became the new force that propelled him, but as he turned to go to the damaged Vayeate the Mercurius slammed into the Wing Zero full force and he was forced into combat with Heero again. The two mighty suits tumbled into the colony and the door shut.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Quatre stared at the blue water waiting for Heero to speak. He'd told him everything, the first battle, Rasid's decision, how he'd found the plans for Wing Zero and known somehow it would be needed. Told him all of it.

There was no judgment in the steel blue eyes. "You are a Gundam Pilot and now you can only exist on a battlefield," he said, the terse words full of meaning and without malice.

"Then I will fight," Quatre said, looking up into space as if for confirmation as the hijacked ocean liner glided along as peacefully as a pleasure boat. He wondered if Rasid had been wrong those months ago and if this was the course he should have taken then. Would Trowa still be alive? Would his father and Iria, if he had made a different decision? Perhaps. Perhaps not. He had not been the same person then that he was now. But now he was ready.

Ready to fight for peace.