Gundam Wing is property of Sotsu Agency, Bandai Studios, and TV Asahi. Sainan no Kekka and all original characters and plot copyright 2000-2003 by Quicksilver and Gerald Tarrant. Please ask permission before reposting.


SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING

SAINAN NO KEKKA
ACT ZERO, PART II

Arasoiau dake ja
Erarenai daremo nanimo
Osanai te ni sashinobetai
Kegare no nai tokimeki o

Odayaka ni toki o
Kizamu komorebi no nukumori
Daremo ga idakaretai
Zutto kitto eien ni
Strife alone
Can never achieve for anyone or anything
This pure excitement I want to give
To young hands

The warmth of the sun shining through the leaves
Calmly marks the passage of time
This is what we want to hold on to
It is surely forever

--Gundam Wing, Last Impression
[Endless Waltz]



Scene V: The Night the Sky Fell Down


"Did the wind hit you in the eye?
Or were you just about to cry?
All the stars are shaped like tears."
-- Walkabouts, Desert Skies


Sylvia Noventa remembered exactly where she had been when she heard the news. It was a beautiful, lovely winter afternoon and she'd been at her stepfather's estate just outside Valencia, Spain, curled up on a window seat, reading. The curtains were white and gauzy, matching the white wicker furniture of the dayroom, and the open window itself overlooked the pastoral fields of La Huerta, the green belt surrounding the distant city. When she'd look up every so often to rest her eyes, she'd glance up at the blue, blue sky as the afternoon slowly waned into evening and the cloudbanks built up along the horizon and wonder what was happening in space out there, so far away.

Because it did seem so far away. There was a war going on out there, one that would, according to her cynical stepfather, "prove the death of us," and according to her optimistic mother, "pave the way for a new era." The last she'd heard when she had listened to the news this morning, the fierce battle had been going on for hours now, Gundam against Gundam, with Treize Khushrenada in the middle of the fray.

Treize Khushrenada had ultimately been responsible for her grandfather's death. No matter what anyone might say, it had been Treize. And yet she couldn't find it in her to condemn him. All of them - her grandfather, Treize, Heero Yuy and the rest of the Gundam pilots - had been only fighting for what they thought was right. And did it matter? What was right and what was wrong? Either way, people died.

She'd tried again and again to strain her eyes, to catch some glimpse of the catastrophic conflict that the reporters had sworn was going on at this very instant, but all she could see, no matter how hard she tried, were clouds. Clouds and birds, and the last pinkish-purplish tinge of the sunlight that signaled the near end of evening and the beginning of the night.

Running footsteps along the corridor alerted her to the presence of one of the maids, and Sylvia had slipped the bookmark between the pages of her current pick and swung her legs over the side of the seat so that wouldn't appear she had been lying down. Lying down in a window seat, according to her mother, was un-lady-like and very unbecoming, especially from someone of Sylvia's rank. The wind rustled the curtains and ruffled her hair, and she smoothed the unruly blond locks down, looking over her shoulder at the sky. It was almost black now, but she could not see the stars.

Strange.

When the maid finally burst through the delicate wooden doors of the room, she rose gracefully to her feet, and then did a double-take at the tears streaming down the girl's cheeks. The maid couldn't have more than eleven, Sylvia realized - only a few years younger than her. She raised one hand, trying to think of something calming and soothing to say, but the girl flinched as if she had been slapped.

"Lady Sylvia," she gasped, sobbing. "His grace…desires to…see…"

Sylvia tried to insert a few questions, comforting remarks, anything between the maid's sobs, but finally gave up and made do by putting a brief arm around the girl's shoulders, causing her to look up, startled. Sylvia smiled.

"Let's go together. I doubt it is as terrible as you fear it to be."

The maid started to say something, but clamped her lips shut. Sylvia's curiosity meter rose another few notches, and she picked up her pace, turning the familiar corners towards her stepfather's study with an urgency in her step. It was odd, really, that as many times as she'd been summoned to see her stepfather, whether it be for matters concerning her newest tutor or just to talk about politics and goings-on in the world, that he'd never once treated her as his daughter, nor even a child. She was only thirteen after all, and no prodigy. While Treize Khushrenada and Lucrezia Noin had been out of the OZ Academy at thirteen and already changing the world, she, Sylvia Noventa, was living the predestined life of an aristocratic daughter, her perfect world shattered only by her grandfather's death half a year earlier. Her father had died when she was a year old, and her grandfather had been the male role model in her life.

But her stepfather always addressed her as an adult, even though most often she understood little to nothing of what he was saying when he mentioned various politicians' names or the games that they would play. Politics was not her game and she didn't think it ever would be - too full of manipulation and scheming all for the gain of personal benefit. It was dirty, and she told her stepfather this once. He had sighed and replied that life was a dirty business, and hopefully that out of all of it, there would come some men and women who would emerge from the dirty games with some vision of how to make the world a better place.

Sylvia didn't know if she believed that. Dirty was as dirty does, as her mother said, and politics was politics, war was war, and two wrongs did not make a right. She supposed she was naïve, but her stepfather had never called her that.

She wondered sometimes if he thought her one of the men and women who would make the world a better place. She didn't know if that thought flattered her or frightened her half to death. Certainly, if her grandfather hadn't died, she would have never thought of taking it seriously.

As long as she lived, she knew she would never forget the image of Heero Yuy handing her that gun, asking her to kill him, and she knowing that he had done so not because he thought she was a vengeful, grief-stricken girl who wanted to kill her grandfather's murderer, but because he thought, like her stepfather, that she had the power to change the world.

She didn't want anyone, and most certainly not her stepfather, to think of her as someone who would change the world. She just wanted a father. She just wanted to be an ordinary girl.

"Lady Sylvia to see you, your grace," the maid said, her voice wobbling, and Sylvia gave her another brief pat on the shoulder before easing open the wooden study door and dropping a curtsey as the figure behind the desk put down his newspaper and stood up. Her eyes went instinctively to the window behind him, which was open also, looking out on the dark night sky. Something struck her as odd before she realized that she still could not see the stars.

The wind blowing through the window was warm and muggy, and she shivered.

"Sylvia. I'm glad you've come."

Something in her stepfather's voice made her look up, and she frowned at the grave expression on his chiseled face. Duke Fernando de Llordes was never serious, known for the twinkle in his eye and the sense of humor that had made Sylvia's mother, twelve years widowed, fall in love with him three years ago. He had never been a truly handsome man, but there was something about the way he carried himself that gave him the air of a king. He was a kind man and a generous one, and though he was something more than a mentor, he'd never tried to take a parent's place in her life. She'd asked her mother about it once, and she'd responded soothingly that Duke Fernando didn't want to take her grandfather's place. That he knew he wasn't her father, and he did not presume to act as one.

But her grandfather was dead now, and still her stepfather remained something more than a mentor but less than a father.

"Sylvia, the war is over."

For a moment, she gaped at him, wondering if he'd lost his mind, then realized that he hadn't sounded happy in the least about the news. "What do you mean, the war is over…? It can't be over…you're joking."

"Sylvia, have you wondered why there are no stars tonight?"

She blinked. "I…"

He smiled sadly at her and reached over to flip on the old radio sitting behind him on the bookshelf. There were no vidscreens in Duke Fernando's study, none of the latest technology. He preferred antiques, claiming they made him feel closer to the past.

"-going to fall!" a voice shrieked from the radio, and Sylvia jumped, startled at the volume before her stepfather turned it down. "It's changing course…it's breaking away….!"

"What? What's going to fall?" she demanded, moving nearer to the desk and placing her hands on its smooth, mahogany surface.

"The Libra," her stepfather said, strangely calm, "is falling to Earth."

"The Libra…the ship?" she breathed incredulously. "No!"

"Yes."

"I…" she floundered, her eyes going to the cup of hot tea steaming on the corner of the desk, and realizing exactly why the little maid had been crying. She must have been serving the tea as the duke listened to the radio, heard the news…"Are we going to die?"

Her stepfather turned a gentle glance towards her. "Most likely. Does it matter?"

"What are you talking about?"

"My dear, Treize Khushrenada is dead."

The world stopped spinning for a moment, and through her daze, she realized that was the first time he'd addressed her with any kind of affectionate term. If his words had been anything else, she would have stopped him then and there, but there was no time.

"Dead? What - how - why…"

The duke shook his head. "It's a battle, Sylvia. People die in battle…but I believe he never thought he would die at the glorious conclusion of his own victory dance." He chuckled quietly. "Fate is strange, isn't it? Yes, Khushrenada is dead…but the rest of the world will soon follow. I suppose one sacrifice wasn't enough."

"Did he die aboard the Libra? Is that why it's falling?"

He shook his head. "One of the Gundams killed him, apparently. The Libra…no, that's none of his doing. Milliard Peacecraft apparently thinks it is his noble duty to sacrifice the rest of humankind along with his former mentor. The smoke and debris from the falling ship has entered the atmosphere, which is why there are no stars. There will probably never be stars again after this night, for a long time."

"We won't be here when they finally do shine again, will we?"

His look was unreadable. "No. We will not."

Sylvia drew a deep breath, looking out the window to the night sky, straining now to see not signs of battle, but for the burning husk of a ship, falling through the atmosphere, flaming like a giant star. But yet again, there was nothing. If not for the announcer screaming softly on the radio in the background, she could dismiss it all as a dream.

"I'm not ready to die," she said quietly.

"Are we ever?" her stepfather replied. "The end of an era. Perhaps your mother was right. Too right."

"Don't talk about Mamá like that!" she snapped, then instantly regretted her words. "I'm sorry. I…"

He shook his head again. "I understand. I am sorry." He favored her with another quick glance, a smile. "You know, Sylvia…"

"I see something," she said breathlessly, breaking her hold on the desk to run to the window and look. "Look! Look!"

Through the black sky, through the starless night, something was falling, something huge and reddish on the edges, with blue smoke and flashes of white trailing from its edges. She strained upwards, trying to catch a better glimpse, fascinated and nauseated all at once, and for the first time she saw the moon, washed a sickly pale yellow, pulsing faintly as if it were pumping out its last few heartbeats. Perhaps it was.

"It's falling through the atmosphere now!" the panicked announcer shrieked. "It's moving towards Europe…Spain! It's on a collision course with Spain! The mobile suits are withdrawing from its trajectory…oh! Too close! One of the Federation mobile suits has smashed into Libra's side! OH! The Eypon Gundam has gone inside…followed by one of the other Gundams! Can it be? Yes! Wing Zero has followed Eypon inside! Battle to the death!"

Sylvia looked up at her stepfather, who had moved from his chair to join her at the window, and saw the certainty mirrored in his eyes.

"You know," she said, "I always thought I would die alone."

"Serious thoughts for a thirteen-year-old girl," he said, squeezing her shoulder slightly.

"The Peacemillion is moving away from the Libra now, but it might be too late for it to pull out of its gravity field! Oh…there's a Gundam. Two! Three! Four! The Gundams were inside Libra! They're trying to escape also! Will they make it? No sign of Zero or Eypon! They're trapped!"

She could smell burning now in her nostrils, and she knew he smelled it too. His fingers tightened on her shoulder slightly. "I may be thirteen," she said, "but I've had things taught to me that some old women will never understand."

"You had a good teacher then."

She smiled up at him. "Thank you, Papá."

His brow furrowed as he gazed down at her. "You've never called me that before."

She watched the giant red meteor plunge ever-so-slowly, almost sluggishly, towards the earth, and as she opened her mouth, there was an explosion. Huge, red and billowing, spreading and obscuring the pale moon, and she gripped her stepfather's hand, suddenly afraid.

"HOLY SHIT!" the announcer exclaimed, apparently deciding that if he was going to die, he might as well put out all the expletives he could find on the table. "LIBRA HAS EXPLODED! REPEAT, THE LIBRA HAS EXPLODED! MILLIARD PEACECRAFT AND WING ZERO WERE INSIDE! DID THEY MAKE IT?"

Sylvia drew a deep shuddering breath, unable to tear her eyes away from the blossoming cloud of smoke and fire on the horizon. "Are we safe, Papa? Did he…?"

"OH NO! A PART OF THE LIBRA IS STILL FALLING! WHO CAN SAVE US NOW? WHO CAN-"

The announcer's voice was suddenly cut off and a calmer voice came on after a few seconds. "Attention. The Libra's fall to earth has been checked, but a smaller piece escaped the explosion and is still falling. We urge all who live in Spain, Portugal, France, Great Britain, and anywhere on the Mediterranean to evacuate if you are able. We estimate that the falling part of Libra will land approximately somewhere on the border of Spain and France. Escape to the colonies might be your only option. If you reside elsewhere in the world, make plans to evacuate to a colony as soon as possible."

"The colonies," he murmured. "Can they really save us now? After all that has happened?"

"We're not leaving," Sylvia said.

He gave her a hard smile. "No. Where would we go? The colonies are in chaos. By the time we get off the ground, the Libra will have hit. We have not room to fit all the servants on board the shuttle, and I will not leave them here to die."

"So this is the end," she murmured. "I'm not afraid, Papá."

"You've never called me that before," he said again.

She was silent, trying to find the right words. "Is it all right," she said finally, "if I call you that before we die?"

"I would like that very much," he said softly, and his arms tightened around her shoulders.

"I thought…well, you never asked. I thought you didn't want a daughter."

"I thought you didn't need a father," he returned, sounding faintly amused, and she laughed, then froze.

"Papá…look!"

Through the cloud of smoke, something was falling - the part of the Libra that had broken free from the explosion and continued its descent. It burned with a brighter fire than the large ship had before, sparking white and gold at the edges, and she watched in horror as it fell, much more swiftly than she could have imagined. The burning smell was acute now, and she wondered how hot the ship actually was to be able to singe the air all the way to Valencia. The smoke was visible in the night sky, roiling plumes of it, spreading outward in faint gray and white streaks from the place where the Libra had exploded.

"I suppose this is the end," he said.

"I suppose so," she murmured back.

There was something molten white at the tip of the falling star, something that seemed out of place but she couldn't figure out why it seemed so. The radio was silent now, and the crackle of static seemed fitting music for a fiery end, though she didn't know if the static was from the silent airwaves or from the magnetism in the air disrupting the signal. The hair on the back of her neck was standing on end, and her whole body tingled.

"That's no falling meteorite," her stepfather said suddenly. "Look. It's moving ahead of it. Too quickly. It's not part of the ship."

"What?" she said, then realized he was indicating the brilliant white object falling through the sky. "It's not? Then what-"

"It's a Gundam."

"A Gundam?"

"There were two Gundams inside the Libra when it exploded," her stepfather said calmly. "Epyon is a black Gundam."

"Wing Zero…" she breathed. Heero Yuy

The flowers on her grandfather's grave.

The one who killed General Noventa... was me. It was a mistake. I killed General Noventa and a great many people who wished for peace…I can't atone for my sins. I hope this gun calms the souls of those I killed and the anger of their families.

War is just killing people! Why do you think that war is a beautiful thing?

I can't change my way of living.

She hadn't understood Heero's answer at the time, but now she thought she did. Now, she saw the horrible truth he had been living all this time, a knowledge that he could never change himself, that war would always be a part of him, and the knowledge of the need for his own destruction before the world could begin anew.

You're just a coward! You're making me kill you so you can be free from your guilt!

Heero Yuy was in that Gundam ahead of the falling Libra, trying to stop it. Trying again to kill himself so the world could be saved.

Coward! Coward!

"Coward," she muttered angrily to the falling star. "You coward!"

"Sylvia?" the bewildered voice of her stepfather said, and she burst into tears, flinging herself against him and burying her face in his coat.

"I can't watch!" she cried. "I can't…I can't watch…"

She felt his comforting hands on her hair and that made her cry harder, not wanting to watch as the falling ship overwhelmed the Gundam, not wanting to watch as Heero Yuy finally met the death he'd been searching for and that she had refused to give him.

Because it hadn't mattered in the end, and what she'd done had been in vain.

"Sylvia?"

"No…" she whispered. "No."

"Sylvia, look!" His voice was incredulous. "Look!" And he twisted her around so she was facing the window, looking through her tears.

A beautiful, blinding column of light was streaming from the white figure, piercing the clouds, enveloping the falling star in light, and she shielded her eyes as it prismed through the wetness in her eyes. The sky seemed to shudder, pulsing like the moon had been pulsing as Libra fell through the atmosphere, and then something shattered, and the fragment of starship exploded.

It wasn't a slow, roiling explosion like before, but this was sharp, stinging, like breaking glass erupting and falling through the sky like deadly shards of flowers, more beautiful than any fireworks she'd ever seen in her life. She felt her stepfather's hand gripping hers, and the white light filling the sky, and through it all something twinkled, rising higher and faster through the sky, returning to the blackness of space.

"Heero…" she whispered. "Heero, you…"

"It's over." Her stepfather sounded awestruck. "He did it. It's…over. We're saved."

Heero. You saved us.

She felt herself crying again, but smiling at the same time, and with a very unladylike shriek, she wrapped her arms around his neck and laughed and cried from happiness.

He was slower to remove her this time, but at last when he did so, she saw that he was smiling. "Sylvia," he said again. "Look."

She turned to look out the window once more, and saw that the sky was streaked with stars, millions of glowing white meteors, all falling gracefully to the earth in a shower of light. She took his hand, holding it like a little girl would hold the hand of a father who has taken her outside to show her the wonders of the night sky for the first time.

"Look, Papa," she said softly. "The stars have come out."




Scene VI: Full Circle to the Empire's Throne


"Carry on my wayward son.
There'll be peace when you are done."
-- Kansas, Carry on My Wayward Son


As Quatre stared at the leather office chair in front of him, the only thing he could think of was that he had come full circle. An ironic smile twisted his lips, but he couldn't make himself take that final step and take the seat.

"Mr. Winner?" A soft voice said.

He turned around, trying not to wince as his half-healed stab wound pulled a bit. His guileless blue eyes focused on the man in front of him, and he forced a smile to his face, knowing that the man cheerfully would see him dead. It was a horrible thing, spending time around someone who disliked you so much, and for reasons which weren't true.

"Yes, Bartlett?" he asked, his own voice polite and melodic. He sounded so young to his own ears; he wondered how he sounded to others. Would he ever be able to command respect, with his quiet ways? His fierce nature on the battlefield had earned him that of the Maguanacs, but he had left them. Now Quatre had another world to face, and it was one he feared even more.

"The changeover is complete," Bartlett murmured to him. Neutral blue eyes so pale that they seemed almost colorless watched the teenager that stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, apparently unsure of which way to go.

"That's good," Quatre said. He sighed a bit, knowing that it was amazing that his lawyers had managed to get all the legal paperwork squared away to give him complete control over his family's business in less than a week, especially considering how complicated some of those legalities were. "I guess I should get to work, then..."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," Bartlett said, his voice still level and without emotion.

Quatre ran a hand through hair that had recently been trimmed. The style was just a bit too long to be fashionable, but his fine hair needed the length, according to his image consultant. He wasn't to concern himself with current style, because he was the Winner now. He would be the one setting the styles. The thought gave him the chills. He was powerful, and not just financially. He would set cultural, moral and societal goals for the rest of his life, and it wasn't because he had earned it. It was by accident of birth, and he dreaded having to take his place as the new ruler of the Winner Empire. He was the prince of the colonies, in everything but title.

Still he remained in the middle of the room, unwilling to take the seat his father had held for so long. This had been his father's main base on L4, and Quatre had yet to order it cleaned out. The desk still contained all of Raberba Winner's personal belongings, and his son feared what he would find in its drawers.

"Mr. Winner?" Again Bartlett's voice came, challenging him by its very lack of expression.

Quatre took a deep, calming breath. The man had been his father's personal aide, and perhaps one of his father's closest confidants. He knew the ins and outs of the Winner Group better than almost anyone, and he would be an invaluable asset... If Quatre could win him over. It was a very big if. "I'm going. It's just... Hard. I hadn't expected to become the head of the corporation so young." He forced his feet to move, and after taking the first step towards that imposing chair, the others followed more easily.

"None of us expected him to die," Bartlett said. "He was a great man, and he could have done much to lead this new era."

The blonde heard the unspoken accusation, the implication that he was not his father's son, that he would falter and fail. He had run away from home when he was thirteen, and then run away again a year and a half later to join the war, though Bartlett didn't know that. As far as Bartlett and most of the world knew, Quatre had been rebelling against his father. The brief moments he had been home during the war had been right before Raberba's death, and then Quatre hadn't mourned him properly, according to many. It was a major PR scandal.

Quatre preferred that others thought of him that way. He didn't want them to know the truth; it would make life so much more difficult. He had fought for what he believed in, put his life on the life. He wasn't ashamed of that, but now that peace had come, it was time for him and his fellow soldiers to integrate back into society. A pilot would never be welcome, should his identity be known.

"He's the past, though, Bartlett," Quatre whispered. He looked over to the chair hesitantly, then walked around the heavy crystal and mahogany desk, an imported luxury that cost more than it cost to feed the average colonial family for a year. Quatre remembered when the Sheik of Arabia had given it to his father in gratitude for expediting some business deal or other. His father had loved it, saying that it was too extravagant, but sometimes extravagance could be excused for the sake of beauty. He ran his hand along the top of the desk as he continued his journey to the take his father's place. "It's those who survive, you and I, who have to carry on his legacy... Inadequate though we may be."

The chair behind the desk made for power, in stark contrast to the opulence before it. It had a high back and was made of leather, and was imposing. It would be comfortable, but something about it drew the eye and commanded respect. It was subtle, but those small gestures were the power plays that his father had taught him to understand and take advantage of. When he had been little, he had sat in it once, picturing what it would be like to command the massive business empire.

He'd never dreamed it happen so soon - or so tragically. He'd never wanted it. If his life had been his own to choose, he would have chosen music. He loved that, not the shady world of business where friends were built by fiscal value, and enemies hid themselves behind smiles.

Still, he needed to take his place. Steeling himself, he sat, feeling the broken in leather of his father's. When he sat back, he laughed a bit as his feet dangled about an inch off the floor.

It was so symbolic. He had so much growing left to do.

"I'll have someone adjust that for you, sir," Bartlett volunteered.

Quatre rested his hands on the chair. He stared down at his feet, reminded of his petite stature. All of the pilots had been on the small side, but when they had parted company, Trowa had been well into a growth spurt, Duo had gained a couple of inches on him, and Heero and Wufei also had been at least two inches taller than he was, even considering their Asian heritage. It seemed he was doomed to always be the smallest one around, and always underestimated because of it. "No. Leave it... I need to remember that I have a long way to go," Quatre stated, making up his mind.

For the first time, a hint of emotion sparked in Bartlett's eyes. Approval? Quatre wondered. He hoped so. He really wanted to win acceptance from the older man. "I'll see about getting a footrest brought it. It's not good for your circulation to leave your feet unsupported."

He gave a shy smile, the one so many people found so enchanting. "Thanks. I'd appreciate it."

"There's some rather urgent business you need to address. The soldiers who are coming back from the war have started to apply for positions in the Winner Group," Bartlett said.

Quatre tilted his head. "Is there a problem with that?" he asked curiously.

"They would disrupt employee moral. Our company has always supported pacifism, and many of our employees chose to work for us because of that. If we start hiring ex-soldiers, we're going to create disharmony."

"It will. But are they qualified?"

"Sometimes," Bartlett admitted grudgingly.

Quatre leaned back, and looked at his father's desk. It was spotless, for Raberba had always cleared all his paperwork at the end of each business day. The only thing on it was a picture of Reeshya, his youngest daughter. Reeshya was the only one of his children who had always stayed with him, and he had loved her best for it. Her delicate features were as Arabic as his were not; sometimes he wondered if that was part of what had been wrong with him. She would not approve of hiring former soldiers, either.

"If they're the best people for the job, we should hire them," Quatre replied. He shifted a bit, knowing he was about to declare war on everything Bartlett stood for.

"Your father would not approve."

"I am not my father..." Quatre said firmly. "I make up my own mind. And... I think he would understand." He wished fervently that he could be sure he was speaking the truth. "The war is over; it's time to help bring about peace, and by isolating those who fought, we're merely perpetuating that vicious cycle. A soldier needs to learn what peace is... And to do so, he must be taught."

"There... May be some truth to that," Bartlett admitted reluctantly.

"What does a soldier become, after the war is done?" Quatre asked. "He becomes a son, a husband, a father again..." Quatre said, and he rose to his feet, having to take an awkward step to bridge the gap the too-large chair gave him. "We need to remind people of that. By discriminating in our hiring practices, we remind people of the differences between us. It's time to remind people that we all are inherently the same."

Bartlett watched as the teenager walked over to the window that overlooked the Earth. The view was breathtaking, but Quatre wasn't looking at it. Instead, his eyes were searching for the debris that it would take generations to completely sweep clean. "There's so much hatred between people. There's so much we don't understand... And we never try. I don't want to become rigid. I don't want people to look at me and see only my last name, but they will. I don't want..."

"What do you want?" Bartlett asked.

"I wanted the peace we have. I wanted to be someone who stood up for what he believed in. And I did that - and it cost me my father. I'll never be able to make my peace with him, Bartlett."

The aide leaned forward. "Make your peace by being what he wanted you to be. If you take his legacy to you, then you'll make him proud."

"I can't." Quatre pressed his hand against the thick glass, as though he could touch the stars he had once flown through. "He wanted me to be strong and stand up for my beliefs, but he wanted me to believe the same thing he did. I don't... So how do I reconcile those two messages?"

Bartlett was silent. "Your father knew what was best. He... We'll never see his like again."

"No. But there's more than one of thinking, and more than one truth." Again the stars beckoned to Quatre, and he forced himself to turn away, knowing that he was about to forever abandon the dreams they represented to take on a more practical role, the one that had been laid out for his entire life. "I think we should hire some specialists, see about creating some classes for reintegrating soldiers. Maybe... That can be one of the things the Winner Group can do towards creating the peace."

Bartlett pulled out a notebook from seemingly nowhere and started to take notes. "And counselors? I think one of your sisters has a psychological degree..."

Quatre nodded. "Probably. One of my sisters does everything. If Bashira is willing to sign on as a consultant, that would be wonderful."

"She will. She knows her family loyalties." Unspoken was the implication that Quatre did not.

"I-" Quatre began, but whether it was to defend himself or agree, he'd never know, for the door opened, and one of his sisters, perhaps one of the most important, walked in. Her silver bracelets chimed like bells as she moved into the room, her swaying footsteps oddly hypnotic. "Jaffa..." he whispered.

Bartlett bowed to the woman with genuine respect in his eyes. "It's been a while, ma'am," he said.

Quatre had the impression she smiled, but there was no way to be sure. She was wearing a face veil, which did a masterful job of concealing what she was thinking. Jaffa's veils were usually opaque, but today she had worn one made of black silk. Without extending his uchuu no kokoro, he would have no hint of her emotional state; if he did, she would know. He wasn't the only sibling who had that special ability to feel what others did, and they always knew when someone else was "listening in."

"I've been putting out the family fires, and Saffir just had another child. I had to be there, of course," she was saying to Bartlett as Quatre's thoughts wandered.

Quatre watched his sister, wondering how she managed. Jaffa wasn't the smartest, prettiest, oldest or most talented. She simply was Jaffa, and that was enough. All of the family respected her, and he wondered if she realized that she was the one link that held them together, now that their father was dead. "It's been a while, neesan," he said, using the Japanese phrase. The colonies had been Japanese to begin with, and all colonists, even the stubbornly Arabic Winners, had found Japanese culture encroaching on their own.

She nodded, and her dark gaze slid to Bartlett. "If you would excuse us?" she asked. "It's been far too long since I've talked to my younger brother."

Bartlett gave her a slight smile. "Anything for you," he told her, and the sincerity in his voice couldn't be manufactured. From the way his eyes flickered over Quatre, if was clear that he was anticipating Jaffa chewing him out, ever so politely. Jaffa was known for dragging her siblings back into line, and making them come back into the family fold. He'd delight in any embarrassment Quatre would suffer at her hands.

The two siblings watched as the older man left. "He doesn't like me," Quatre murmured. "And I don't know how to fix it."

"I don't know that you can," Jaffa informed him. "He has reason not to like you. You didn't even stay for father's funeral."

"I wasn't well enough." It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her of Zero, of his nightmarish rampage against the colonies he had sworn to protect, but he held back. She wouldn't understand. Jaffa was a very black and white person, and he had crossed the line then, and become a serious shade of gray.

She pulled back the veil from her face, something she only did when she was alone with family. It wasn't out of modesty that she wore it, Quatre knew. She wore it as a banner of her personality, a sign that she was tied tightly to her heritage. "Quatre... Let us have no secrets," she said. "Not even father could keep his sorrow a secret from me." She walked closer to him, and her eyes ran over him. "You're beautiful," she murmured. "You look very like your mother."

Quatre turned his eyes away, not wanting to think of the genetic manipulation that had resulting in his creation. "Boys aren't beautiful," he said instead.

Jaffa laughed, a melodic sound that echoed through the room. "Usually not. But how does one define beauty? Physically?" she said, and she touched his alabaster cheek, so different from the deep mocha of her own skin. "Mentally? Spiritually? Or through the heart?" she asked, and then she reached out and wrapped her arms around him.

It was the first time anyone had hugged him since Iria had died. He stiffened, then his hands almost automatically crept up Jaffa's back before he buried his face in the nape of her neck, wanting to hide away there forever. The herbal shampoo she used smelled the same as it had since his childhood, when she had been there to solve life's problems. Now he was tall enough to look her in the eye, and he could see the fine lines of age starting to form on her face. He clung to her, knowing that in a few moments, he would have to be strong again.

"It's been hard for you, hasn't it?" Jaffa asked. "You made some difficult choices, and I must admit I don't understand them. But you've grown beautiful for it, and are definitely worthy of being father's heir," she pronounced, pushing away slightly so she could talk to him more easily. "The strength in you is amazing. I feel it, an I know that you shine with a light that must blinds lesser men."

"I don't want to be here, Jaffa," he confessed. "I didn't want this. I never made my peace with father, and now I'm supposed to be his successor? I tried to make them take Naadira, but... Only the son. Even an unworthy son like myself."

She seemed thoughtful, and Quatre waited with bated breath for what she was going to say. "It was inevitable for the two of you to fight. You were too strong to be father's heir, and he was too strong not to try to control you," she told him after a moment. And that... Is just the way it is."

"I don't have to accept it."

She raised her hand to his face, and the bracelets chimed again. "Yes... You do. You've been a warrior, but the next lesson in your life is learning how to accept. We all have to do things we don't want to." She pushed him back, until he found himself sitting in the chair that had so terrified him. "This is your seat, because no one else knows what you do. No one else is as brilliant as you are; you are the best of us, Quatre. We need you to lead us."




Scene VII: Ballade Pour Adeline, Part I


"I walked a thousand miles just to slip this skin."
--Bruce Springsteen, The Streets of Philadelphia


He went home after the war.

It was odd, because Trowa Barton had never considered L3 home, not even during the first fifteen years of his life before the war, when he had been as deeply rooted to the place as he ever could have been. But now there was some special mystery to the streets of the colony that hadn't been there before - something that made them seem different to his eyes. Maybe it was that he'd grown older, or maybe it was just that he wasn't the same person that he had been when he had left this place a year ago.

He should have gone back to Earth, he knew. Back to the circus and back to Catherine. She'd adopted him as her little brother, and he knew that he had left her hanging at the end. She probably didn't even know if he was still alive. By all rights, he should go back. Back to her, to the Ringmaster…everyone who had been so kind to him.

But he couldn't.

He didn't know exactly why, Trowa mused, as he turned his shuttle towards the dully gleaming shell of the colony bubble in the distance, still not quite used to the peaceful silence of space, undisturbed by mobile dolls or flashes of guns. It wasn't that Catherine hadn't been kind to him - far from it. She'd been the kindest person he'd ever known, possibly with the exception of Quatre, and he would have loved to repay that kindness in any way he could. But maybe that was it. Maybe he knew that he couldn't repay her, and so he was running away.

It was odd, really, that his life had gathered into just a big amalgam of running away from everything, and even though the war was over and he was supposed to be more mature than he had been, he couldn't change that.

She'd lost her brother years ago, and she had thought she'd finally found him again. For a while, he had tried to be that brother. But it was time to face the reality of his own life. He wasn't her brother. Not anymore.

The tracking signal on the console flashed, and he realized, first of all, that he was being hailed by the colony control point entry police, and that second of all, he had forgotten to broadcast his radio signal. He flipped the switch at the same time the comm crackled at him.

"Unidentified shuttle, state your name and business."

"Trowa Barton," he replied calmly. "Former soldier, returning from the war."

He didn't know how they'd react to that, but the reply came almost instantly. "Stay on your present course. Follow the beacons to docking station A6938. Personnel will direct you from there."

So apparently there had been a steady flow of soldiers returning home from the battle, and his entry wasn't going to be suspicious. He realized belatedly that he hadn't had any kind of plan if they'd planned to arrest him. Not that he ever did - he usually moved on gut instinct and if he happened to be caught - well, tough luck.

The beacons led him to a fairly well kept docking station which looked like it had once been a quiet place for civilian shuttles to land. Now, however, it was a madhouse, with shuttles and transports crammed tightly side-by-side, and as he climbed out of the cockpit and slung his bag over his shoulder, Trowa wondered if it had been worth the effort to try and secure legal entry to the colony. There seemed to be several terminals with uniformed guards stationed at each, barking orders in harsh, raised voices. The people streaming through the terminals were mostly around the same age as Trowa himself, young men and women with haggard faces and tired eyes.

All soldiers, all coming home.

Coming home to what?

Trowa's ID had been handcrafted by Noin herself, yesterday aboard the Peacemillion, and she'd announced that it would survive anything the police tried to throw at it. He'd only told her, Quatre, and Une that he was going back to L3. Noin because he needed her help to make the ID for him. And Une and Quatre because…it would have been wrong to leave without saying goodbye.

He hadn't told Duo where he was going. It was better that way. He didn't think that Duo, if he had left before Trowa had, would have told him either. Heero and Wufei hadn't, disappearing into thin air in the middle of the night. Part of it amused him and part of it disturbed him, though he did not know why.

The lines were long, but he passed the last guard station without a problem and exited the hangar through the swinging double doors, wondering if public transportation was still running. The part of the colony he needed to get to was at least an hour away by fast transit, and he didn't quite feel like walking.

Luckily, the rail lines seemed to be still running, though the stations looked older and dirtier than he'd remembered them. There weren't too many people around and the fluorescent lights shone eerily on the nearly deserted platform. Before the war, the trains had been crowded.

He took the train to the far side of L3, dozing lightly in the empty train compartment as it creaked along the rails that had once offered an almost soundless ride. The sight outside the windows, when he felt like looking, was dismal. Everything was a foggy gray, and even the pedestrians he saw hurrying along the street wore dark colors, as if they were all in mourning for something. If he had cared, he would have been depressed, but Trowa had never been one to be depressed about much. Life happened and war happened, and if you were killed, then you were killed, and if you weren't, life went on. It was how things had always worked, and how things would work still after he was dead.

He thought of Catherine, waiting alone for him and staring at the sky every night, hoping for her "brother" to come home, and felt vaguely sad. It wasn't her fault that she'd grown so attached to him, he thought, cupping his chin in his hands and staring at the large, garish advertisement pasted atop the wall opposite him. One of its corners was peeling. "SAVOREUX!" it gushed in faded block letters, showing a platter of what looked to be some kind of steaming noodles and vegetables, obviously an ad for some restaurant. He had no interest in restaurants. He looked out the window again.

He wasn't Catherine's brother, no matter how hard she wanted him to be. Some things were like that. Some things could never change. His heart clenched for a moment, and he frowned, pushing the thought of her away. It was better for him to leave her like this. This way he wouldn't give her any more false hope. This way, she could move on with her life. Perhaps one day she'd find her real brother, and then they'd both be happy.

He had protected her. It was all he could do for her.

The train whistled and rolled into another deserted station, up to another deserted platform, and he stood up. This was his stop. The train came to a shuddering halt and he exited as the doors hissed open, trotting quietly up the chipping concrete stairs and up to the surface.

It was as gray here as it had been in the central L3 district, but it had always been gray here. He had expected it. He hefted his bag securely onto his shoulder and moved on. He hoped it would not rain.

An ordinary traveler here would not have noticed anything different between the streets he moved through, but then again, ordinary travelers would never venture here, for fear of having their throats cut or being shot through the back. Anyone who was sane enough to value their lives stayed away from the yakuza territory on any colony, but several of the bosses of the largest yakuza rings called this part of L3 home, and it was certain death for anyone who dared to cross a yakuza boss.

For him, Trowa Barton, this was home.

He hadn't told Quatre of his origins, though he was sure the empathic Arabian had guessed. He wasn't particularly proud to be a product of the yakuza system, but then again, Duo had been from the slums of L2, and from what he could gather of Heero's past, the Wing Gundam pilot had been plucked from the dredges of the L1Breaks, so he didn't think any of them would be horribly shocked. But Quatre…he had wanted Quatre to think the best of him. Thinking back on it, he supposed he had been a little foolish, for Quatre was someone who would never judge anyone on something so shallow. But it was too late for that now. Perhaps if they met again someday, he would tell him the truth.

He suppressed a harsh smile. Who was he kidding? There would be no someday.

This was home, and he was home to stay.

He knew there were watchers posted in the apparently empty, crumbling buildings that lined the dirty streets, but he paid them no heed. From the way he moved, he knew they would recognize a kindred spirit. The yakuza of L3 lived in an odd kind of wary peace with one another, and rival gangs respected the members of others, unless that member violated that unspoken law of trust. As long as you were recognized as one of them, they would do you no harm. Of course, the largest of the yakuza gangs, the Dewaya Gumi, was also the most powerful, and it was mostly under their strict thumb that this peace was maintained. Everyone benefited from it, though, so there was little complaining.

As a member of the Dewaya himself, then, there was little he had to fear.

He took the twists and turns of the street maze effortlessly, knowing still by heart the exact location where he was headed. It was almost surreal, coming back like this through the fog that had settled around him, wisping around the corners and curling about his feet. The neighborhood hadn't changed visibly since he had left, but it seemed - how to describe it - faded. Tired and old, just like the rest of the colony.

He turned one last corner, coming up to the huge empty doorway of an abandoned building that looked just like all the rest of the abandoned buildings, but as he descended the rickety steps, something in the back of his mind whispered to him and he knew he was being watched. Not only that, but he had been admitted.

Not that he had expected any less.

Moss grew in the damp cracks of the slimy walls, and something was dripping slowly and steadily, quite near. A leaky pipe? There were always some of those. A single electric light bulb illuminated the passageway that he entered after the stairs, and he made his way carefully but surely along the cold, dank tunnel.

There was an iron door at the end of the tunnel, and he did not attempt to open it, but simply stopped and waited. After a moment, it was drawn open, surprisingly softly and swiftly for a door of such size, and he stepped through. The door closed quietly behind him and he took a deep breath.

This was home.

No one in their wildest dreams could have ever imagined that the inside of this building could be so different from the outside. The room he stood in was small, but with wood-paneled walls and marble flooring. A small chandelier hung from the high ceiling threw light sparkling off the tiles, and a single velvet-covered armchair sat in the left corner, looking very lonely and forlorn.

He quietly let his pack drop from his shoulder but did not move to sit in the chair, instead standing and saying nothing. They knew he was here, and they would make the next move.

He didn't have to wait long. There was a click and the heavy wooden door at the far side of the room swung open. He raised his eyes to the figure standing in the doorway, expecting to see one of the lower-ranking officers or maybe a runner, telling him to enter, but when he saw who it was, he jumped.

"Oyabun!"

The boss of the Dewaya Gumi was a little older than Trowa remembered him, and he had grown a little thinner since he had seen him last, but otherwise, he had changed little. He was a short, rather squat Japanese man, with a head of thinning gray hair and spectacles, dressed in a dark brown business suit. Anyone not knowing his true profession would probably have taken him for some sort of scholar, except for the fact that the little finger and the middle finger of his left hand were both missing.

"Welcome back, Trowa," he said. His French was slightly accented, but the accent was pleasant. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed that voice, with its accent and calming tone with a ring of iron underneath that caused legions of Dewaya members to snap to attention instantly at a single word.

Trowa bowed, the traditional Japanese bow that he'd mastered as a young child and had been performing since he could remember. "It's a surprise to see you here," he confessed, picking up his pack as the boss motioned him inside. It was another long corridor, one lined with the same wood paneling as the antechamber, and the air smelled slightly spicy with the fragrance of some exotic incense.

"Who were you expecting?"

"Martin, perhaps. Or Colbert. Have I grown in stature so, that the boss himself would come to meet me at the front entrance?"

The boss laughed, though it was easy to tell he was tired. "You belittle yourself too much. You're a hero, you know, Trowa. The toast of all our young ones. They tell stories about you in the fire room now. I think they even used to bet on you and Heavyarms, back in the early days of the war. That stopped after a while though. I got news of you the moment you stepped off that shuttle in the spaceport, and you've had people dogging you all the way home. I think some of the young ones want your autograph."

Trowa shook his head wearily. "I'm a young one too, oyabun. You seem to have forgotten that."

" 'Young' is merely a matter of perception," the boss replied calmly. The corridor opened into a wide chamber, with three door set into the wall, and both of them turned to the door on the far right, the boss opening it and gesturing for Trowa to enter. "You, in my eyes, are no longer young. You have seen too much."

"Haven't all of us?"

"Some," the boss said, his voice heavy. "Many have not returned from the war. I doubt most of them will."

The office of the boss of the Dewaya was curiously small and unadorned, which was strange for the office of any yakuza boss. Most bosses had huge offices, full of priceless goods that they'd smuggled in from foreign countries, lists on the walls of how many of their rivals they'd killed off, or expensive decorations and furniture. This office had none. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue, and the desk was a simple wooden one, with the only vaguely extravagant thing in the room being the padded office chair that sat behind the desk. There was no computer, no electronics except for the soft glowing lights that lined both sides of the wall. The boss crossed to the chair and sat, while Trowa remained standing.

"Doktor S is dead," Trowa said.

The boss looked up at him through his spectacles. "I know. It's a pity, really. I'd grown used to his company."

Trowa gave him a shadow of a smile. "That's hard to believe. You used to claim you never needed anyone's company."

"Times have changed. So have the Dewaya."

"You mentioned people going off to war. Did many of our runners leave to fight?"

The boss sighed. "More than you know. We lost almost half our numbers just before Operation Nova began. They flocked in droves to sign up…for OZ…I think they'd seen Vayeate on the vidfeeds and they thought that the best way to support us was to support you."

It wasn't surprising that they'd known he was the pilot of the Vayeate. The Dewaya had a way of finding everything out sooner or later. "You shouldn't have let them go," he said.

"What can I do?" the boss maintained, leaning back in his chair and staring at Trowa. "Times were hard, and I had no way to feed them. I threw some of the worst ones out…but I let the rest go. It was the least I could do."

"Why?"

The boss smiled. "You were our hero, remember."

Trowa shook his head. "I was no hero."

"Sit down, Trowa."

Trowa looked around, saw a chair behind him and sat, staring thoughtfully at the wall behind the boss' head. It felt odd, sitting here and talking with the boss like this, though he'd done it for as long as he could remember, at least once a week, up until he had left with Heavyarms for Earth. He didn't remember when he'd come to the Dewaya, but he did remember it had been Doktor S who had taken him in, and he remembered meeting the boss for the first time, about two weeks after he had first arrived.

Oyabun, meet our newest hero, Doktor S had said with a trace of faint laughter in his voice. Trowa Barton.

He had known in some way, even as small as he was, that Doktor S hadn't been joking, but he hadn't realized fully how important his role was to the colonies and to the gumi until he was almost thirteen years old. He'd worked as a drug runner up until then, no different from the rest of the lowest rank of the yakuza, though he'd still go to training with the doctor and meetings with the boss twice a week. Back then, he had thought that everyone met with the boss twice a week. Doktor S had set him straight on that very quickly.

You are not to tell anyone of what happens at these meetings, the doctor had warned him. His false nose twitched and he had looked very serious. If you do, there will be…consequences.

Having been raised in the yakuza and knowing what those consequences were, Trowa did not need a second warning.

It was hard to imagine that Doktor S was dead, that he wasn't still sitting in some corner of the office with his false nose twitching and that secretive smile on his face as Trowa remembered. The boss seemed to know what Trowa was thinking.

"I'm rather sorry that you had to endure all those years with S," he said, breaking the silence. "I know he was a…harsh taskmaster at times. But it was for the best."

Trowa smiled. "I know. I hold nothing against you or him. You both were very kind."

The boss laughed. "I think not. But then again, there is little kindness in the yakuza, so maybe you are right. We were as kind as we should have been."

"Well," Trowa said after a moment. "I'm back."

The boss clasped his hands in front of him. "I was waiting for you. There are a few things we have to discuss…things we probably should have discussed before you went away, I suppose, but there was so little time. Perhaps it would have made your life easier if we'd done so, but there's really no room for regrets."

Trowa nodded. "I understand."

"Well then. You'll understand this too. The organization has grown very small. I mentioned that almost half of us went to fight in the war. Most of those who did so haven't returned, and I don't suspect they ever will. Either they were killed, or they found new lives outside of the system, and for that I don't blame them. It's not for all of us, this life. But in any case, it's best that way. Gambling has lost its popularity these days - it's hard to find houses - and the L1 cartels seem to have been having a heady time with their monopoly of the drug business ever since the war started."

Trowa raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know that."

The boss shrugged. "Business is business. I'm sure the market will fluctuate and we'll regain our ground, but with the post-war economy, it's hard to tell. Right now, there are thousands of former soldiers flocking to the Breaks on L1, looking for a way to sustain themselves because their property was confiscated during the war, or their families were killed. Cartels are easy to join, you know. They're dens of lowlifes, criminals and worse, where everyone wants a piece of the pie and doesn't care how they get it. The yakuza doesn't accept just anyone, and it's hard to get in. Maybe too hard - but we have a history and a structure and a certain sense of propriety, and we're proud of it. It's the way the world works."

"You always say that."

"It's true. Now that we've got it out of the way, the second thing I want to tell you is that you can't stay here."

For a minute the room was perfectly still, and he imagined he could hear the workings of his own brain turning, trying to decipher a second meaning behind the boss' last statement, but there was none. "You can't be serious," he said finally.

"I am serious."

"But…" he stopped. "But…I've come back."

If he hadn't known better, he would have thought there was a sad sort of smile on the boss' face. "Yes. And now you must leave."

"But…why?" He was not distraught. Trowa Barton did not get distraught…he simply took life's lessons and moved on. But that thought didn't seem to rationally explain the surge of anger and crushing disappointment he was feeling at that moment. He'd come back to L3 expecting to be welcomed, and now he was being told to leave.

"Because you don't belong here," the boss said simply. "You're no longer part of us…you've experienced the world, Trowa. You've experienced too much. If you stay here, you are merely confining yourself to what could have been."

"But I don't want anything else!" he said angrily. "I've made my choice!"

"Trowa. Calm yourself."

He stood. His bag clattered to the floor. "I don't want anything else," he repeated, more softly this time, but his voice sounded cold to his own ears. His hands shook and he clamped them against the sides of his thighs, balling them into fists. "I don't…I don't have anything else," he finished, defeated. "I have nowhere to go."

"You have your sister."

Trowa's head shot up. "How do you know about her?" he demanded.

"I have ways."

"She's not my sister," he countered. "She calls me her brother, and I accepted it because she needed me. That's all. I have nothing to do with her anymore."

"You miss her, don't you?" the boss said softly. "I can see it in your face."

He closed his eyes. "No." The words rang hollow and false in his own ears, and he imagined her face in front of him. Trowa, smile! Smile! "I don't miss her."

"What if I told you she was your true sister?"

"You have no way of knowing that," he ground out. "I'm an orphan. I was when Doktor S found me."

The boss heaved a sigh. "Trowa, I know this is hard on you. But you need to calm down. You're not naturally an angry person, and while I see how this might be disturbing you…I'd like to think you've learned some self-control in your years with us?"

He remained standing, shaking, and the boss said nothing, watching him. The shaking stopped eventually, and he stared at the wall, trying to clear his mind of all the murderous thoughts that were running through his head right now. The boss was right, the rational part of his brain replied, sounding puzzled. There was no reason to be angry. Fact was fact and truth was truth. He couldn't deny it.

The anger faded, and he bowed deeply.

"I am sorry, oyabun," he said."

The boss didn't answer, but walked over to a smaller table in the corner of the room that he hadn't noticed before. "It's interesting what objects you can pick up on the black market sometimes," he remarked in the offhand way that Trowa had long learned to recognize as the beginning of another one of the boss' lectures. "I found this about two months ago."

Curious in spite of himself, Trowa leaned closer to look at the small object in the center of the table. It was box-shaped, dark green and gilded with thin bands of gold that glimmered in the light. "What is it?"

"It's a music box," the boss replied. "Circa AC 15, very old, very rare and very valuable. And before you ask, yes, it's real gold."

Trowa smiled faintly. "I wouldn't have expected any less." He watched in silence as the boss wound the tiny machine, listening to the clicking noise of the mechanism in the stillness of the room and then the whir as the boss' fingers released the winch and the box began to play.

He hadn't heard a music box in a while - they were rare on L3. Quatre had had one, and he'd spent two hours one day sitting in front of it, winding it and listening to the song play, slow, run out, and stop, then winding it again to begin the cycle. Quatre's music box, though, had played a cheerful tune. This tinkling melody was different - mournful but hopeful at the same time, and very beautifully sad.

"I don't recognize the music," he said at last, as the song slowed and stopped, the notes petering out to a doleful end. "What is it?"

"It's called Ballade pour Adeline. A very famous piece - originally for piano, though of course like anything else famous it's been adapted more times than anyone can count."

"It's very nice," Trowa said thoughtfully, as the boss wound the music box again and let the music play.

"Two Frenchmen named Olivier Toussaint and Paul de Senneville wrote it for de Senneville's daughter. Hence the name. Fitting for a young girl, don't you think?"

"What are you getting at?" Trowa said.

"Patience." The boss waved a hand. "I just wanted you to listen to that before I said anything else. A beautiful piece. We're all looking for our Adelines - people who we can love in that special way, not romantically, but a gentler kind of love. That kind of love, I think, may be even harder to come by than romantic love. In the whirlwind and commercialization of romantic love, that other kind of love loses its import sometimes."

"Maybe you're right," Trowa said warily.

"Some of us eventually find an Adeline," the boss continued as if Trowa hadn't spoken. "Others of us never do. It's up to you to find yours." He fixed Trowa with a sharp glance. "I think you have, but for some reason you won't accept it."

"Catherine's not my sister," he responded evenly. "She's better off without me."

"Don't be so sure."

"What do you mean?" Trowa asked, feeling cold.

"Before Doktor S, there was a man who he bought you from. This man was apparently from Europe, Earth. Poor, dressed in rags, you know the type. He claimed that this child was his and that he had to sadly part with it for its own good. However, as you know, our good Doktor S was never satisfied with just one answer, and he eventually wheedled the story out of the man. He and that child had been part of a circus caravan that had been attacked several days earlier. Most of the caravan died. He got you out alive and had been fleeing from his attackers ever since."

"Most of the caravan?" Trowa echoed. He knew where this was leading, but for some reason he needed to hear the answer out of his boss' mouth. He knew the boss saw that. The boss saw everything, it seemed.

"Most of the caravan," the boss repeated. "There was a girl. Her mother and father were killed in the attack. Her baby brother…was the child the man had taken.

"That child, of course, was you."

Trowa looked the boss straight in the eye, and the other man did not flinch, the dark eyes behind the spectacles holding the truth. He knew it was the truth. The boss had never lied to him.

"I know," he said quietly.

"Then you know why you have to leave."

"I do," he said. "At least, the facts of why. But I don't understand why I can't stay here. Even if Catherine is my sister, she is still better without me. I protected her once because I cared for her, and I helped her while I was there, but she doesn't need me anymore."

"Cared?" The boss' eyes were accusing now. "Helped? I don't think those verbs should be in the past tense, Trowa. You still care for her. You still want to help her. Just because you have been with us all your life doesn't mean that you cannot go back to her. Your life isn't here anymore, Trowa. Your future isn't here. When you took Heavyarms off this colony, you understood that. What's changed?"

"Everything has changed," Trowa replied softly. "The world…the colony…me…I've changed. I can't…I can't face her again. It's impossible."

"She loves you, I'm sure. And I can see that you love her."

"Love?" he resisted the urge to laugh. "You use that word lightly. I don't think it should be bandied around like that."

"I don't bandy words. You've known that for years."

The music box had long run out and the boss crossed to it, rewound it again. Ballade pour Adeline filled the room, and the boss smiled. "Your Adeline. Think about it."

"I don't want to go," Trowa said, aware that he was sounding very selfish and stubborn, but in front of the boss, who had known him since he was a small child, he didn't care.

"I don't want you to go," the boss replied. "You've been a part of my life - a part of us - for far longer than most. You've grown up with us. But this is no longer your home now. Your home is with Catherine. Your sister."

"My Adeline?"

"Your Adeline," the boss repeated. "I know you don't believe me now. But perhaps one day, you'll understand."

"I don't want to go," he said again, noting that everything had gone a bit misty. He scrubbed at his eyes. He was too old to cry. He never cried.

He heard the boss come around the desk and then something small and cold was pressed into his hands. "Here," he heard him say. "Take this."

It was the music box.

"I don't need this," Trowa began, but the boss shook his head.

"Give it to her. Or keep it, as a keepsake. I have a feeling that it will make this a little more bearable."

Trowa said nothing, staring at the small box in his hand. He didn't need to ask if he could come back, to visit perhaps, or just to see old friends. Yakuza who had broken their ties, either voluntarily or involuntarily, did not come back. It didn't matter that they had parted with their gumi and their bosses as friends, and it didn't matter how high they had been in the rank structure. Parting meant death, and dead men did not come back to haunt the houses they had lived in during life. It was strictly against the code.

If he ever did try to come back, he would not leave L3 alive.

"I will take good care of it," he said finally, bending down and putting the box gently in his bag. "Thank you…for all you have ever done." He bowed, and the boss bowed back to him.

"Would like you like someone to show you out?" A mere formality, a last chance to say goodbye. Trowa shook his head.

"No, thank you. I can leave alone." He shouldered his bag and the boss opened the door for him.

"Farewell, Trowa Barton," he murmured softly, and as Trowa stepped out into the room beyond, the door slid shut behind him.

He was alone.

He stood there, hearing the muffled echo of his heartbeat in his ears, waiting for the tears to come again, but curiously, they didn't. The music box was heavy against the small of his back, and on a whim, he reached behind him and took it out, gently cradling it in his palm. It was strangely solid and heavy for such a small thing. He wound it.

As the music began to play, he turned his feet towards the door of the place, letting the notes guide him through the tunnel, up the stairs, into the mists of the streets he had once called home, leading him back to the place from where he had come.




Scene VIII: Eulogy for the Fallen


"There are two roads to walk down
And one road to choose."
-- Dana Glover, Thinking Over


After.

Relena had never thought about after. After had always been some far-off day, when her happily-ever-after was upon her, and the world was bright. She was there, now, but there was no "happily-ever" in front of her after. There was just an after.

After war.

After Heero.

After Treize.

It was odd that she mentally listed Treize last, when she had a moment to reflect, but Treize was the one who really was to blame for the whole mess. He had been the grand manipulator for years, and now he was dead. The war was over and already starting to fade into people's memories after three months of no fighting, and Heero…. Well, Heero wasn't really an "after." Heero was an "until." But Treize…

It was scary to think of him, dead. She had spoken to him on so many occasions, and now he was dead, and she was going to his funeral. Not that she wanted to, really. But Treize's funeral was to be the closure that the world needed to the wars, and she understood, better than most, that this really wasn't about him.

It was about the survivors.

She sat in the back of the limousine as Pargon carefully navigated the full streets, reflecting on how much work needed to be done. Cinq was a ruined country, and the world really had no government or military. It would be so easy for someone to rise to power, promising what the people wanted to hear, sparking wars as they fought for lands… but that wouldn't happen, she vowed to herself, clenching her fists. The people were tired of war, and were finally ready to embrace the pacifism that she offered.

She needed to lead her country, and by leading Cinq, she would show the world that absolute pacifism could work…. That the wars had led to a brighter a future, that the soldiers who had spent their lives hadn't bought a false dream. Today would be the pinnacle event of the new day that was dawning, for today was the day the world would mourn Treize, and all its fallen sons by extension in his person.

Relena glanced down at her perfectly manicured nails. Her beautician had dragged her out of bed at 4 a.m. to make sure her appearance was perfect, and that included replacing her ragged, bitten nails with acrylics that had been filed into an elegant French manicure. She had worn a black dress and her hair had been twisted into an elaborate braid. Aside from a slight touch of lipstick and blush, she wore no make up. It had taken four hours to prepare the perfect look. She hated it, but she knew that this speech would be listened to by anyone who could get at a vid feed.

"Pargon?"

"Yes, Relena-sama?" her most faithful servant responded as he turned into the parking lot that had been reserved for VIPs. The security around them was incredibly tight, but between the codes that had been program into the car itself, and Relena's face, they had been waved through quickly.

"What does it mean, to be a legend?" she asked softly.

The car slid to a stop, but they remained sitting in silence. "I'm not sure I'm the person you should ask, Relena-sama."

"Who can I ask?" she replied, staring out of the privacy glass. "I'm not allowed to have any uncertainties anymore… I'm already a living legend. So I want to know what I'm supposed to be."

Pargon looked at her in the rear view mirror, resting his immaculate white-gloved hands on the steering wheel. "Relena-sama, you merely have to be yourself. Don't worry about living up to expectations. You'll do fine, if you don't worry about what others think of you. Merely be who you are."

She remained motionless. "It's hard being a legend, Pargon. Treize was a legend; that thought goes around and around in my head. And he was killed by his own legend, I think. He got caught up in what others wanted of him, and eventually, he became a martyr, burning out to give the legend a wonderful ending. Few legends end with 'happily ever after.'"

"How do you define a legend, Relena-sama?" He asked her. "A legend is simply something we create in our own minds - it's something that the human being controls. So you need to control your own legend. Treize is dead, and today will end his legend. It will grow in the telling, but there will be no new tales to add to it," Pargon told her. "Yours is just beginning."

"It's a new day..." she whispered, then gave him a slight, but sincere smile, the first real smile she had used since learning Heero had left. "Thank you, Pargon."

"I live to serve you," he said. He opened his door and got out, and she waited for him to open hers, since she wasn't allowed to open her own doors anymore. Being a queen was annoying, sometimes. But I am not the Queen of the World anymore, she thought to herself, and her eyes widened as she realized the possibilities. I've been living like I was expecting to regain that throne, but it's not going to happen... not with this new World Nation forming.

Relena got out of the limousine, her thoughts still whirling.

The gallery where the funeral was to be held was immense. The world's politicians had vied for the best seats, for every inch of it was being filmed and broadcast. Relena had been chosen to deliver the eulogy, though she didn't understand why. Treize had unseated her as the Queen of the World - surely it had occurred to someone that she might hold the man in some resentment?

Still, this was a media circus. She walked into the Geneva Audience Hall, the largest auditorium in Geneva. They had wanted to hold it in Notre Dame, in Paris, because Treize had been French and loved that city, but the logistics had been too much to manage. The politicians were all in Geneva, so the services had to be there. Tomorrow, on January 1, the new World Nation Charter would be signed into effect, along with the Charter for the Preventers, a world-wide military and police organization designed to protect the peace. Today was the last day of the old year, and was to lay the turmoil of the past months to rest with it.

A new beginning for a new year, Relena thought. She looked out over the crowd, wondering where Une was. More than anything, it was Treize's lady who should have delivered his eulogy, not a politician. Une was the one who knew him as a person, not as a the icon people were already shaping his memory into.

Around her, cameras flashed and she heard the hum of the news networks recorders and the babble of reporters. She didn't smile for them, or wave, and when one of the reporters shoved a microphone in her face, she gently pushed it aside. "Today is for mourning," she said softly. "You'll hear everything you need in my eulogy."

Pargon appeared at her elbow, and helped her through the crowd. "Nicely done, Relena-sama," he said approvingly.

"Don't they have an ounce of sensitivity?" she demanded. "This is a memorial service for someone who died."

"You know as well as I do that's not the truth," a voice said, and Relena turned around, embarrassed she'd been overhead. Her eyes widened as she recognized Lady Une, dressed in a blue suit, wearing a red rose on her lapel. "It's a staged event to gain support for the World Nation."

"Lady Une," Relena said, and she went over and embraced the older woman, much to both of their surprise. They had come a long way from the assassination of Vice Minister Darlian. "How are you holding up?" she asked.

"I'm fine," the older woman assured her, pushing back and holding onto her shoulders. "A bit tired from all of the work I've been putting in, but I'm never happy unless I'm working full-throttle."

"Are you..." Relena began, feeling the need to press. The woman was wearing heavy make-up, obviously concealing circles under her eyes. Une's suit was a bit loose, and Relena was willing to wager that she'd lost five pounds in the week since Treize had died.

Une gave her a gentle smile. "I knew he wouldn't outlive this war, as much as I wanted to believe he would. Somewhere inside of me, I knew he was a shooting star, brilliant and beautiful, but... they burn out when they hit the atmosphere of this real world. He was into astronomy, you know? Occasionally he'd take a night off and go to the nearest planetarium and talk to the astronomers there. He was always up to date with the latest asteroid and meteor finds, and actually paid to have a star named after me for my eighteenth birthday."

Relena was fascinated. She hadn't known anything of Treize's personal life. "I didn't know…"

"He loved it. Many of pilots do, wanting to know more and more about the stars they fly among," Une explained.

"I wish I had known him better," Relena said sincerely. "He was a great friend to my brother, and he sounds like a wonderful man..." How many people would think to pay to have a star named after a friend? She wondered. It's a gift that really would last forever…

Une looked out over the audience, and her eyes shone with unshed tears. "He was the best."

"You should be the one giving the eulogy," Relena said. "You would be able to make him real to these people..." Relena said. "All I'm going to be able to do is babble propaganda."

Une looked at Relena, then reached out and straightened the queen's collar with tenderness. "That's why you're giving it. Treize isn't supposed to be human anymore... it's part of the reason he died. He died to end the era of soldiers and war, but also to give people a new icon, a icon to look up to for this age."

"What? I..."

"We need leaders desperately, but we also need heroes and dreams. Treize hated war, more than any of us. And he died to help you end it, Relena. He became your opposite, and your knights defeated him. You won, Relena, and now the road stretches before you..." Une told her. "It's not Treize's world anymore; we are his heirs, and you are his successor, more than anyone, with the exception of the pilots. But the pilots are gone, scattered to the winds... so you must carry on where he left off."

Relena shivered at the enormity task Une had just entrusted her with. It was one thing to have dreams for Cinq, but to carry on for Treize, and by extension all those who had fallen before him... "I-"

"Une? We should get to our seats - the funeral is about to start," a man said, coming up to them.

Une looked at the older man and placed her hand on his arm to guide him closer. "Relena, have you met General Brown?"

"No," she said, extending her hand, which he took in a firm clasp that exuded confidence. "It's a pleasure.

"Same. So this is the Queen of the World," he mused.

She blushed. The way he said it made it sound like he was dissecting her life. "I don't hold that title anymore," she corrected politely.

"Even when a kingdom is destroyed, the titles still exist," the older man corrected. His sharp gray eyes scanned her, and his voice seemed to proclaim only the truth.

"Michael helped me draft the charter for the Preventers," Une said, interrupted the exchange smoothly.

"I'm going to be in charge of our intelligence branch," he said. "Une wanted me to become the second in command, but I don't like the main command branch."

"Military intelligence is a joke," Une bantered back, and Relena could see that this was apparently a running joke from the way Brown groaned.

"Do you have officers selected?" Relena asked curiously. She hadn't really given the Preventers any thought, aside from being relieved that it would give the old soldiers something constructive to do. A world peace force was needed; not even the most pacifistic politician could deny that.

They exchanged glances. "We have ideas. We officially become operational on the second, so that's when we start hiring," Brown said. "And Une? We really do need to take our seats or one of those media vultures will steal them..."

Une smiled. "I'm coming. Relena... it's been nice talking to you."

"Agreed. Call me sometime, and we'll go out to lunch... as friends. I have too few friends left now," Relena said wistfully, thinking of all her political enemies and the way everyone else had been scattered by the war. Had it really been less than a year ago the most desperate desire of her heart had been to get Heero to come to her party?

The older woman nodded her agreement, and let Brown lead her away.

She took her seat in the front row beside the Emperor of Japan and Australia's Prime Minister, waiting for things to begin. Relena knew that the service was going to be long, dull, and ecumenical, even though Treize's family was Catholic. It was so staged it made her teeth grind at the thought of the show. She only hoped that Une would be able to maintain her attitude through it. She wondered if Dorothy was there, or still on the Peacemillion. Dorothy was Treize's cousin, and she would have been wonderful to see as well - but then she was also in hot water for having sided with White Fang in the end. Relena wished her brother was there. There would be no services for Milliard Peacecraft, even though he, too, had burned out spectacularly in that final battle.

So many had died. She remembered all the young soldiers she had seen, and wondered which ones had survived. She wondered how the others were doing, and where Heero was. She... she got caught up in her reverie, and mourned all those who had died in the battles.

After the first five different priests had invoked the blessings of their faiths, Relena rose to deliver the eulogy. There had been much debate over who was to speak, and many people had offered her carefully scripted eulogies with hidden agenda after she had been the one selected. Still, she had politely refused them all, saying she would find the words herself. A eulogy had to come from the heart, she had told them with sincerity.

Still, it was hard to force herself to rise to her feet at that moment. She had memorized a speech, of course, but now it seemed paltry and disrespectful. It was about the world joining together in the wake of Treize's death, and using his example to lead them… and all sorts of political gibberish. She sighed, looked over to where Une sat three rows back, and made up her mind.

Treize had been the founder of this new age, but people needed to know he was human. They needed to connect to him… She went to the podium, staring at the twenty microphones that ran from it. All of the news networks were waiting for what she would say. As she stepped up onto the riser that had been placed for her to use, she leaned forward slightly, placing her hands in plain view. Her father had taught her that. Always show your hands… it shows your honesty. Only gesture when you have an important point to make.

She stared out over the crowd, and then over the flowers and pictures that were on the stage beside her before taking a quiet breath to gather her thoughts. "Treize loved the stars," she said. "He was an amateur astronomer, and I'm sure he perfected it to the level of being close to earning a degree in it, but it was because he loved the stars," she said, speaking clearly, but quietly. The microphone amplified her voice, but there was an intensity to it that she had been lacking for the last week.

Relena glanced out over the audience, and saw Une's eyes sparkling before she looked over at the politicians. "He was a politician, too. He played the political game with the best of them, and before he died, he was the winner. He was a family member… he was a friend. But above all, he was a leader, taking us into the new age.

"Treize loved soldiers," she continued. "That's why he hated mobile dolls. He loved the soldiers for what they represented to him: honor, courage, loyalty, discipline. But I think he loved them so much that he wanted to lay their destiny to rest, at last." Relena studied the soldiers who had been invited to the carefully choreographed event. She knew that she would be upsetting some of them, but she hoped that her words would bring them a sense of peace. They were supposed to represent their comrades, but Relena wished there was more of them. Treize had really been a soldier at heart, she felt, but there was no way she could say that in front of the cameras. If she had had her way, the whole audience would be filled with the surviving soldiers, and the politicians could stand outside. Treize would have preferred it that way.

"Treize was a soldier himself, and he understood them best. He had the ability to fit into any environment, and put anyone at their ease. Of course, he could make people uncomfortable, too. He'd look you in the eye and challenge you simply by being himself… he did this to me, once, and I'd like to think I've answered his challenge. I will still answer that challenge," she said.

Are you listening, Treize Khushrenada? she wondered. Am I doing what you wanted me to do?

"He wasn't always right, but he was unfailing in his efforts to perfect himself. As we all should be…" she continued. It was a tactful way of saying that Treize had been on the losing side, but phrasing it so he could be viewed as a hero by everyone. No one knew who the pilots were and there were decidedly mixed feelings about them. Right now Relena was really the only one who had come through the war pristine, and she knew many of her colleagues resented her power.

"Trying to define Treize in words is impossible. Treize was complex; he hated war, but he was a soldier; he was a dreamer who could see reality; respected by both his comrades and enemies, he was one of the people who shaped our destiny. He's gone," she stated. She leaned back a little, pausing to let people process that. "Treize Khushrenada has died, died among the stars he loved so well."

Forgive me, Treize, for using you like this, she whispered inside her head, sending a silent prayer to the heavens for the well-being of his soul. But you would understand… I'm merely doing what you would, were our situations reversed. It's time for me to begin the propaganda campaign.

"They say it's better to burn out than to fade away, and it seems that happened to Treize. He was a shooting star, and the world is a poorer place for his loss. Tonight I'm going to watch the sky, and hope that his spirit, his hope, will inspire me to do what is right." She looked at the crowd. "I hope you will all do the same' take a moment to pause tonight, where ever in the world you may be on this New Year's Eve, and reflect on those we have lost in this war. They cannot fight for us anymore, so it is up to us to pick up the torch of their dreams…

"A week ago, there was a danger that the stars would never shine again. Thanks to Treize and others like him, we have a future. For them, and for ourselves, we must make the best possible use of it." Now she raised her hands getting ready to use them to emphasize her point. "Tomorrow we will begin a new year, and let's hope we'll take the lessons we've learned from this horrible one with us. If we learn nothing from the past, then it all was futile… and they all died in vain," she said flatly. "But tomorrow is a new year, and I have a good feeling about it."

Then Relena spoke so softly it was barely above a whisper as she pointed up toward the sky, tilting her head back as she stared at the imagined heavens. "Tonight, though, I'm going to watch the stars, because Treize and the others who died cannot."


Act 0 Part I | Act 0 Part III | Back to Sainan no Kekka