] Earth - The Atlantic Ocean on the S.S. Destiny - Spring AC 195 [
Today the ocean was a slowly seething greenish grey under the accumulating cloud cover; the oppressive slate-coloured ceiling and diffuse light levels imbued the morning with a sense of lethargic drama. Even after months on the planet, the mutable character of the weather, the way the changes in temperature, humidity, and visibility permeated the entire feeling of a day, it still enthralled him. Each new morning Quatre greeted with anticipation, wondering what spectacle he'd experience next.
"What did you want to talk about this morning?" Trowa's voice came from behind, where the other pilot was seated on the sofa. His soft, modulated tone melded with the atmosphere that affected Quatre's mood.
Quatre didn't respond immediately. Instead he allowed his gaze to continue its lazy wandering over the sky and ocean framed by his room's solitary window, savouring the peculiar feeling of timelessness imposed by the invisibility of the sun just as he savoured the soothing, welcome presence of Trowa. Without a timepiece handy, he would not have been able to guess the time of day. It could be morning, or late afternoon. Regardless, it was a good time for a long, relaxed conversation. With a contented sigh he turned. "New Edwards, I suppose. That's a good place to start."
With an affirmative inclination of his head, Trowa settled back on the couch, crossing one ankle over his knee. Quatre was pleased to see the other boy's posture so casual and open. Trowa took a sip from the mug cradled in his hands and spoke, "I'm not sure about this mission actually."
Quatre frowned, and seated himself at the opposite end of the couch so he could maintain his view of outside. "How so?" he prompted. It was true that the scheduled OZ meeting at New Edwards was just that little bit too well publicised, not to mention, too convenient a target, but Quatre wanted to hear Trowa's thoughts before he contributed his own.
"OZ is making this far too easy for us." Trowa replied, as if he'd read Quatre's mind.
"Do you think it might be a trap?" was Quatre's next carefully spoken question.
Trowa glanced at him, a small smile forming on his lips, "I think that's... not unlikely."
"We need to go anyway," Quatre pointed out. "In case it is for real."
"Obviously," said Trowa blandly. "We're on our way there."
"But we should keep our eyes open and be prepared for deception," Quatre continued with what he suspected they were both thinking and smiled as Trowa picked up where he left off, their minds and thoughts progressing in an easy accord.
"And even if it is what it appears to be, we'll be running into heavy resistance from OZ Specials. We no longer have the element of surprise on our side."
"By providing such a tempting target, they'll definitely be expecting us," Quatre agreed. "And by forcing our deployment, they're rendering our past strategy useless."
"Which was to use the element of surprise and randomness of objectives." Trowa nodded. "They have us where they want us this time."
Quatre chewed his lip thoughtfully for a time, wondering whether he should mention the other units he'd monitored, the ones he suspected might be other Gundams. Sharing intelligence would be beneficial. He and Trowa shouldn't be keeping any secrets - plus, he wouldn't be surprised if Trowa were aware of them as well. "What about the others? The other potential Gundams?"
"You've noticed them too?" It was a rhetorical question so Quatre only nodded briefly in response before Trowa continued. "If they're involved in either our version of Operation Meteor, or the original one, they'll be there."
"You're right, we certainly don't know whose side they're on. Their targets have been like ours, but that - in and of itself - doesn't reveal much."
"They could be like you and not even know about the Barton Foundation."
"Or they could be our enemies." Quatre sighed, but then perked up a bit as he had an idea. "Perhaps we should launch our own attack late - after we give them a chance to show...?" he trailed off, curious again to see what Trowa would make of his suggestion.
The other pilot continued Quatre's thought as if it had been his own, "That way we'll not only be able to establish a better estimate of their intentions and loyalties, but also, if they are enemies to us, their capability will be somewhat depleted, while we're fresh."
"My thoughts exactly." Quatre grinned.
"I like the way you think." Trowa returned the grin with his modest version.
They lapsed into a reasonably relaxed silence for a time. Quatre counted this as progress in terms of his relationship with Trowa, who appeared to be content to just remain seated comfortably, sipping his hot drink and resting his eyes on the thickening rain clouds without.
Presently, he turned to Quatre and spoke again. "There was something I wanted to ask you about. If that's all right?"
"Oh?" Quatre was surprised, and curious, as to what Trowa could want to know about him. "I'll answer as best I can."
"I was wondering why the Maguanac Corps aren't supporting you in this mission. Was it just a matter of conspicuity and logistics? Or something else?"
Of course he'd want to know about the Maguanacs. Quatre shifted in his seat as he pondered his response, hoping that their absence didn't constitute a bad thing as far as Trowa was concerned - after all, forty extra mobile suits fighting on their side would be beneficial at New Edwards. Yet, Trowa's tone was only curious, not judgmental. "It was partly that. Getting forty mobile suits to San Francisco covertly isn't a trivial task," Quatre began with a casual gesture of one hand. "But more than that, they may fight for me, but I fight for the colonies. The colonies' fight isn't theirs, and since they represent the Independent Middle East Nations, I'm unwilling to involve them too deeply."
"I can understand your concern. Especially since this mission will be so high profile."
"As enthusiastically as they would follow me to New Edwards, I'd hate to see the conflict with OZ and the Alliance spread around the world the way it would if their support became too obvious."
"Their loyalty to you is that strong?" Again, Trowa sounded merely curious. Despite his words, there was no incredulity in his tone.
"Yes, it is," Quatre admitted, feeling uncomfortable at putting that simple fact into words. It felt too much like a boast, and suddenly he felt unworthy of the Maguanacs' devotion. Especially when he compared himself to Trowa, who was the more experienced - and probably more skilled, at least in Quatre's estimation - of the two Gundam pilots.
"How did that happen?" was the next, somewhat abrupt question. Trowa seemed to realise his words could be construed as rude, and amended his query. "It's not that I don't think you're worthy of their loyalty, but they're from Earth; you're from L4. It just doesn't seem like a probable occurrence for you to have even met them, let alone be leading them."
Quatre blinked in mild surprise. So he knows I'm from the L4 colony. Upon further reflection, though, Quatre realised he would have been more surprised if Trowa hadn't worked that out. I guess that's not a significant deduction - I did tell him my name. He'd have to have been living in a cave not to recognise it. Still, Winner isn't that uncommon a name... Ceasing that line of thought, Quatre instead responded to Trowa's question. "Well, Rashid is really their Captain. I think of my position with them as more honourary. I never trained with the Maguanacs or anything. As to how I became involved with them? That's a long story."
"I'd like to hear it, if you don't mind telling it."
"Well," Quatre began, grimacing slightly. How much did Trowa want to know? Was he only interested in Quatre's experiences as a pilot or was his interest perhaps something deeper? "I was thirteen at the time, and on my way to Earth for the first time." Quatre paused half expecting Trowa to interrupt since he'd already told the other pilot this was his first time on the planet. But Trowa remained silently attentive.
Taking a breath, Quatre continued, "Our family shuttles were intercepted by the Maguanac Corps to be used as temporary hostages until the Maguanacs could free workers who were being held unlawfully on the MO-III mining colony - workers from Earth." He settled back in his seat, his voice finding a more comfortable rhythm. "My father sympathised with their goals and agreed to their terms. Instructor H was one of the people held on MO-III - some of the people there were political prisoners, you see. He was a self confessed mad scientist, it was that day that I met him too." This last was punctuated by an absent smile as Quatre recalled his first meeting with the eccentric scientist. H had seemed quite interested in him even at that time.
"Anyway, one of the Maguanacs turned out to be a traitor. I overheard him radioing Alliance space forces to come intercept not just the people returning to Earth, but our family shuttles as well." Quatre paused with a grimace. "I... I managed to take him by surprise. But I hadn't tied him up well enough. He grabbed a gun and fired at Rashid. I ended up between the bullet and Rashid and was injured as well - but not as badly."
"How?"
"I was trying to push him out of the way," Quatre shook his head at the absurd idea of his slight build having been enough to push Rashid anywhere. "The bullet still hit him, but only grazed me." Quatre unconsciously rubbed at that spot below his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt.
"But that's not the end of the story?" said Trowa, leaning forward to set his empty mug on the table before turning on the couch to face Quatre.
"No, not quite," Quatre shifted uncomfortably under Trowa's inscrutable gaze. He was proud of what he'd done that day, but it just felt odd to be relaying his supposed heroics to someone with Trowa's experience. But, he reminded himself, Trowa had asked. "Over one hundred Alliance Leos were converging on the family shuttles and the Maguanacs - their orders were to destroy everyone. The Maguanacs had thirty-eight able-bodied men and forty mobile suits so I volunteered to join them in the fight."
"You had piloting experience?"
"Sort of. Well, not really. I'd flown simulators and was really good at that, but, no, I'd never piloted a real suit. One of the drawbacks of coming from a pacifist family I guess."
"Well, and only being thirteen at the time."
"Yeah," Quatre chuckled. "And that. It's easy to forget sometimes."
"So what happened? Did they let you fight with them?"
"Most of them weren't very keen - after all, I was just a scrawny teenager. But Rashid convinced them. He put me in charge of his men, gave me his mobile suit, and um..." Quatre got up and quickly rummaged in his wardrobe to pull out his battered pair of flight goggles. "These." He held up the goggles before tossing them to Trowa who'd turned in his seat.
Catching them easily, Trowa turned them over in his hands carefully. "These are antiques," he spoke almost reverently.
"They were Rashid's own goggles," Quatre moved back to the sofa, sitting to face Trowa. "The previous Captain of the Maguanacs had given them to him. They belonged to the original founder of the Corps and had been handed down to subsequent leaders ever since. He gave them to me as a symbol of leadership."
"He let you keep them. He must have been impressed." Trowa's elegant fingers traced the heavy stitching over the rich patina of the supple leather.
"You could say that," Quatre found himself grinning, and his embarrassment vanished. He and Trowa, though their paths of getting to where they were now were quite different, at a deeper level, they were the same - both skilled pilots at an age when most people were only concerned about what movie they'd go see on the weekend. And here they were, outnumbered, fighting for a seemingly hopeless cause. Of all the people he'd known, Trowa was the one who would understand the significance of Rashid's gift the best.
"So?" Trowa glanced up from his inspection of the goggles, one eyebrow raised expectantly and a miniscule smile gracing his lips. "What did you do that was so impressive?"
"I led the Maguanacs to victory, and held off over twenty Leos by myself while they escaped back to Earth."
Trowa's eyes widened slightly, "That is impressive." He passed the goggles back to Quatre, cradling the pair in both hands as if they might break. "You must be very proud."
"I am," Quatre spoke softly, gazing down at the goggles in his hands, looking at them anew, and seeing their significance in a new light. "That day changed my life."
Though Quatre sensed some lingering curiosity from Trowa, the other boy didn't question him further. "So, um, what about you? How did you come to be a pilot? You said you've been a soldier your whole life?"
Trowa didn't answer immediately, a tiny frown creasing his brow. Staring out the window again, he spoke with little inflection, "I grew up with a band of rebel mercenaries on Earth. I learned a lot of skills while I was with them, including how to pilot."
Sensing Trowa's comfort level rapidly evaporating, Quatre hesitated to respond to that information. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
"It's okay, I asked you enough questions."
"It's fine." He shrugged. Further questions for Trowa could wait for another day, Quatre decided, unwilling to push their budding camaraderie too far too soon. Still, he hoped to spend more time with Trowa and so mentally groped to find a reason for Trowa to stay. He spied the stack of thin plastic cases next to the vid screen, the films he'd borrowed from the Captain the previous day. It would be more fun to view them with company. "I borrowed some movies from the Captain, would you like to watch them with me?"
Trowa looked at him in barely discernable surprise. "That sounds disturbingly normal," he remarked.
Quatre chuckled, cocking his head to the side, "Don't you ever just say yes?"
"Yes," replied Trowa slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Laughing, Quatre stood, "Well, decide which ones you want to watch. I'll go see if there's anything vaguely approximating junk food in the galley. Then it really will be a normal experience."
Quatre stumbled down to the pool the next afternoon after having slept through both breakfast and lunch. He and Trowa had stayed up into the wee hours watching everything from science fiction, to political thrillers, to historical epics. Morning had found him feeling bleary and thirsty. That's the last time I eat that much salty garbage and drink that much soda, he admonished himself, yet smiled still. Though he and Trowa hadn't talked much more that day or evening, just the simple act of hanging out and doing something, that was, after all, exceedingly normal had felt good.
The water was refreshingly cool as he slipped into the pool. Ducking his head under the surface before pushing off from the near wall to begin swimming laps, Quatre relished the buoyant freedom allowed by the water. As his muscles warmed and loosened, he achieved a comfortable pace and let his thoughts wander. He found himself regretting once more that he'd not had a more typical childhood in many ways. Instead of spending time with other children his age he'd been surrounded by high paid tutors and household servants. Truly, staying up late with a same-aged acquaintance watching vid discs had been no more a common occurrence for him than it had likely been for Trowa. Such activities hadn't been deemed proper for the Winner heir. All his father's efforts had been bent towards grooming his son to be a worthy successor, not allowing Quatre the absurd self-indulgences of play and friendships.
But, he amended his train of thought; if he had had a normal, average childhood then he'd likely be attending school right now on L4, not cruising across the Atlantic in preparation for a battle with OZ at New Edwards. A battle, which - if all went well - could mark a turning point in relations between the Earth governments and the colonies. In fact, the potential changes to his life were far too great, and on some level, Quatre had to acknowledge that without the way his father had continually pushed him, he might not have developed the very strength of character that had allowed him to defy his father. If he had enjoyed deeper familial connections and friendships, would he have even been able to leave?
Slowing his strokes, Quatre paddled to the edge of the pool and climbed out. He chuckled at the irony of his thoughts as he collected his towel and dried off. You did your job too well, Father. He wondered briefly if his father would be proud of him now, even though they had parted ways as far as their beliefs went, maybe - just maybe - his father could be proud anyway. A small voice inside told him no, and Quatre experienced a wave of melancholy guilt as he wrapped his towel about his waist. But, I believe in what I'm doing, he reminded himself. I'm doing the right thing. It doesn't matter how he feels about it.
He's just too blind to see I'm doing this for him, for the family, for everyone being hurt in the colonies. Quatre padded to one of the unobstructed windows of the room housing the pool. It had started raining; a slow and steady shower combined with the occasional gust of wind shoving a dense cloud of moisture against the glass. Visibility was low, and Quatre shivered at the dank, somber atmosphere. He grimaced, feeling his eyes sting with tears. No effort had been made by anyone in his family to track him down after he left - as far as he could tell. Given how opposed his father had been, Quatre had expected that the man would have been quick to try to collect his errant heir. I guess he has abandoned me. He truly doesn't care. He'll just have to grow a new successor.
It was likely none of his sisters even knew he'd left since none of them had been living at home at the time. Further, there was little communication among family members. Even with twenty-nine sisters, Quatre had met but a scant handful and really only knew Caitlin and Theodora, the two youngest who were still on L4 working at the main WE offices - and even they were a good decade older than he was.
Briefly, Quatre contemplated writing to Theodora; she'd always been the most sympathetic and supportive when he was young. At the least, he'd like to let her - and via her, his other sisters - know where he was, and what he was doing. But, like his father, they shared a commitment to the ideals of Total Pacifism. Perhaps it would be preferable to remain silent, and simply let his actions speak for themselves - eventually.
"Oh well," Quatre muttered to himself before exiting the pool and returning to his quarters. He indulged in a long, hot shower before dressing and heading down to the library. A cold, rainy day struck him as a good sort of day to lose himself in a book. And it would be a good way to distract himself from the unpleasant turn his thoughts had been taking that afternoon.
Entering the library, now dressed in a pair of soft, well-loved jeans and a loose, button up shirt in a plush, teal corduroy, Quatre was pleasantly surprised to see Trowa. The tall pilot was curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs next to the window. His boots sat on the floor nearby, and his sock clad feet were tucked beneath him as he sat with a paperback book face down in his lap, his attention fixed out the window.
Trowa glanced toward him, speaking a soft, "Hi" before picking his book back up and shifting in the chair to rest his back against one armrest.
"Hi," Quatre returned the greeting, fidgeting with the untucked hem of his shirt as he approached the bookcase containing historical texts. He could feel Trowa's attention fixed on him, curious and uncertain. "Lovely weather, isn't it?" he asked over his shoulder, hoping to start a conversation.
"I like the rain. It's very soothing."
"I guess I'm not used to this much water. It's rather overwhelming," said Quatre as he made a selection and moved to sit in the chair opposite Trowa. "Though, I must admit, much to my father's displeasure, I used to love to play in the summer rains on L4."
"Your father is Charles Winner?"
"Yes," Quatre replied with a sigh, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. "The one and only." Today was evidently doomed to consist of thoughts regarding his father.
Trowa's steady regard was unreadable, as the brunet remained silent for a time before speaking in a tone of mild interest. "How does the only son and heir of such a well known pacifist family come to be piloting a Gundam in this conflict? Your father is very vocal in his advocacy of Total Pacifism."
Quatre scowled, but answered anyway. "My father and I don't see eye to eye on very many issues. Especially this one." He paused, reflecting on his thoughts earlier in the day, finally putting into words the thing he knew he could no longer deny, "I disinherited myself to fight."
Trowa seemed to have picked up on the unhappiness underlying that statement. His tone was gentle. "That's a big sacrifice, to give up your family, wealth, and status."
With a firm shake of his head, Quatre affirmed his commitment to his actions. "I don't think so. Not compared to what others have sacrificed - even unwillingly. Too many people have died in the colonies; too many people are living in oppression and fear." His next words came out with more vehemence than he intended, "If we don't fight this war, it'll never end. And if I don't fight, someone else would have to. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't."
"How so?" Trowa set his book aside, turning in his seat to face Quatre more comfortably.
The answer was easy; Quatre had spent far too much time engaged in futile arguments with his father over this very same issue. "I still basically consider myself to be a pacifist, but with people - innocents - suffering around me, I could no longer justify to myself - to my own conscience - remaining passive and idle." Since his father wasn't the one he was addressing now, Quatre's voice did not falter as he continued, "If they die because I choose inaction, then I'm responsible for their deaths since I have the ability to fight to protect them."
"And what would your father's response to that be?" Trowa pressed, but his voice held no hostility.
"He would tell me that all lives are of equal value, and that choosing to kill so that another may live is the real hypocrisy. But then, my father would choose an unjust peace over a just war."
"You believe war is just? Or that it can be?"
"Well, yes," Quatre spoke in mild surprise. "If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be fighting. War as a means to the right end can be just, and for me, that end is peace."
"Peace," Trowa said the word slowly, as if it had never crossed his tongue before. "I'm not convinced it can ever be achieved."
Quatre was stunned into silence for a moment. Did Trowa really believe that, or was he simply playing Devil's Advocate? "Then why fight? I mean - you must have some goal?"
"I do," Trowa admitted with his trademark miniscule smile. "But it's nothing so grand." The smile vanished. "I fight for the individuals, I guess. For every child who's lost their parents, for every family who's lost their home, their livelihood. For the dreams of others."
"What about your own dreams? Wouldn't you like to see peace in the Earth Sphere?" Quatre pressed the other pilot, confused and disturbed by the return of Trowa's weary fatalism
"A soldier can't afford dreams like that, not really. Dreams are for the people who'll survive this war." Trowa's response was delivered in near monotone. He sighed, glancing away. "But, yes, it would be nice to see peace, and maybe it can be attained, but how do you maintain it in the face of human greed and human need?"
"Don't you think peace is at least a worthy goal to fight toward since even if you fall short, you've probably made the world a better place in the process?"
"There are worse reasons to go to war," Trowa shrugged. "Like the original Operation M. It was motivated only by revenge, and nothing good could come of that." He frowned, his features pensive. "But I think, for war to be truly eliminated, you have to not only give people reasons to stop fighting, but also remove the reasons that they do fight. And I just can't see that happening."
"I agree with you in part," Quatre was relieved to find some philosophical middle ground between them. "Stopping war isn't as simple as throwing down the weapons. That's where my father is wrong. He thinks discussion and disarmament are enough. It's not - at least not at this stage. The commitment to peace needs to happen at a much deeper level."
"So you think war can bring peace?"
"The right kind of war can."
"The right kind of war?"
Again, Quatre found snippets of angry exchanges with his father entering his mind, but he forced his tone to stay even as he explained, "Well, it has to be motivated by something right, something moral - like achieving peace, and it has to be conducted properly so that its goals are truly accomplished." Trowa raised a skeptical eyebrow, so Quatre hastily amended, "and it doesn't cause more sorrow and suffering than it protects people from."
Trowa shook his head in disagreement. "From my experiences, war is hell. It brings out the very worst in people. I don't see how war can be conducted in such a civil or surgical fashion."
"There are international laws governing the appropriate conduct of war, you know," Quatre said, wincing at the naïveté implicit in those words. War crimes still occurred, it was foolish to believe otherwise. But then, believing in this cause was important. "And don't you think war can also bring out the best in people - the heroism, nobility, and honour of war?"
"Heroism?" Trowa's mouth curled into a sarcastic grimace. "Most of the time people do what they do to try to survive," he asserted. "They might have signed up because of their ideals, but most of the time, when they're facing their death, ideals vanish, and they're only thinking of survival. There's nothing noble about watching your friend's entrails spilling out, or having to deliver the coup de grace [5] to a horrifically injured enemy." Trowa's words were accompanied by the conviction of someone who had borne witness to such events.
His own convictions growing belabored, a wave of sadness overtook Quatre. Who was he to try to convince Trowa of his sheltered ideals? "Even you? You only think of surviving?"
Trowa shrugged. "I don't expect to survive any longer. I fight to achieve my objectives. If I do survive, it's a bonus. I don't think people should fight who aren't willing to die, and I've been doing this too long to believe I'm immortal." Trowa fixed him with an intense stare, "I've seen every soldier I've ever fought beside die, Quatre. All of them."
No appropriate response to that last statement came to mind. Quatre fidgeted for a moment, wondering if he really was too naive and idealistic. "It sounds like you're lucky to still be alive," he said lamely.
"Perhaps. Nowadays, I make my own luck." Trowa turned his attention to his book, and Quatre took that to mean their conversation was finished.
Although he was unhappy leaving things with Trowa on a potentially prickly note, the little Quatre could glean regarding the other boy's feelings on the matter indicated that he wasn't at all bothered by the exchange. It was perfectly natural that they have different views towards war, Quatre decided, since they each came from such different backgrounds. Maybe we can each learn something from one another? Quatre cheered at that realisation. He'd never been able to disagree with his father without the discussion turning into an ugly argument, which would irrevocably escalate into something that left him feeling rejected and judged. The exchange with Trowa had been more of an intellectual exercise. Such a thing could only foster more respect, not less, Quatre concluded, and found himself smiling contentedly, as he opened his own book and began to read.
Late the following night found Quatre drifting in pleasant near-sleep bliss. Barely registering the quiet knock at the door of his cabin, he struggled to open his eyes and sit up, momentarily disoriented and off balance by the still somewhat unfamiliar layout of his quarters. The knock sounded again, more firmly, and a muffled tone spoke, "Quatre?"
Trowa. Quatre immediately recognised the voice and the last remnants of his drowsiness were quickly banished as he stood, stepping quickly to the door and unlatching it. "Trowa?" he inquired as the tall boy fixed him with an odd expression. Quatre didn't dare hope Trowa was here for just him, but he nevertheless experienced a brief flush of excitement seeing the tall, graceful form standing patiently in the corridor.
"Did I wake you?" he asked, eyes traveling over Quatre's state of attire.
The blond felt a subdued stirring of apprehension, arousal, and the frustratingly ever-present discomfort from Trowa as he opened the door wider and gestured for the other pilot to enter. "Well, it is late. But, no, I wasn't quite asleep yet. Come in." He stepped back and Trowa moved past him smoothly and seated himself without preamble at the end of the spare twin bed closer to the door. "What is it?" Quatre shut the door and latched it once more, moving to collect his dressing gown and pull it over his pyjamas.
In answer Trowa held out a slip of paper towards Quatre. "Did you write this?"
"Aren't we full of questions tonight," Quatre teased mildly and met Trowa's eyes with a smile as he took the offered item. Trowa was slightly anxious; Quatre found his curiosity roused. "What is this?"
He unfolded the paper and scanned it briefly. It read, 'You're not the real Trowa Barton. I know who you are.'
"I found it on the floor of my cabin tonight. Did you write it?"
"No. I mean, I already know Trowa's not your real name. You told me that."
Trowa nodded silently and frowned, pursing his lips into a thoughtful grimace before speaking again, "That's what I thought."
"So, um, who are you then - in this context?" Quatre pressed, a prickle of apprehension trickling down his spine. If someone on board knew about them, about the Gundams...
"That's a good question," the brunet acknowledged, cutting off Quatre's train of thought with a short, humourless laugh before standing and moving to the starboard window of Quatre's cabin. He pulled the curtain back and peered out, seemingly lost in thought.
Quatre moved to sit on the low sofa of the chamber. "You really don't have a name?"
"Not that I know of, no." Trowa turned and dropped the curtain as he spoke, briefly moving his hand to comb his bangs back from his face. Quatre had a fleeting, unimpaired glimpse of the boy's handsome features before the gentle fall of hair returned to it's habitual arrangement.
Sadness and resignation followed in the wake of that admission - or was it merely an acknowledgment? Opening his mouth to say something, anything, vaguely comforting, Quatre stopped himself. No words could really suffice; instead the blond pressed ahead with the more immediate concern. "So, what does this mean? 'I know who you are.' What were you doing before, Trowa?"
"I was working as a mechanic on Heavyarms for the Barton Foundation - as I've mentioned." Sighing, the other pilot leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he did so. "Before that, I was on Earth with the mercenary band I told you about." Quatre forced himself to ignore the bitterness in both Trowa's voice and emotion as he continued, "But none of them are still alive."
"So," Quatre began slowly. "Maybe someone from the Barton Foundation is here?"
"That's what has me worried - if it's someone from there. I didn't leave on good terms."
"There was... "Quatre began, feeling his breath catch as he started to put the pieces together, "There has been, rather, a guy watching you. I noticed him on a few occasions."
"You're sure?"
"Yes," he nodded firmly. "The red haired man. He always feels," Quatre paused, fumbling for the right word, but not wanting to alarm the other pilot unnecessarily. "Interested when he sees you. Like a sudden anticipation sort of feeling."
"What else? Anything dangerous?" Trowa unfolded his arms, and stepped closer, adding quietly, "I don't recognise him."
"Perhaps. It's hard to tell," Quatre sighed, meeting Trowa's intent gaze. "I haven't been prying. Ever since you - well, I'm making more of an effort to control my own curiosity about people."
The taller boy moved to the sofa and crouched before Quatre, his face grim, yet his posture pleading. "Quatre," he began, reaching to touch the blond tentatively on the knee. "Would you - could you - maybe pry a little bit? Please? I know it's a lot to ask, but, if you could tell...?" Trowa broke off, mild embarrassment washing off him.
If he's worried, I should be too. "Yes," he acquiesced. "I can do that. I'll do it for you." Trowa's eyes narrowed; he stiffened, and removed his hand from where it rested on the blond's knee. But before he could speak again, Quatre hastily clarified, "For both of us. He could be with OZ or some Alliance intelligence agency."
Trowa relaxed visibly and managed a small smile, his features softening slightly. "Thank you."
Quatre forced his hands to remain immobile as he experienced a sudden urge to reach out and touch the other boy - to brush the veil of hair from his face and see his entire expression clearly. "We're helping each other, now. Right?"
"Yes. We are." Trowa's smile broadened a tiny fraction, the rest of his features arranged sympathetically. For an instant - but only an instant - Quatre sensed the other pilot's guard drop, and in that millisecond he felt as if he'd perceived some sacred glimpse of Trowa's soul as he searched those intent green eyes for more insight. But the moment was too brief; Quatre stifled a frustrated grimace. The other pilot's reserve and discomfort continued be an enigma, especially in the context of the other feelings he sensed from Trowa - feelings he knew were directed at him.
Quatre smiled brightly despite his consternation. "Okay, then. So we should both be alert, in case this guy isn't working alone."
The moment truly had passed. Trowa was all business once more as he spoke, "And maybe we can figure out who he's working for?"
Quatre nodded and posed his own query, "Do you think the note was a warning?"
Trowa stood, his face drawn into a pensive mask, "I'm not sure. Maybe. But why would he warn me?" He turned away, approaching the window again.
Quatre shrugged, "I have no idea. It seems counterproductive. But then, we don't know what he wants. Maybe he just wanted to see your reaction to it?"
"Oh," Trowa fidgeted silently with the drapery for a time, lost in thought. "We should be careful then, not to appear that we're working together."
"Agreed. We can meet like this? Late? Here?"
"Okay."
Quatre bit his lower lip thoughtfully, considering the current situation and trying to anticipate future events despite the lack of information. "We're close to the canal crossing. If he's going to make a move, he'll probably do it then - or on either side of the canal - where he can escape the ship quickly if he needs to."
"Yes, that's what I'd do," Trowa concurred, but he sounded distracted, down even.
Quatre remained focused on the dilemma, hoping to coax Trowa from whatever melancholy appeared to be gripping the tall pilot, "Maybe we can find a way to draw him out sooner?"
"I don't know. It depends what he wants." There was resignation from Trowa again. Quatre was finding it a fairly common state for him.
Keeping his response brief in hopes of encouraging Trowa to elaborate, Quatre spoke simply in agreement. "True..."
But, Trowa was disinclined to continue the conversation. He frowned slightly and spoke softly. "I'll go now, I guess. Thank you, Quatre."
"You don't need to thank me, Trowa." Quatre stood, offering the other boy a smile.
"Good night, then." Trowa moved to the door meeting Quatre's eyes only briefly, and with little expression.
"Good night. And, Trowa?"
"Hm?"
"Watch your back."
"I will."
The following morning, Quatre made his way to the officer's mess feeling overly charged with nervous energy. He had to admit he was scared, scared of who the man was watching Trowa, and fearful of what that man might intend toward Trowa, or toward himself. Even though Quatre had restrained himself from prying below the surface of the stranger's emotions, he had nevertheless been disturbed by the way in which the man had watched Trowa. Quatre was grateful - and somewhat flattered - that Trowa had decided to turn to him for help. It might have been motivated by the other pilot's pragmatic sensibility, but it still was demonstrative of an increasing bond of trust between them.
Entering the mess, his eyes skimmed over Trowa's unobtrusive presence, seated at a table by one of the three windows, alone, reading quietly accompanied by a steaming cup of coffee and a half eaten plate of eggs and toast. He's always reading, Quatre noted with some amusement. The other pilot did not look up or acknowledge Quatre's arrival in any fashion. The blond moved to seat himself and noticed the red haired man was sitting nearby. He perhaps stared too long at the man because soon pale blue eyes glanced up and met Quatre's gaze. Damn it. Quatre chilled at the coldness in them, but smiled pleasantly and inclined his head to the man in greeting. The returning smile did nothing to warm the man's features, but Quatre saw his lips move in a silent 'Good Morning', before he looked away, reorienting his attention to Trowa.
How can he stand it? Knowing that man is watching him like that? Quatre wondered. It seemed much less discreet an activity now that he knew the man was actively observing Trowa, and not just out of idle curiosity. But Trowa remained impassive and calm, absently reaching for his mug and taking a sip, placing it back on the table before slowly turning a page, and cocking his head to continue reading. Don't gawk at him, Quatre reminded himself, forcing his attention on the breakfast menu on the table. It was the same as every morning, but it was at least somewhere to visibly orient his attention while he relaxed his mind, allowing his unique sense of emotion to expand, seeking out the object of his curiosity. The surface was what he expected, interest. Delving deeper, Quatre found excitement and intention. But intention to do what? Frowning in concentration, Quatre struggled to filter the louder, surface feelings to find what lay beneath. Sensations intruded at the periphery of his mind - not just the red haired man's emotions, but boredom from the steward that morning, contentment from Claude and Marie who were also seated by a window, and finally patient concern from Trowa. Finally, he caught a fleeting whiff of the motivating emotions. Hatred. Hatred and anger.
Hastily, Quatre retreated from the other man's psyche, blinking several times in disorientation. Hatred? What did Trowa do? Taking several slow, even breaths, Quatre relaxed, focusing his consciousness on his physical awareness, the smells of coffee and breakfast foods, the hard surface of the chair in which he was seated, the sound of cutlery clinking against porcelain, the background thrum of the ship's engines, the expanse of ocean beyond the window, and the slightly bitter, mineral aftertaste of the water he sipped. All these details served to anchor his space-heart, and protect him from the surrounding emotional noise.
After his experience of the unsavoury emotions directed toward Trowa from the red haired man, Quatre found his appetite had abandoned him. He nibbled perfunctorily at some dry toast from the plate he was served and drank his tea before leaving the rest of his food untouched and working his way down a few flights of stairs to the main deck level.
A brisk wind had picked up and the crests of the waves surrounding the ship were peaked with white. Quatre zipped up his windbreaker before giving the exit door a solid push and stepping into the stiff breeze. Few clouds marred the perfect cerulean of the sky above and the boy found himself quickly fishing in his pocket for his sunglasses.
He'd never get used to this, he decided, the majesty of the living planet, her vast oceans spanning as far as he could see, faultless and deep blue merging with the dome of the heavens unfurled above. The wind tugged his hair away from his face, locks flapping playfully about his head as he meandered to the narrow portside promenade [6] and began to make his way to the prow of the ship.
Quatre wrinkled his nose in distaste as a sudden shift in the wind brought a cloud of dense, black exhaust from the smokestack low over the deck. He coughed at the acrid, foul stuff, ducking his head until the wind shifted again. Not for the first time since coming to Earth did Quatre question the poor advances here compared to space. It felt as though technological advancement were on an indefinite hiatus - unless it was advancement to benefit the military powers of course. But to still be burning petrochemicals to move cargo? That was absurd. He knew better engine designs existed; better fuels existed. Maybe it was time for the children of the colonies to look back to their progenitors and reinvest in their ancestral home.
Increasing the speed of his walking, Quatre moved to outpace any further assaults by the freighter's exhaust and hurried to the prow, his path flanked by the near solid of wall of massive shipping containers piled five high on his right, and the sparkling ocean on his left. Finally coming to the bow of the vessel, Quatre moved as far forward as he could and sighed in pleasure as the vista before him became unencumbered by the architecture of the ship which bore him effortlessly across the Atlantic. Leaning over the rail he peered down into the wake washing off the prow of the ship. No dolphins or porpoises. He frowned in disappointment. The crew had said this time of year was good for spotting the playful mammals as they rode the ship's wake. Quatre was beginning to suspect they only appeared when he wasn't looking. He'd already spent an inordinate amount of time hopefully staring over the side of the rail, straining to see any sign of life.
A chill rippled up Quatre's spine when he heard footsteps approaching. He stiffened and straightened, detecting the now recognizable presence of Trowa's observer. Relax, Quatre, he instructed himself, adopting a casual posture and not turning, despite the fact that every nerve in his body was screaming a warning. He hasn't been watching you. It's Trowa he's after. The man behind him felt curious; it was a cold curiosity, but not malicious - yet.
"Enjoying the view?" came the query behind him. The man's tone was brittle with the awkwardness of a person who disliked engaging in small talk.
What does he want with me? Quatre's mind panicked, but the blond plastered on his best spoilt billionaire's son smile and turned, gushing, "Oh yes, it's just gorgeous!"
The returning smile was more of a grimace than anything else. The red haired man moved to stand near Quatre at the railing, leaning back against it and fixing the boy in place with his unnaturally pale coloured eyes. "I'm Dominic Carvey," he said, extending his hand toward Quatre.
"Quatre Winner," the pilot returned the greeting enthusiastically, offering a limp hand to be shaken. "It's a pleasure."
"Winner?" Carvey asked slowly as suspicion narrowed his eyes, "Of the L4 Winners?"
"Oh yes!" Quatre spoke, willing his smile even more dazzling and vacant, "You've heard of us, here on Earth?"
Carvey's mouth quirked in mild distaste as he relinquished Quatre's hand. "I'm not from Earth. I'm visiting from the colonies as well."
"Oh, which one? I've only been to L4 and L1 - but I've always wanted to see the new cities on L3. I hear they're beautiful at night."
"L3, actually. It's nice enough, I suppose."
"Well, what a happy coincidence then, that we've met. How likely is it really to meet a fellow colonist on a transatlantic crossing like this?" Carvey's eyes narrowed again, their aspect chilling and reptilian. Damn it, I hope he's buying this. Quatre gritted his teeth behind his smile waiting for the man to respond.
"What about that other boy? The one your age. I've seen you talking with him." The man's tone took a turn toward sinister, and Quatre experienced a wave of something predatory from the man. Eager and hungry.
Quatre forcibly ignored it and continued in his vacuous act. "Oh, him? He says he's from Earth. Rather quiet and dull fellow really." Quatre pitched his voice lower as if confiding a secret, "But I was nevertheless delighted to find such a lovely boy my own age traveling too." Quatre sighed happily while he winced inwardly. Though it wasn't a stretch to imply his particular interest in Trowa, he couldn't help but feel he was betraying the integrity of that interest by presenting it to a hostile stranger in such a superficial - and crude - fashion. He's definitely suspicious. Please, let him think I'm just a decadent, little dilettant.
"And what does bring someone like you to travel by freighter on Earth, alone?"
Alone, good, keep thinking I'm alone. "Well," Quatre began brightly as his mind scrambled for something that would be suitably innocuous and also credible. Someone like me? He pondered while he cultivated an embarrassed air, willing himself to blush and hoping he was succeeding. "I came to Earth to get away from my father. There are aspects of my, ah, lifestyle that he does not approve of, you see."
Carvey blinked at him, a sickly smile twisting his lips as he reached the conclusion Quatre had hoped. Still, the man continued to press him, his body language and tone radiating impatience. "And you're traveling by freighter, why?"
Now he's truly stretching the bounds of good etiquette, time to get offended.
Quatre huffed melodramatically, and coloured his tone with condescension. "I don't see why it's your business, sir. But if you must know - it's the romance of the thing. Sailing the seas as travelers once did. And it's refreshing to get away from all the trappings of society, you know." He gave the man an appraising look and wrinkled his nose, "Though, you probably wouldn't."
The man bristled visibly, and then laughed. "Did Daddy cut off your allowance?" he sneered in a derisive tone. The man radiated a sort of dark amusement as he finally dismissed Quatre as the persona portrayed. "Tough luck, kid." He stepped away from the railing, laughing to himself and muttering something unintelligible under his breath.
Quatre affected an indignant sputtering as the man walked away until Carvey passed out of sight around the rows and columns of shipping containers.
Once alone, the boy turned back to the rail, sagging against it, taking slow, deep breaths as the nervous knot of his stomach unwound into nausea. Even on a superficial level, the man was distasteful, and he'd been tenacious too. Staring down at the water again, Quatre allowed himself to become lost in the rhythm of the water breaking away from the tapered prow as it cut smoothly through the waves below. Grimacing while his stomach lurched rebelliously, Quatre swallowed hard and took several ragged gulps of air.
Then there was calm. Without thinking, Quatre wrapped that increasingly familiar feeling of balance around him. He started briefly as a light thump sounded behind him, but he wasn't afraid. Turning slowly, his eyes alighted upon Trowa, who was just standing up from a crouch. Presumably, he'd just leapt down from the top of the nearest containers. "Are you okay?" the tall pilot asked, frowning slightly in concern.
Giving Trowa a wan smile, Quatre nodded and pulled himself back together. In the face of Trowa's collected and controlled demeanor, the blond felt uncomfortable displaying his own vulnerability. He cleared his throat, glancing at the height of the stack Trowa had been atop. "How'd you get up there?"
The corner of Trowa's mouth twitched in a brief lopsided grin, but his eyes still held worry. Approaching Quatre, he spoke, "That would be telling."
"I thought we were supposed to be avoiding each other?"
"When I saw that man following you, I wanted to make sure you'd be okay."
"I can take care of myself."
"I don't doubt it. But we're helping each other now, right?" Trowa echoed Quatre's words from the previous night, but it wasn't mocking.
Quatre smiled, "Yes, we are."
Trowa turned away from Quatre, squinting as he gazed out across the expanse of water, and the wind whipped his hair back. At length he spoke again. "I don't think I need to be an empath to see that guy was being rather unfriendly toward you."
"No. He feels very dangerous. His intentions toward you are probably... violent, I think." Quatre studied Trowa carefully for a reaction; the other pilot's features remained impassive. "But, he's overconfident and not very subtle. His name is..."
"Dominic Carvey, from L3. I overheard." Trowa offered a brief apologetic smile before continuing, "That was quite a performance you put on. Do people always underestimate you so readily?"
"Oh, he didn't though. He was definitely suspicious of me."
"I'm glad you convinced him you're harmless."
"It's the blond hair and youthful charm," Quatre joked.
Trowa chuckled softly in response, and the two lapsed into an easy silence for a time, each content to simply enjoy the fresh sea breeze and the view. Again, it was Trowa who broke the silence. "It's beautiful isn't it?"
"Yeah," Quatre sighed, marveling anew at the colours and textures of the ocean, the way its mood and aspect changed so dramatically with the weather and time of day, "It reminds me of the desert in a way - ever changing, desolate, and beautiful. It's incredible."
"It's too bad we're too far north to see a wandering albatross." Trowa's tone was wistful.
Quatre cocked his head, studying his companion more closely. "You were born on Earth, weren't you?"
"Yes."
Quatre waited for the Trowa to continue. When he didn't, the blond redirected the conversation back to the current predicament.
"So, um, you think this guy is from the Barton Foundation?"
"I think that's the most likely scenario." Trowa's expression hardened. "Quatre, do you have a gun?"
"Yes, I do."
Trowa nodded, satisfied, and turned to leave. "Good. I'll see you later."
Quatre watched the other pilot's departure, feeling the comfort of Trowa's calm recede. Relinquishing his tentative contact with Trowa's emotional state, the boy began to wonder at the other pilot's evident concern about him. A tiny spark of hope blossomed, though Quatre wasn't certain he wanted to acknowledge it just yet.
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tbc.
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Notes:
[5] coup de grace means, roughly, 'killing blow'
[6] I'm not sure if this is a valid deck configuration on a container ship in this century, but maybe in AC 195?