Zodiac, Full Circle
Leo
AN: For all relevant information about this fanfic, read the first bit of the prologue.
Never thought I could have this chapter out in less than two weeks. I just hope it doesn't bear too many marks of being rushed - let me know if you think so. And yes, I know this story is somewhat predictable. :-)
--------------
The space dock of the main L3 colony was as busy as ever - that is, one had to struggle through the crowds like a plow through mud. There were passengers waiting to depart, relatives waiting for arrivals, in-transit groups, cargo shipments, mail deliveries, imports, exports, tourists, port peddlers, street entertainers and two ex-pilots trying to get through the fluid mass of people. Fortunately, the two boys traveled light; one had a small backpack, the other a duffle bag. To the blond, the walk through the spaceport corridors to the bustling streets of L3 seemed to take more time than the express flight that had carried them up here in the first place, and he was less than thrilled about it, though showing but a slight upset over it. The brown-haired one gave no impression of caring either way. It wasn't until they got out on a proper sidewalk the two got a decent chance to talk.
"Okay, Trowa - Where should we begin our search?"
The taller boy stopped walking, shrugged. "Anywhere. Lady Une said the last known location of Ziegler was this L3 colony."
"That was nineteen years ago, Trowa - how could we possibly pick up a trail that cold?"
Again, a shrug. "We'll think of something. Have faith."
A sigh. "Okay. Brainstorming time - first things first... Nineteen years ago, this colony - as all colonies were under the control of the Alliance, right?"
"Correct."
"And travel was very restricted back then, and every little journey to and from the colonies logged."
Trowa nodded.
"And the Preventers have searched through all the old Alliance records, showing one Herbert Ziegler arriving here, but no record shows him leaving. That would indicate that as long as the Alliance controlled this place, Ziegler - and hopefully, the amulet - stayed here."
Again, a nod.
"That's about all we know. Which means, we have hopefully narrowed the search area down to one colony. Mr. Ziegler could still have left in the recent years, or he could have smuggled the amulet out on any shipment or person leaving this place, or he could have bribed the right people and left L3 that way - there are just too many uncertainties, and we still don't know where to start!"
"Quatre, breathe."
Compliance.
"First of all... Nineteen years ago, visitors were rare. I'm sure some of the locals noticed Ziegler back then, and might give us some clues as to what happened. We could go to Colony Hall and ask for the local travel records and match those against the files the Preventers have. We could search the black markets and see if anyone remembers trading something similar to the amulet - it is painted in gold color, isn't it?"
Quatre nodded. "Yes, it is. It's still a stab in the dark, though."
Trowa placed his hand on Quatre's shoulder. "We have to start somewhere. Might as well try, unless you have any better ideas?"
Quatre pushed the hand away. "No, your ideas are good. I just feel like I'm doing some Herculean task - one that can't possibly be solved."
"Hercules accomplished his tasks, didn't he?"
Quatre's worried face turned into a smile, and a slight chuckle. "Yeah... All twelve of them - and was rewarded with godhood, insanity and ultimately an excruciatingly painful and tragic death. Let's hope our luck is better than his."
Trowa gave a vague smile. "Right... Colony Hall is somewhere down the third street to our left, I think. Let's start there."
With an approving nod from Quatre, they were off.
For about a few hundred meters, anyway. A soft, sobbing sound in the sea of street noises caught Quatre's attention, and in no seconds flat the empathic soul was hurriedly walking down a poorly lit alley, seeking out the source of the sobs. He found a little boy, age not possibly more than seven, sitting along one of the side walls, hugging his knees and crying his eyes out. Quatre crouched next to the child, and gently tried to dry away the tears with his hand. Trowa kept his distance, thinking it not prudent to overwhelm the toddler with strangers, especially bigger strangers. The tears and sobs died down a bit, but the young boy suddenly became aware of Quatre, and shunned away a bit, crawling a few feet back.
"It's okay. Don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you."
The toddler was not convinced.
"I'm Quatre. The man back there is Trowa. What's your name?"
"I - I'm Ted."
Quatre smiled. "Hi, Ted." He paused for just a bit. "Why were you crying, Ted?"
"I shouldn't be talking to you."
"Oh?"
"My grandpa says I shouldn't talk to strangers."
Quatre chuckled. "Then your grandfather is a smart man. He's right. But you already know my name, so we're not really strangers, are we?"
Ted thought about it. "No... I guess not." He wiped away the last tears on his cheeks.
"I'd like to help you if you want, Ted. Why were you crying?"
Again, Ted hesitated going against his grandfather's advice, but Quatre's loophole worked for him. "I got lost."
Quatre suppressed a chuckle at the thought, nearly blurting out 'Is that all?', but fortunately biting his tongue in time. For an adult or adolescent it might seem a small issue, but to a young child, the world is a big and dangerous place, one not easily ventured into alone or unguided. "Oh. Well, Trowa and I can help you find your way home, if you want."
Ted nodded, but still clutched his knees. Quatre offered his hand, and after a few seconds looking at it and thinking things over, Ted accepted, and they both got to their feet. Trowa was leaning towards one of the walls by the alley entrance, arms folded, look as saddened yet enigmatic as ever. In it, Quatre saw the silent reminder that helping lost children wasn't why they were here, and that they didn't have any time to lose. Barely aware of it, Quatre's face changed to one as pleading as a puppy dog or infant, and it evidently had an effect. Trowa rolled his eyes skyward, one as so often obscured by brown strands, and stepped out of the alley ahead of the other two.
"Ted, do you know the address of your home?"
The kid shook his head.
"Okay... What is your full name?"
"Ted."
"You don't have a last name?"
"Everyone calls me Ted. Why?"
Quatre smiled, clutching Ted's hand just a bit harder. "Never mind. Do you know the names of your parents?"
Ted shook his head.
"Don't you live with your parents, Ted?"
Again, he shook his head. "I live with grandpa, above his shop."
"Shop? What kind of shop?"
"A shoe store. He makes them in a little workshop in the back."
Quatre looked at Trowa, without a word asking for advice.
Trowa shrugged. "I guess we'll just ask for directions to the nearest shoe store." Quatre agreed, and they walked a bit further down the street, first asking a patrolling police officer, who despite wanting to be helpful wasn't all that familiar with the colony yet, having recently moved there from Earth. Next, they asked an elderly lady, who in return for help carrying her groceries directed them to the only shoe store she knew of, other than the one at the new mall. As they walked into the right street, Ted's grip around Quatre's hand loosened just a bit.
"Do you recognize this street, Ted?"
Ted nodded.
There were several small shops, but most were pretty run-down, many closed and boarded up. The few rubbish bins were pretty full, and a few were overflowing onto the street, which had evidently not been swept for some time. A shaggy stray cat ducked down an alley as they approached, and hissed defensively from within the dark as they walked past. Beyond yet another closed-up shop, plywood crudely covering the windows, they came upon the shoe store. Ted let go of Quatre's hand, and ran inside to the clings of a small bell mounted at the top of the doorway. Before Trowa could stop him, Quatre had followed, probably wanting to take part in the joy of returning home the toddler was experiencing. With that, the bell chimed for a third time.
Ted was hugging an short, stocky elderly man, big white moustache and hair in due for a cut compensating for the shiny bald spot. While Ted let a few more tears fall, his grandfather just smiled, chuckling at it all. He noticed the other two, and motioned them to sit at the bench parked in the middle of the small store, while he took Ted's hand and walked behind the counter where there was a chair for himself, slightly elevated on a podium, an oddity stuck between the counter and the shelves along most of the back wall presenting a great variety of footwear. He put the toddler on his lap, a flash grimace indicating the extra weight wasn't entirely painless to his aging body. The smile returned, even if just a bit strained. "Thank you, boys. I'm guessing Ted got lost again, huh?" He chuckled, voice and laughter as wrinkled as his forehead. "Ted, did you give them the note?"
The boy shook his head, fishing the piece of paper out of his pocket.
The old man sighed. "What did I tell you about that note, Ted?"
"Can't remember."
"Well, that much is obvious, young man. I told you to hand that to an adult if you were lost - a policeman, if you saw one." He paused, looking to Quatre and Trowa. "I'm sorry, gentlemen. Ted here has a habit of getting lost when playing outside - I wrote down this address on a piece of paper, along with the phone number and some other things, hoping that would make it easier for him to get home. I guess I'll have to think of some other plan. Anyway, thank you for bringing him back." He eyed Quatre's backpack and Trowa's duffle bag. "You lads on a vacation, or something?"
Quatre shook his head. "We were just looking for something, and found Ted instead."
Ted's grandfather smiled. "And for that I'm glad." He turned to his grandchild. "Ted, why don't you go upstairs and play? You won't get lost up there, I hope - though your room could use a bit of tidying up..."
"But my room isn't messy, grandpa - I know where everything is."
Chuckle. "I'm sure you do, but with your toys all over the floor, I'm afraid to enter - After I nearly slipped when I stepped on that fire truck of yours last month-"
"But I cleaned up after that!"
Another chuckle. "You sure did. Okay, go upstairs now, Ted. I have to insist you clean at least part of the floor, though - I want a clear path so I can come hug you goodnight tonight."
"Okay..." Defeated, Ted retreated through the curtains acting as a door to the room behind the store.
The elderly man slapped his hands together and gave them a good rub. "Now, where were we? Oh, I completely forgot - I'm Jones - Augusto Jones." He jumped out of his chair with a vigor one would have trouble realizing was there, and extended his hand to Quatre.
Whom graciously accepted. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones. My name is Quatre Raberba Winner, and this is Trowa Barton."
Augusto offered a handshake to Trowa too - whom also accepted, though with far more hesitation than Quatre. "Well, gentlemen - thank you again for bringing Ted back. I swear, I'll have to tie the kid to the front door with a rope or something soon." The grin bore every sign he was joking. "I'm afraid I can't really compensate you for your trouble, though - best I could offer would be a discount on a pair of shoes." He quickly surveyed the feet of both boys. "And neither of you appear to be needy in that department at present. Shame, really. One should always be on the lookout for good shoes - never know when the ones you have go out on you, literally." Chuckling at his joke, Augusto returned to the chair behind the counter.
The slight mention of finances stuck to Quatre's mind, and before he could check the question with the sentimental subroutines of his mind, it went out in the air. "Business isn't going all that well?"
"Did the street give you a different impression?" The elderly man sighed, smile gone. "Things were fine until just two years ago. They say peace is good for business. Well, that isn't true for everybody. This shoe store - this whole shopping street - thrived for nearly two decades. When the Alliance crumbled and all that other ruckus ended, travel and import restrictions were lifted too. Enter mass-production and cheap imports. None of the shops here could really compete with that. We were all manufacturers as well as vendors here - had to be. With the tight control the Alliance held, getting large quantities of finished goods through was nigh-on impossible. You could get some shipments through if you knew which wheels to grease in the military machinery, but other than that you were out of luck. I wasn't, though - found a way to bring in decent quality leather and everything else I needed to set up shop." Augusto's eyes glazed over slightly. "When my grandfather taught me the basics of shoemaking over half a century ago, I never thought I'd actually be earning a living from it - it was a family tradition to learn how to make shoes, one that hadn't really been taken seriously for generations. Strange, isn't it? Ever since the era of mass production, people are neglecting to keep the arts and crafts of old alive - all but a few die-hard individuals and traditionalists." He shook his head. "Anyway, with imports made easy, it didn't take long for some crafty soul to set up a mall, which soon filled with chain stores seeking new markets. That was the end of this street. This store is pretty much all that's left. Ella Frisch locked the door to her candy shop a few days ago, and Vichiez' hardware store will probably close in a few weeks. Poor Vichiez is hoping to retire early, but that depends on the new pension plans the colonies are drafting up - I swear, those young punks in office doesn't seem to think senior citizens needs more than half of minimum wage levels to survive." Augusto frowned, but cleared as quickly. "Oh, excuse me. I keep digressing. In short, business is not going all that well, Mr. Winner. But I get by. That's the good thing about knowing your customers, and being able to truly shape the shoe they need - and make a good shoe. The artificial stuff from the mall just doesn't last - but that's the point, isn't it? Make the shoe so it wears out quickly, so the customer will be back for another pair." He huffed, slightly annoyed at the thought. "Of course, since I make shoes that last, it can take many years between each time I see a customer - except the ones with kids, of course. Thank God for letting children grow out of their shoes." The smile returned below the white moustache, though weary.
Trowa had noted how Quatre's gaze had fallen steadily during Augusto's rant, and saw how the smile slowly died. It was all too clear what the blond was doing; taking the blame on himself any way he could. Confirmation of this came soon enough.
"I - I'm sorry, Mr. Jones. For all I know, I could have interests in that mall. I run a fairly large-"
"Yes, yes, yes - I know who you are, young Mr. Winner. Recognized you the minute you walked through the door - well, a few minutes later, at least. I might be old, but I still pay attention to the world around me. The press wasn't exaggerating when they called you youthful - what are you, sixteen?"
"Seventeen."
"Same thing. You might disagree, being young. When you're as old as me, anything below forty is too immature." Augusto smiled, slowly seeing the same as Trowa did. "Look, son - the Winner Corporation is huge, and I seriously doubt you know what every one of your employees do, including investors, vendors, manufacturers, daughter companies, whatnot. Don't take on the responsibility of them, or their actions. Take responsibility for what you do, or don't do. In this matter, I doubt you had any knowledge or influence whatsoever. I have no grudge against you, quite the contrary."
Quatre's smile returned, albeit slowly. "Thank you, Mr. Jones."
"Enough of this 'mister' business. Call me Augusto. All my customers and friends do. Being called 'mister' makes me feel more old than being called 'grandpa'."
Quatre chuckled. "Thank you, Augusto. Please call me Quatre. I'm not too fond of formalities either."
"I can imagine - that corporation of yours must bury you in them."
Smile, but no answer.
From above, you could hear Ted crash some toy or another - or himself - onto the floor, noise level suggesting he was about to come through the ceiling. Augusto briefly looked up, then at Quatre, chuckling. "I know some people who frowns upon noisy kids. I'm just happy for it - as long as there's a racket, I know he's alive."
Trowa put his hand on Quatre's shoulder, no words necessary to state the reminder. Quatre nodded in agreements.
"I'm sorry, Augusto, but Trowa and I should get going. We really need to start our search."
"Alright, I won't stop you - thanks again for bringing Ted home. My offer still stands, but I can't give you more, I'm afraid."
Quatre hesitated for but a moment, thinking it over and most definitely seeking advise in the sentimental subroutines neglected earlier. "Actually - I think I'll take you up on your offer. You said one should always keep an eye out for good shoes. I'd like to buy a pair."
"Me too." Trowa added, sensing what Quatre was doing, and not intending to be any less generous.
Again, Augusto slapped his hands together in a solid, nearly miserly rub. "Good, good, good. Now, where did I put the measuring instruments...?"
-------
Soon after, Augusto had taken down all the measurements he needed from the bare feet of both boys, and had with the style requests from either gotten his bearings towards the envisioned shoes. "Thank you, gentlemen. I think I have all the bits I need for these out back. Shouldn't be too hard to craft these ones, they're fairly simple. Might take me half a day or so, but I doubt I'll have a rush of customers today." He grinned. "Say, what are you two searching for, anyway? Aren't that many business prospects on this colony that might interest the Winner Corporation, I'd imagine."
Quatre cast a glance at Trowa, seeking permission. Trowa simply shrugged, and set Quatre off. "We're looking for a man that passed through here years ago."
"Is that so? How far back?"
"Nineteen years."
Augusto whistled a descending tone. "That's a while ago."
Quatre nodded. "We thought we'd start at Colony Hall, try to get travel records from back then, and attempt to trace him that way."
The elderly man shook his head. "I doubt you'll find anything there. Travel was restricted and logged, yes - but like I said, if you knew which wheels to grease, you could get nearly anything through. A person wouldn't be that much of a challenge."
Shoulders slouching, Quatre sighed. "Well, we don't really know where else to start - there aren't any places that keep a more permanent record of comings and goings than customs.
Augusto grinned. "On this colony, that's not entirely true. I think the two of you should drop by The Happy Hippo - it's a bar down on Winston Avenue. Don't let the exterior fool you, it's a nice place. Mick Raleigh ran that bar for nearly forty years before he retired, passing the business on to his son, Oscar - good kid, but he lacks the talent of his father."
A single brow lowered in half a frown. "Why would a bar visit help our search?"
"Trowa, trust me - if there is any place that keeps a permanent record of comings and goings on this colony, it's The Happy Hippo. Mick has a way of remembering everything that has ever taken place in that bar. Back after the Alliance takeover, his bar was the only one that kept open through the initial import difficulties - I think Mick was the first to realize how to traffic things in to keep business open. Anyway, if this man you're searching for ever stopped by The Happy Hippo, Mick will have a record of it. Don't know if your friend was likely to visit bars, but I still think it's something worthwhile checking on. I'm sure Mick can give you some ideas of who to ask, if nothing else."
As so often, Quatre beamed. "Thank you, Augusto. We might do that - but didn't you say Mr. Raleigh's son took over the business?"
Augusto chuckled. "Yeah, but that doesn't mean Mick left. He took up permanent residency in one of the corner booths. Can't miss him - he'll be the odd fellow with two or three thick books on the table, sitting in the best lit area of the entire bar - and that isn't much, anyway. He might not look like it, but he's a friendly guy. He never could remember a name or face, so he was friendly with everyone ordering, assuming they were all regular customers. Made his life easier, and made plenty of repeat customers and regulars, too. His mind probably began slipping when he was still in his mother's womb."
This time, Quatre was the one to flash-frown. "If he has trouble remembering things, how can he remember some little thing from decades back?"
Augusto smirked, using his right hand to twirl the tip of his big moustache. "Oh, Mick has a very special memory, Quatre. You just give him the right date, and he'll tell you all you want to know about that day, and then some."
Quatre was still puzzled, but shrugged it off, trusting Augusto as he'd so easily trust other friendly strangers. He was about to pick up his backpack when Augusto interrupted.
"If you're going straight for The Happy Hippo, you don't need your luggage, do you? You can leave it here, if you like - You'll both be back for the shoes before nightfall anyway, right? Oh, one more thing - could you remind Mick the shoes he ordered are ready? I've only told him half a dozen times or so, so he'll need a few more reminders, I guess."
The backpack went over the counter for safe-keeping, and after a brief argument of mere eye contact, Trowa's duffle bag followed. "We'll do that. Thank you, Augusto."
The shopkeeper smiled. "No need to, Quatre - don't give thanks until you find who you're looking for. No reason to be grateful for nothing, is it?"
Quatre just smiled, nodded, and followed Trowa out the door, making sure to close it behind him. Half a block later, Trowa broke the silence.
"I don't understand how you keep doing it."
"Do what?"
"Convince me to do just about anything you set your mind to - we left our belongings with a complete stranger. Augusto could be going through them right now."
Quatre giggled. "I doubt he'd do that - you need to learn to trust people, Trowa."
"And you need to learn some cynicism. Not all people are trustworthy, Quatre - you could end up seriously hurt if you keep-"
"Trowa, if I stop believing in the good that is in people, wouldn't that make the good in me disappear? I don't want to second-guess, doubt and make careful evaluations of every person I meet - that's the wrong way of making new acquaintances, and a really bad way of making friends. You're not a total cynic yourself, you know - you trusted me from the start, remember?"
Trowa's turn to chuckle. "Well, you had a mercenary army of forty nearby, and I was out of ammo. I didn't have much to lose by seeking your friendship."
Sunbeam. "But it was worth it, wasn't it?"
"What was?"
"Our friendship? It was worth making that little sacrifice of doubts, right?"
A thin smile in return. "Yeah. It was." Brief pause. "I got Heavyarms fixed for free, after all."
Quatre laughed. They came upon a crossroads, which according to the sign post before them crossed the street they were leaving with Winston Avenue. "What do you say, Trowa - shall we go with Augusto's idea first? I'm curious about this Mick character."
"Have to admit, I'm a bit curious too." He shrugged. "Guess there's no harm in going there first - Colony Hall isn't going anywhere."
And with that, they took the left turn leading down Winston Avenue, which was a bit more tidy than the shopping street, not to mention far more crowded - that is, there was actually people here, not merely strays, be they animal or human. One of the streets on the right side was even more packed with people - and looming in the not-so distant low skyline of the area was the reason; the new mall Augusto had mentioned. Judging by the flow both up and down that street, it was probably doing quite well. Once past this offshoot, Winston Avenue became somewhat desolate again, and it was again possible to talk without risk of being overheard.
"Quatre?"
"Hm?"
"Back in the conference room, you said all of us but Duo had been at Earth when the beeper went off..."
"Yeah - I mean, I came there not that long before Duo, and I was on Earth, so I figured-"
"Why were you on Earth? I thought the Winner Corporation's headquarters was still located at L4."
"It is - that doesn't mean I never leave, Trowa. I visited your circus this summer, didn't I?"
A vague nod.
"You gave me some scares, though - seeing you up there right under the big top with the trapeze and everything - I could barely watch, fearing I'd see you plummet to the ground."
Thin smile. "You worry too much, Quatre. I don't take unnecessary risks."
Laughter. "Yeah, right. Compare that phrase with your war record, and tell me if you don't like taking risks."
"Calculated risks and foolhardy risks. There's a difference. I might have done the first a few times, but I generally think things through."
Shrug, smile. "Maybe - I'm glad to see you've advanced beyond just being target practice for Ms. Bloom, though."
Trowa bit his bottom lip, albeit hardly noticeable. "I still do that, Quatre - to tell the truth, I only took to the trapeze because you were visiting. Wanted to give you a better show than the usual."
"Really? Well, if you wanted to give me a good time, you could just have offered me a cup of tea and a chat instead, Trowa - no need to risk life and limb on my behalf."
Chuckle. "I'll keep that in mind for the next time you visit. I wanted to talk to you after the show, but I couldn't find you."
Quatre immediately took to studying the sidewalk. "Yeah... I want to apologize for that - I got an emergency call from the company, and I had to attend a vidphone conference that seemed to last forever. By the time it was done, your circus had already packed up and left."
"We never stay in one place for very long - we had been there for nearly a week as it was."
"I saw that on the poster - look, I'm really sorry I just disappeared. I really wanted to talk, it's just-"
"That's okay, Quatre. You have a big company to run, I respect that. I'm a bit surprised you have the time to do this, though. I mean, if you were so busy back then, what's to prevent you from having to run off during this mission?"
Slight sensation of guilt gone, sunbeam returned. "Well... Actually, I was on Earth for a vacation. I'm not due back at the company for at least two weeks. I've already called to let them know I might need even more time away. I don't like lying, so I just haven't told them why. Better to let them think I'm really overworked, and in need of some stress relief."
Sole eyebrow rising. "Quatre, you shouldn't have cancelled your vacation for this - I'm sure the rest of us could handle this just fine on our own. If you're stressed out, this isn't what you should be doing."
"I think you're wrong, Trowa. It's exactly what I should be doing. Augusto showed me something - I risk losing my perspective on things if I stay within that office forever. Everything turns into numbers. You forget there's people in the numbers. I think I should treasure any chance I get at gathering impulses elsewhere - I wasn't really cut out to be a corporate executive anyway. There's so many other things I'd rather do than sit in an office. If I didn't take breaks every so often, I would lose my mind."
Soft smile. "We wouldn't want that, now would we? The last time that happened..."
Trowa might have meant it as a joke, but as the sunbeam faded it became clear Quatre didn't take it as such. The usually cheerful eyes glazed over with cloudy thoughts, and it slowly dawned on Trowa what flashes of memory might be playing on the canvas behind the glassy eyes.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
Quatre shook his head, chasing the images away. "No, that's - that's okay, Trowa. I know you didn't mean it like that. It's just that every time I think about it... Oh, never mind. I don't want to brood on it - not now."
Trowa merely nodded, at a loss of what to say. In the end, he probably made the best choice.
"Anyway - what were you doing down on Earth? I thought the circus was touring the colonies this time of year."
Another nod. "It is. I was just making arrangements for the next visit to Earth, getting the sites we need, arranging for the posters to be printed - the usual mess. The manager usually deals with those things himself, but he got a cold and chose to stay with the circus. I'm sure Cathy is pouring him full of chicken soup by now, making him regret it." He smiled.
"If you want me to, I could call the company - I'm sure we could get someone to finish those errands for you, and-"
Trowa shook his head. "No need. I was done by the time I got the message. I was just lingering a bit - sightseeing, in a way."
"What do you mean, 'in a way'?"
"I didn't just tour the country or visit museums - I paid my respects to a specific graveyard outside Marseilles."
Quatre's face turned into a living question mark. Correction, make that a concerned living question mark. A smile from Trowa made it fade.
"Don't look at me like that - I was visiting the grave of Marshal Noventa. Heero and I had an encounter there with his granddaughter once. Whenever I'm near Marseilles, I stop by that place for a reminder of why I shouldn't act without thinking, and of why I should stand for all my decisions, and attempt to fix the bad ones. Every action has a reaction - and possibly a consequence. His grave makes me remember that."
"But you weren't the one that killed Marshal Noventa - you shouldn't repent for that."
"Maybe not. Maybe I'm infringing on Heero's reflection and grieving grounds by going there, but I feel they belong to all of us. Any of us could have made that mistake. It just happened to be Heero that did it."
Quatre nodded, not sure of what to say.
"Anyway, that's how I got to the Preventer headquarters so quickly."
A thought struck Quatre. "Did you come alone?"
The brief passing twitch of his brow was the only sign of Trowa's minor panic attack, mind racing to divert the issue, and much too soon deciding on "What do you mean?"
Quatre nearly grinned. "You heard me."
"I shouldn't be telling you that."
The grin grew. "You're going to anyhow - in fact, you already have."
Trowa sighed. "Yeah..."
"So, did you just run into Heero in Marseilles, or did the two of you plan the visit?"
The taller one shrugged. "I was just about finished with the circus business when he ran into me. I had a feeling I'd been followed for a few days, but hadn't been able to confirm it - given who my stalker turned out to be, that isn't too strange."
"I take it Heero is still bothered with his first big mistake, then?"
Trowa shook his head. "I don't know - Look, I shouldn't be talking to you about this behind his back. I feel like I'm violating his trust, and-"
"Between us, it has always been 'my mind to your mind', Trowa. For someone who usually doesn't talk all that much, you're fairly easy to read, or get to talk."
"Only by you."
Chuckle. "Maybe... I'm sure Catherine has got you pegged pretty good too."
Nary a smile. "She's my overbearing, slightly manipulative adopted sister. She has to."
Gentle laughter. "I'm sure she takes her task very seriously." Quatre's face turned somewhat grim. "I take my work seriously too - and right now, I'm trying to deal with mental anguish. Don't dodge the issue."
"Trying to deal with my problem, or Heero's?"
"Both, if I can."
"I'm fine, Quatre. As for Heero, you should talk to him, not me."
"I'll do that. Don't worry, I won't incriminate you for letting me know about your common little ritual."
Trowa momentarily closed his eyes, half a nod in surrender.
"So, what about you? Don't tell me you're fine - you clearly have something clouding your mind. Why are you still feeling guilt? What decision in your past haunts you?"
Kicking a pebble misplaced on the pavement, Trowa showed no signs of wanting to answer.
"Well?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Why? What's the problem with telling me? During the war, you never had any problems working out whatever troubled you together with me or the others. Why is this any different?"
Trowa's voice became slightly agitated. "It just is, okay?"
Quatre backed down and stopped walking, a bit alarmed by Trowa's sudden emotional outburst.
From behind a tall slouching back came a few soft words. "Sorry..." Trowa spun on his heel. "I shouldn't have snapped at you - it's just - you have to let me keep some thoughts private, Quatre."
The gentle smile returned. "I understand, Trowa. I'll be here whenever you want to talk about it though, whatever it is. And it's not like I'm able to read your mind - I only hear what you say, and see the rest through the way you act."
"Yeah - I'm just a bit surprised you're able to do that. I mean, Cathy I understand, we're family, we work and live at the same place - she's bound to pick up details about me nobody else sees. You, on the other hand - We've barely seen each other since the war ended. How come you know what I'm saying almost before I do?"
"Spies."
"Huh?"
"I hired some detectives to follow you around, and record everything about you."
Trowa was at a complete loss of what to say, and his face showed as much, taken by surprise as he was - right up until Quatre abandoned all attempts to keep his mask of indifference and stifle the laughter. Trowa frowned, both for being the victim of the joke, and at himself for falling for it. Obviously, he was out of practice, if Quatre could fool him. Perhaps it was time to seek a refresher course in joke detection with Duo... On second thought, that might turn out even more embarrassing.
Quatre was slowly regaining control of himself, though still grinning widely. "Sorry, Trowa. You should have seen your face - it was priceless."
Trowa huffed, not amused. Still, indifference won over indignation. "Just to be sure - there were no detectives?"
Another chuckle. "No detectives, Trowa."
Trowa nodded, face and temper back in neutral. There was no point in keeping grudges - not that Trowa was predisposed for that in the first place, especially when it came to Quatre. Letting someone nigh-on kill you, yet not become the slightest upset about it, normally says a lot about one's aversion to anger, resentment and sense of vengeance - or common sense.
Telling the truth and telling the whole truth wasn't the same. Quatre had learned that much from Duo, and albeit he rarely adopted this workaround policy, some situations seemed right for it. The truth might set you free, but there's no telling what else might be unleashed at the same time. Even so, the mere omission had begun gnawing on his conscience, and he was close to confessing when he spotted the sign with a smiling, big-mouthed hippo head not far before them, chasing the thoughts away. The sign was crooked, the left side chain a bit too slack, tilting both the hippo face and the name plate below towards the entrance as if pointing the way. Six steps down from street level, on either side of the door itself, were depositories of various junk. The small windows lodged in the gray brick walls were severely smudged - not that it mattered, as they appeared to have drapes closed on the interior side, and there wouldn't be much of a view from these low windows, regardless. Augusto wasn't lying when he said it didn't look like much - still, one shouldn't judge a book by its cover, or a bar by its facade. With that, Quatre stepped down to the door, gently opening the dark wooden creation, and went inside, Trowa right behind him.
At first glance, the interior matched the exterior. The artificial lighting from the street didn't penetrate in here, given the state of the windows. A few lamps with red shades dispersed among the compartments along the walls, aided by an out of place chandelier barely attached to the ceiling at the center of the small bar did their best to keep at least some light amidst the thin haze of smoke permeating the room. A few frequenters sat here and there, mostly in gatherings of two or three, keeping low-voiced conversations and enjoying whatever the bar had to offer. Behind the counter on the far side of the door, a middle-aged man with black hair, lush sideburns and a beer belly not easily hidden by his sizable dirty apron was busy pouring yet another large glass for a waiting customer. Presumably, the piece of cloth had once been white.
In the far right corner, hidden behind a low separator wall, a gruff, distracted voice sounded out, words not possible to make out in the sea of mumbles. Undeterred, Quatre made his way in that direction, suddenly realizing Augusto hadn't given a description of Mick Raleigh, other than a bit of demeanor. The elderly man sitting within the compartment, directly below a lamp with a white shade - or as white as can be, when exposed to the fumes of the room for years - was bent over no less than three thick books the dimension of encyclopaedias, if not atlases. He was writing furiously in the single open book, and it took him a while to notice the young men standing by the divider wall, waiting for but a chance to introduce themselves. Mick looked up, put the pen down, vaguely ominous grin revealing uneven yellowed teeth, and emphasizing the scar streaking down his right cheek. The gray, short yet spiky hair bore the same 'freshly electrocuted' look Doctor S preferred. "Yes, kids? Anything old Mick can help you with?"
Quatre extended his hand. "I'm Quatre, this is Trowa - Augusto said we should talk to you."
"Augusto, you say?" With that, Mick opened a fourth book, previously hidden underneath the vast one he had been writing in. He flipped through the pages, skimming the lines with his forefinger, tapped the line he sought twice and closed the small book again, motioning Quatre and Trowa to sit down. At this point, the man behind the bar noticed what was happening.
"Hey - don't bother pops. He wants to sit alone."
Mick coughed twice before responding. "Oh, hush. Augusto sent them here, so they can't be bad people. This is still my bar!"
The bartender sighed. "No, you sold it to me fair and square. Do I have to show you the papers again, pops?"
At this, Mick appeared startled. "Who are you?"
"I'm Oscar - your son, pops." Mick grinned again, nodding. Oscar sighed again. "Look, you two - as you can see, he's not in touch with the real world anymore. Don't bother him, and don't be surprised if he can't remember the last line you gave him."
The gruff voice boomed again. "Oh, shut up. No harassing the other customers, or I'll throw you out of my bar!"
Oscar slouched his shoulders, and threw the towel he had been drying off the bar with over his right shoulder before returning to a new customer ready to order.
Mick snickered, albeit very quiet. The two boys could but stare at him. "Oh, don't worry - that was all play for the gallery. I still know who I am, that Oscar is my son, and that the bar isn't really mine - it's just everything else I have a problem remembering. We just do this every now and then so the regulars of this bar don't feel sad I keep forgetting their names too. It's a commonly known secret in this place, though - for all I know you could be regulars too. Oh, what were your names again?"
Quatre reintroduced the two of them, upon which Mick brought forth the little book again, making some quick notes.
"Sorry about that - like I said, it's everybody else I forget. This book is sort of an index for me, so that I can remember people in some way. Bad thing, memory loss. I recall everything as clear as day right up until some three hours later - then it's all gone, unless I record it." He patted the big, open book.
"You write journals?"
"Absolutely, kid. It's a habit I've never been able to break. Makes interesting reading, too. With these, I can remember things better than anyone on the colony - well, as long as the things took place at this bar, that is." Mick laughed, albeit muffled. "So, what was it... Augusto, was it? - sent you here for?"
"He asked us to tell you the shoes you ordered were ready."
"Really? I ordered shoes?" Mick riffled through the back pages of the smallest book, quickly finding what he was looking for. "It appears I did. Have to remember that..." He made another note in the book. "Okay, tell Augusto I'll be over when I do my errands next week, unless I lose the damn shopping list again. Anything else?"
"Augusto told us you might help us with something."
Yellow grin. "I'm sure, I'm sure. What with?"
"We are looking for someone that passed through this colony nineteen years ago."
"Nineteen, you say? Well, that must be a challenge."
Quatre smiled. "It is - we were wondering if you might tell us something from back then. Augusto said this place was the sole gathering place back then, so it's possible the one we're searching for visited here."
Mick rubbed his chin. "Anything's possible, kid. This place has always been the best place on the colony, that much I'm certain of - not that I leave here much..." He gave an abrupt clap of hands. "Anyway, that's beside the point. You want to take a peak in my journal archives, then. Nineteen years ago... Have a date?"
Trowa cut in. "The last known record of him traces him to the space dock here July 23rd, 178 AC."
Mick made a mock shock expression. "He speaks!"
Quatre couldn't stifle a chuckle fast enough.
Mick scratched his scar, giving another grim grin. "Sorry, son. Didn't mean to put you down - Now, down to business. Oscar - hey, Oscar!"
The bartender accepted the payment from the last ordering customer before coming over. "What is it, pops?"
"These two would like to do some history reading. Think you could get the right book for me from the study?"
"Alright - which one?"
Mick took a moment to think before opening his little compressed memory book again. "Volume 26, I think. Parts of 178 AC."
Oscar nodded. "Watch over the bar, pops. Wouldn't want anyone hogging the taps while I'm out back." With that, he drew aside a set of long green drapes, opening and entering the door hidden behind it. Mick returned to the big, open book, picked up his pen and began writing with the same vigor he had when the two ex-pilots first approached him. He paused for but a second.
"Oh, sorry about this, boys - I have to write down everything before I forget it. Like I said, the memory doesn't linger much beyond three hours, and I'd rather be safe than sorry." Another quick flash of yellow.
Quatre and Trowa could do little but wait, their silence more than compensated by the low murmurs throughout the bar, as well as Mick's pen scratching paper. Fortunately, Oscar didn't take long. He returned carrying a book of the same gargantuan dimensions as the three Mick already had on the table. "Here you go, pops. Want me to take the other two spares back to the study?"
Mick paused his scribbling. "Hm? Oh - yeah, sure." He closed his current journal, putting it aside along with the little black book, and shoving the other two copies over the table. Oscar put the one he had brought before his father, picked up the other two and stepped out the backdoor yet again. With a single strong breath, Mick blew off the thin layer of dust that had gathered on the book, leaving him coughing on the same debris. He opened the book, sifting through the pages quickly, skipping May, June and most of July, hunting for the specific date. "July 23rd, was it?"
Quatre nodded.
"Ah, here it is - July 23rd, 178 AC." Mick twisted the big book so Quatre could see. Unfortunately, the messy handwriting was virtually illegible to him. Thinking of ways to say this politely, Mick grinned at his pondering, worried face, before giving a slight snicker. "What's the matter - my writing style giving you trouble?"
Tentatively, Quatre gave a curt nod.
"That's alright. I haven't met that many that could. Okay, I'll read aloud for you - is that okay?"
"Oh, we wouldn't want to give you so much bother for just-"
"Okay, it's settled. Sit down, kids, and I'll tell you a little fairy tale." Mick flashed his yellowing teeth again. "July 23rd, 178 AC. Hm, I'll just skip until the later bits. This guy you're talking about would be a total stranger when he showed up here, so he's probably not mentioned by name at first." Forefinger vaguely trembling, Mick skimmed line after line, going through page after page in a hurry. "Hm... This seems like a good place to start. 'I tapped Richardson another beer. If he thinks I'll forget taking payment just because he's running a tab here, he's sorely mistaken. Richardson wanted, like every night, to get a poker game going. Never mind he can't play worth chicken-shit. Tonight had a low turnout, so he had to ask some of the random drop-ins. One guy with a pompous ancient-style uniform making him out like some old European aristocrat, another in a red coat with a Shakespeare-like hair cut, and a third man with a beaten, brown hat, gray coat and round glasses. Frankly, it looked like they were all heading for a costume party - including Richardson, who was wearing the same ugly light blue dress his wife puts on him. The man never learns - Eleanor is just doing it to mock him for leaving her alone nearly every evening, but he doesn't get it, no matter how clearly we tell it to him. Richardson chose the corner booth. Suits me fine, I'll have a chance to follow the game more easily this way.' " Mick paused, catching his breath, snapping his fingers. "Barkeep, get me something to drink, would you? My throat is drying up here."
Oscar filled a pitcher of water, and brought it over, along with a glass. Mick eyed him carefully, frowning. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."
Oscar's grin went from sideburn to sideburn. "You're on a diet, pops - doctor's orders."
Mick mumbled something incomprehensible, though the occasional random curse and words 'doctor' and 'quack' could be made out as he poured himself a glass of water, downing it in one gulp and coughing when getting some of it down his windpipe. He burped. "Ah, better. Now, where were we? Oh, did any of those guys sound like the one you were searching for?"
Quatre shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe - Our man used to be associated with Romefeller, and that group fancies the aristocratic style, as they are mostly aristocrats."
Mick grumbled something about 'rich' and 'arrogant', serving himself another glass of water. "Very well. I'll skip a bit forward. Looks like this is just a description of how the game played out, a few more orders at the bar, an arrival or two of a regular, departure of others... Ah, here things turn a bit interesting again. I began using nicknames for the strangers somewhere in here - Napoleon, Shakespeare and Sherlock. Wonder where I got those strange names... Anyway - 'Richardson was having the devil's luck tonight. He had picked three totally random people who were just as bad as himself at poker. Napoleon was definitely facing his Waterloo, already having visited Elba twice. Shakespeare was doing okay, but was still hovering between comedy and tragedy. Sherlock was also doing okay, though he kept taking off his glasses to wipe them clean, as if that would boost his luck - which it does. I have already realized his trick, though the other three doesn't seem to get it. I swear, you'd think Richardson would remember the mirror hanging on the wall behind him. Sherlock's glasses probably gives him just the reflection he needs to beat Richardson, at least. Napoleon and Sherlock came in together, so I thought they were in cahoots first - but judging from this game, I'd say they're fierce rivals. Henley, Crawley and Vincour just left, leaving the bar empty other than the four card players. Nothing for me to do than write about their game. I'll let them play out this hand, before reminding them of closing time. Well, what do you know - Richardson just got a decent hand. There goes Sherlock rubbing his glasses again - oh, he saw those cards, judging from how his eyes just became saucers. There he goes, folding. Shakespeare calls, and raises. Napoleon can't follow, he doesn't have - oh, he's searching his pockets for more cash... Someone's going broke tonight. There goes loose change, and the wristwatch. No, the others won't value it enough. Napoleon goes for his neck - apparently he has some kind of fancy necklace. Looks like gold.' "
Quatre interrupted. "The amulet - it has to be it!"
Mick sipped some more water. "Amulet? I thought you were looking for a person?"
"Uhm - we are, but the man we're looking for had an amulet with him - one that looks like gold. That has to be him, I'm sure of it."
"Ah. Okay, then. Shall I continue?"
"Yes, please."
Mick put down his glass, and nodded. " 'Shakespeare gives the go-ahead. Sherlock is going saucer-eyes again, I think he disapproves of gambling with the piece of jewelry. Richardson is nodding, and calls the other two. There goes his savings for the week - I bet Eleanor will either give him hell or heaven tonight, all depending on his luck. Napoleon has a knowing smile, he could have some seriously good cards. Shakespeare just looks angry. Not too shabby a poker face, that. Sherlock downs what's left of his glass, looking none too happy. I bet Richardson is grinning - he's putting down his pairs of queens and sevens. Too bad that ace of diamonds is useless to him, though. I think they're playing aces high tonight. Napoleon's smile just grew, and Shakespeare looks baffled. Napoleon puts down his cards... I'll be, he's got a low straight, three to seven. Richardson looks shattered. I bet I won't see him here for a few weeks now - Eleanor is bound to have a say about this, if not more. Napoleon is reaching for the pot, Shakespeare puts down his cards, tapping them... Looks like Waterloo just occurred - the playwright has four kings and a queen, no less. Heck, that's nearly a play right there. Oh, Sherlock is on a rampage now - he's practically throttling Napoleon. Richardson gulps down what's left of his glass, and slinking to the door. I'll let him go without a goodbye, he's got to have enough on his mind as it is. Shakespeare is gathering his spoils as best he can. The other two look completely devastated. Sherlock is arguing with Shakespeare - he wants the locket back. Shakespeare refuses, says he likes the lion image on it. The military mastermind calms the detective down. I guess there won't be a brawl tonight, after all. Good thing too, I don't think I'd want to separate a bunch of half-drunks. The winner isn't smiling, though - I think that angry face isn't a poker special, it's permanent. Sad thing, really - looking bitter no matter what happens. Ah, well. He gives me a nod as he steps outside. The last two are going over what they have left. Looks like Sherlock still has enough money to keep them going. Good for them. They're still arguing over the amulet. Napoleon flashes that knowing smile again - gives me the creeps, that smile. Sherlock is still grumbling. They both give me a nod, and leaves. I doubt those two will try to catch up with Shakespeare and steal the necklace thing back, but who knows. Isn't my business, anyway. Time to close the shop and tidy up the last mess.' "
Mick went for another glass to ease his dry throat. Quatre's face had fallen, concern overtaking sunshine. Trowa remained in neutral, though his eye was a bit more glazed - if not moist - than usual.
"Well, kids - I guess you were after Napoleon?"
Quatre nodded.
"Well, let me check the registry at the back of the book - I always keep a record of nicknames and descriptors I make in case they turn into repeat visitors." And so he did, flipping the vast journal volume to the very end, skimming a few pages with names, both real and nickname tags, resting on 'Napoleon'. "No, doesn't look like he returned in the next three months, at least."
"What about the other two?"
"Shakespeare and Sherlock? One sec..." Again, Mick's shaky finger went down the lists, but coming up with the same result. "Sorry - looks like none of them returned in the following three months, at least."
"What about later?"
Mick rubbed his chin. "Well, I might have noted down names in the external short-time memory." With that, he reached for the small, black book, and flipped rapidly through the pages, taking a few minutes to search for all three nicknames. "No, doesn't look like Napoleon returned. Guess he was off to St. Helena."
"And the others?"
"No traces of Sherlock or Shakespeare. Doesn't look like they bothered to visit here again."
Quatre felt like crying. So close, yet so far - even worse, now they weren't chasing a name and a recognizable figure, but rather some random character, whom for all they knew could have just come from a costume party, making him even harder to track down. A difficult task was turning hopeless. He looked over to Trowa, and saw vague signs of despair even there.
"Kid-" Mick stopped to flip through the black book. "-Quatre, sorry. You look like someone just shot your dog, or something."
The blond sighed. "It's not that, it's - we have to find Shakespeare too now, and where would we start searching for someone we don't even know the slightest thing about?"
"Hm... I thought you were looking for Napoleon only - I'm guessing you want that necklace thing too, then?"
Quatre nodded.
"Well, best idea I can give you is to go down to the open market, and ask someone there if they've ever bartered something like that thing - I doubt Shakespeare ever traded it, though - by what I wrote, he seemed to cherish the little trinket."
Neither of the boys were eager to reply. For a moment, silence fell over the corner booth. Then Mick gulped down the rest of his water, and slammed the glass in the table.
"Tell you what, kids - get some rest, and give it some thought - I'm sure the two of you will think of something. Has to be other ways of tracing people and gadgets, right? If all else fails, stop by tomorrow, and I'll make Oscar serve you something, on the house." As an afterthought, he added "Something non-alcoholic, of course. I doubt either of you are old enough yet - and don't try to bullshit me on that, I have years of training in spotting minors."
All Quatre could muster was a strained chuckle, albeit it at least made part of his good mood return. "Thanks, Mr. Raleigh."
"Don't mention it."
Trowa stood up, look alone asking Quatre to follow, which he did.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Raleigh. Sorry to have bothered you for-"
"Oh, don't mention it. I like digging through my journals. I can't search through the memories in my head, so I've got a bit of an access disadvantage - but I make up for it in detail."
Quatre's smile was back. "Don't forget to pick up your shoes."
"Shoes? What shoes?"
"The one Augusto made for you? They are ready, remember?"
"They're ready? Okay, I'll have to make a note of that... Wait, looks like I already have. Better make a new one."
With another sigh - this time a happy one - Quatre left Mick with his books, gave Oscar a nod, which was returned, before following Trowa out of The Happy Hippo. The sudden emerging into the artificial daylight forced him to blink a few times to adjust.
"So... What do we do now, Trowa?"
Trowa shrugged. "I guess we go back to the shoe shop, pick up our luggage, and find a place to stay for the night - I think I know one."
"Oh? A hotel?"
Trowa gave a thin smile and the weakest of huffs. "No. The circus is in town."
"The circus is here? I thought-"
"The circus is still here, preparing to tour the L3 cluster. The trip to Earth is still a few months away. If you don't mind getting a spare bed in one of the trailers, it would be a good a place as any to get some rest."
"I'm not so sure... Catherine wasn't too happy to see me last time I saw her - and I have bad experiences with young women carrying sharp objects."
This time, Trowa burst out in a full chuckle. "Don't worry, Quatre. She's a bit overprotective, but she doesn't bear a grudge for your little insanity-streak during the war anymore."
Quatre sighed. "I hope you're right. Okay, let's do that, then."
With a nod from Trowa, they walked back to the shoe shop. The lights were slowly dimming down, signaling the imminent eve and consequent nightfall. Augusto was just about to close when they reached the shop, Ted already asleep upstairs. The shoes were done, and Augusto looked very pleased with his work as he handed the pairs to the boys. In each case they were a perfect fit - though given room to shape themselves around the feet from walking them in. Quatre thanked on behalf of both himself and Trowa - as well as paid for them both, albeit Trowa objected, only to be silenced with a quick, soft glare. After inquiring about how their visit to The Happy Hippo went, as well as getting the answer to the same, Augusto immediately tried to dispel the sudden sadness that overcame the shop, with mixed success. In the end, Quatre thanked Augusto for all his help, he returned the thanks on Ted's behalf, along with their luggage, and the two ex-pilots were off to the circus, on Augusto's insistence already walking in the new shoes. By the time they reached the circus, the artificial lights were already at their dimmest level. Most of the trailers were dark too, and there was little noise coming from the animal cages on the far side of the little encampment. The big top was disassembled, canvas, ropes, pillars, seats and framework laying in ordered piles in the center of the camp.
"Looks like everyone's asleep already. I don't know if any of the trailers are empty - is a spare bed in my trailer okay?"
"Sure, Trowa - I feel tired enough to sleep on the ground, if I have to."
Trowa smirked ever so slightly. "Don't worry, you don't have to." He led the way to the trailer closest to the cages, unlocked the door at the end of the trailer and with a single hand gesture invited Quatre inside. They both discarded their new shoes on the other side of the door. 'Spacious' would be the wrong word to describe Trowa's habitat - it was more 'barren' than 'cramped' though, free of any sign of decoration as it was, except for half a clown's mask resting on a bench and a matching suit hanging on a hook from the wall next to the bench. Quatre wanted to comment, but bit his tongue, not wanting to insult his gracious host. Trowa put his duffle bag aside, and walked to the far end of the trailer. The small table and couches there were with trained hands turned into two beds; one on each side of the wagon. Trowa got two sets of bedding out of the closet opposed to the tiny bathroom, though at this point his guest insisted in helping, making both beds as Trowa heated the contents some mysterious only-needs-heating can on a tiny hotplate. Not having eaten since the poor meal provided on the shuttle ride to the colony, the warm food - although difficult to truly make out what could possibly be - was appreciated by both. Miraculously enough nothing was spilt, despite that they were eating while seated on the freshly made beds.
Quatre fell asleep as soon as outer garments were discarded, and the sheets surrounded him. Trowa didn't fall asleep that quickly, taking in the details of the roof as he was, playing the day's events, along with those of a few days past over and over in his head, eventually tiring of it, and he began dozing off, eyelids unbelievably heavy. He was just about to give in, when a new noise broke through the silence of the night - Quatre's snoring. Though it wasn't much compared to the levels some of the mercenaries he grew up with could produce, it was enough to be an annoyance. Trowa frowned, reached out to give Quatre a gentle nudge. The recipient twisted slightly, though not waking up, and more importantly cut the snoring short. With a sigh, Trowa did his best to return to that tranquil place he had been but minutes earlier, and soon enough sleep claimed him.
-------
A gentle tap on the door roused him again many hours later. Without waking his guest, Trowa quickly got dressed and walked to answer, already guessing who the visitor was. Sure enough, it was Catherine, her beaming face matching the bright lights above. Trowa gave a nod in greeting, Catherine hugged him back. With a quick point to Quatre, and an understanding nod by Catherine, the two stepped out of the trailer, Trowa closing the door behind him, and again facing his sister.
"I noticed the drapes were drawn, so I figured you'd come home. You're a bit early, though."
"I know. Finished with the tour preparations quicker than I thought they'd take."
She smiled, looking briefly over his shoulder. "And what's Quatre doing here?"
"Lady Une requested our help with Preventer business. That's why we are here. We were looking for something, but didn't find it before the lights went out."
She nodded. "Ah-huh. Well, if you're going away again you should probably warn the manager - you know how he is about your sudden disappearance acts."
"I haven't done that for months."
"Says you - there have been times when I've wondered where you were, though I couldn't seem to find you anywhere."
"Cathy, you're my sister and I love you - but I still need some privacy every now and then. Those moments are rare here."
She laughed. "Yeah, I know. I'm used to it, I've lived like this all my life. You're still adjusting."
Trowa gave but the thinnest of smiles.
"Okay, enough of this - if you want to be helpful, I'm sure the animals would love to see you again. Bruno has been really grumpy in the last few days, and Leopold has become much too docile. I think the manager is considering canceling the lion taming act, unless we can get Leopold to act a bit - and more like a fierce beast than a rug. Maybe you could have a chat with him about it?"
A soft chuckle. "I can't speak to animals, sis."
"Maybe not, little brother - but you have a way of getting them straightened out anyway. Admit it."
Trowa didn't, not with words. Instead, he gently opened the door to get his boots out, closed the door just as carefully and walked over to the cages, first to tend to the bear named Bruno. Catherine smiled, shrugged, and went over to her own trailer to pick up a basket of washed clothes in need of drying.
Without any alarm clock, people waking him nor other means of disturbing his slumber, Quatre kept on sleeping peacefully - right up until a lion roar awoke him with a start. It took him a few seconds to get his bearings, remember where he was, quickly noticing Trowa's bed was empty, as was the trailer. He sat up, yawned behind his hand, stretched a bit, got up and got dressed, intent on seeking out his elusive partner. He had barely gotten out the door before Catherine saw him, pausing in hanging up the laundry on the clothes-line stretched between her trailer and Trowa's. At first taking a step back - in mere precaution - Quatre calmed down, relaxed by the young woman's smile - and the absence of shiny, sharp metal. She waved.
"Hi, Quatre - see you woke up already."
"Hello, Ms. Bloom - where's Trowa?"
She rolled her eyes, grinning. "Quatre, call me Cathy, okay? Or at the very least Catherine - I'm not sure I can handle that formal tone of yours, it really creeps me out."
Smile. "As you wish - Catherine."
She laughed. "You never can abandon all levels of protocol, can you? Okay, I'll settle for that."
He shrugged. "Trowa calls you Cathy - I wouldn't want to impose on inter-family names, it just wouldn't feel right."
"Well, it should feel right - you're kind of the prodigal son of our family, you know."
Good mood fading. "Maybe..."
Apologetic. "Oh, sorry - didn't mean to trigger that overactive sense of guilt of yours, Quatre - it's just that you're Trowa's best friend, but you don't visit often. Trowa says you two talk on the phone often enough, though."
Quatre nodded. "We try to stay in touch, but it isn't so easy. The circus keeps moving around, and I'm always swamped in meetings."
"There's an easy solution to everything, Quatre - if you don't like your job, you could always resign."
He shook his head. "I don't think I could do that. Leaving the company entirely isn't even something I'd want to consider."
"How about working a little less, then? If you're the boss, you should have learned management through delegation by now."
A weary smile. "Yeah... Maybe I'll do something like that."
She grinned. "I highly recommend it, saves you lots of work - here's a direct example: since Trowa was back, I delegated the morning care and feeding of the animals to him. Now I don't have to stress this morning to get everything done."
"He's with the animals?"
Catherine laughed. "In all possible ways."
Quatre gave an odd frown.
"Yeah, he's over by the animal cages. I heard Leopold greet him a while ago."
Sunshine returning. "Thanks, Catherine."
She reached down in her basket again, picking up a pair of colorful baggy pants still dripping with water, and threw them over the clothes-line. "No problem, Quatre."
Quatre walked briskly over to the encirclement of animal cages, most of them rigged on wagons already, though some of the animals had been given a slight pasture to graze, not yet herded aboard a trailer for transportation. He found Trowa crouching by the lion's cage, his hand stretched in between the metal bars, ruffling the rich reddish-brown mane, evidently soothing the not-so wild beast chewing on some unrecognizable piece of meat. Of course, the lion wasn't purring; though the king of animals might enjoy grooming and caresses, some things are below royalty to do - at least, supposedly. Quatre approached as silently as he could, not wanting to cause Trowa to move rapidly and lose a hand in the process by upsetting the caged beast. In the end, it was Leopold that spotted him first, having the advantage of line-of-sight, something Trowa did not, as his back was turned. The Lion gave a low growl, and Trowa looked over his shoulder to see what caused it. He smiled.
"Morning, Quatre."
"Good morning, Trowa." Friendly smile to concern. "Uhm, isn't that dangerous, poking your hand into his cage like that?"
Vague smirk. "Not really. Leopold here is as docile as a sheep - and that's actually a problem. The manager wants him to act like an enraged brute when in the ring." Trowa shrugged, slipping his fingers through the mane again. "I guess it isn't in his nature. He's been serving life without possibility for parole since birth, so you couldn't really expect him to be a hunter - not that male lions hunt in the first place."
Quatre didn't reply, unsure of what words to use in response, opting for an acknowledging nod.
Trowa halted. "Hey, want to pet him?"
Quatre's jaw dropped ever so slightly. "Pet him? - Trowa, he'd bite my arm off. You're the one that charms beasts, not I."
Nary a chuckle. "Don't worry, he won't bite. Maybe paw you a little and play with you, but not hurt you, I promise."
Although still skeptical, Quatre took a step closer.
"Come on, Quatre - it's nothing to be afraid of. I'm here to control him if I have to. I would never let you get hurt, you know that."
Quatre nodded, another two steps.
Trowa's faint smile grew ever so slightly at imminent victory. Leopold shook his head and mane and relaxed, as if expecting what was to come.
Quatre crouched down next to Trowa, who grabbed his hand, intertwining their fingers before stretching Quatre's hand into the cage. Trowa was in no rush, finding great amusement in the blond's anxious face and trembling fingers. As their digits reached the coarse fur the shakes ended, and anxiety gave way to a smile. Trowa let Quatre lead their hands around within the lion's mane, though didn't let go - just in case the lion should disapprove, he told himself.
"Feeding your friend to the lions, Trowa?"
They were both a bit startled by the new appearance, and turned in the direction of the voice, yet left their right hands within the fur. The manager had come within a few feet of them, too preoccupied to notice his approach as they had been. Quatre began moving his hand again, enjoying petting royalty.
"No, sir. I was just giving him and Leopold an introduction."
The man in the red coat sighed. "Yes... A shame, really. That lion better learn how to at least pretend to be a rowdy, dangerous creature, or it will have no room in the circus other than as a curiosity in the petting zoo." He rubbed his chin, a smile growing on his face. "Now, that might actually be a good idea, if he remains this relaxed. Would have to get the paperwork for it, though - and that would take forever."
Leopold leaned into the boys' joined hands, enjoying the gentle rubs and tickles Quatre's fingers provided. Quatre laughed. The manager sighed again, picked out a handkerchief from a pocket, and emptied his runny nose in the cloth, before carefully putting the moist fabric back where it came from.
"Catherine told me you were home already - did you get all the arrangements done?"
Trowa nodded. "Everything is fine - The papers are in my trailer."
"Good, good. Glad to hear you were able to do this for me, Trowa. If I hadn't had this bloody cold, I would have gone myself, don't doubt that for a second - so don't get any bright ideas about suggesting my early retirement." His face bore no signs whatsoever of it being a joke.
For that reason, Trowa answered with an equally unemotive nod.
Quatre momentarily froze as his fingers touched something cold within the warm mane of Leopold. At first retreating his fingers, he returned to try to determine what it was, though the best guess the tactile sensations could give him, would be a string of metal. "Trowa? What's this?" He twisted his hand, reversing their roles and guiding Trowa's fingers to the metal chain.
Trowa frowned slightly, letting his digits surround and follow the metal for a while before turning to the manager. "Sir, since when did Leopold get a collar?"
The manager presented a sneeze to his handkerchief. "Huh - Collar?"
"This," Trowa stated, gently pulling a portion of the thin string out from the mane and into visibility.
"Oh, that. No, that's... Oh, let me show you." The manager poked both arms within the cage, not the slightest worried that Leopold might react, much less attack. In a brief moment of remembering his own past uncertainty, Quatre gave Trowa an annoyed glare. The recipient smirked in return, mouthing the words 'told you'.
Leopold shifted his neck as the manager reached into his mane to unfasten the metal chain, indifferent to be rid of it, but submitting to the hands that fed him. The man withdrew his hands, chain in his grip. He offered it to Trowa, whom accepted it, albeit his eyes as well as Quatre's were instead focused on the little golden triangular shape dangling from the lowest point of the chain.
"It's a good-luck charm of mine. Many years ago when I was down on my luck, that was what inspired me to keep going. I was hoping it would somehow affect this lion in the same way it once affected me."
Quatre's jaw was drooping severely. Trowa's eyes grew wider than anyone would have thought possible. The former was the first to regain enough wits to speak. "T - Trowa... This is it, isn't it?" He reached out to touch the amulet, bringing the image of the lion's head roaring depicted on it in clear view, golden background matching the vaguely darker elevation of the lion's mane.
Trowa was at last able to give a nod. "I think it is."
The manager was a bit disgruntled with the boys' rapture over the little trinket. "What are you two talking about?"
"Sir, just how did you get this?"
Faint grunt. "I fail to see how that is relevant."
"Please."
A sigh and a shrug. "Very well... It was many years ago - not too long after the Alliance had swept down on the colonies and disrupted everything. I was working for a circus back then, too. The traveling restrictions the Alliance imposed made it impossible to bring the circus anywhere without more expense than it was worth. In the end, the circus went bankrupt. Unemployed and without any idea of what to do, I went to the nearest bar to drown my problems. Didn't really have enough money to get drunk on, so when a man in a really ridiculous blue-shaded suit asked me to join a game of poker, I agreed. I was never any good at cards, but since I didn't have much to lose anyway, I figured I might as well gamble as drink away my last few pennies. As fate would have it, I ended up winning the final game - that little charm was part of the spoils. The minute I won and held it in my hands, it felt as if the lion spoke to me - don't laugh. I didn't hear voices, not from the charm. What I heard was all the dreams the circus I had just left had created, and all it had broken. It fuelled my determination not to let my dreams be broken, not by the circus nor by a military force or government. I took the profits, went to Earth and established my own little circus. The travel restrictions were easier planet-side, and a living could be made of it. That charm has remained with me ever since, to remind me not to give up, but stand up and fight like a lion for all that I want and all that I believe in." He paused, looking at Leopold, who was rolling lazily over to his side, stretching his front paws a bit. "It obviously doesn't work on animals."
Trowa raised the chain in one hand, letting the amulet rest in the other, before dropping the chain over it, securing all of it in his closed fist. "Sir, could we-"
"Catherine mentioned you needed more time off for Preventer affairs."
A nod.
"Very well, I guess we can manage a few more weeks without you. We'll probably have relocated, but you know how to find us - and stay safe. I wouldn't want to lose one of the few people with the guts to stand in front of Catherine's knife throwing board."
Again, a nod. "Sir, can we keep this?"
Surprise. "The charm?"
Another vertical head-shake.
Ponderance. "What for?"
And so, the two tried to do their best to explain, though leaving out as much as possible. Secrecy was part of the game, and they only needed to tell the manager as much as was necessary to part him from the token. In the end, letting him know the Preventers were searching for items similar to the charm - for reasons they didn't disclose - and that Lady Une considered it most important to check all items falling within the description, turned out to be enough. The manager trusted Trowa's word, and upon getting the assurance the charm would be returned once the examination was complete, he conceded. Trowa hastily finished tending to the rest of the animals, aided by - or, perhaps more correctly, somewhat hindered by the inexperienced would-be caretaker Quatre. The two then returned to the trailer to pick up their belongings and prepared to leave. Catherine caught them both as they left the trailer, giving either a solid hug.
"Take care, Trowa." She looked over to Quatre. "Keep him out of trouble, okay?"
Smile. "I'll try, Catherine."
She rolled her eyes at the repetitive formality, giving a slight huff making her hair flutter briefly.
Trowa handed her a handful of papers. "These are the contracts from Earth. Could you give them to the manager?"
She accepted the documents. "Don't stay away too long, okay?"
He sighed, nodding.
Quatre put on his backpack. "Goodbye, Catherine - and don't worry. Trowa will be back before you know it. There's nothing that could keep him away from the circus, and you know it."
She grinned. "Oh, I don't know about that..."
Trowa gave her a brief, hard glare as she walked away, a subdued snicker going with her. The two ex-pilots began walking away from the encampment.
"Trowa, we should probably call Lady Une and let her know we found the Leo piece."
Trowa nodded in agreement. "I think there's a public vidphone down the street to the right somewhere."
"Okay."
And with that, they were off to the phone booth.
-------
The construct of glass, steel and plastic was cramped, though it fit them both. Trowa opted to stay in the background - after all, he could see the screen over Quatre's shoulder - something which would be difficult the other way around. Quatre quickly dialed in the number Lady Une had given them, and soon enough, the Lady answered, her sad eyes behind the glasses a stark contrast to Quatre's open smile.
"Hello, Lady Une - we found the Leo piece!"
She sighed, nodded. "I am pleased to hear that, Mr. Winner - however, we have a few problems."
"What kind of problems?"
"Ms. Po called in not long ago. Mr. Chang is gone."
"Gone?" A quick, sharp inhale. "You don't mean-"
"No - no, not dead - I hope... Ms. Po thinks he has been kidnapped, and she is currently trying to track him down." She paused for a moment. "I'm just a bit concerned he has gotten some idea of operating on his own again - given his track record-"
"Wufei wouldn't betray us, not like this, not now."
The Lady gave a tired smirk. "Your faith in people is commendable, Mr. Winner - I do hope it is justified, but as I cannot afford the luxury of being wrong on this, I have to consider his disappearance with great concern. Mr. Chang is not someone easily overpowered, and he was only away from Ms. Po for a few minutes, at most."
Quatre frowned. "I don't like thinking of a friend as a traitor. I refuse to."
"As is your prerogative - but not mine." She shifted her eyes to Trowa. "Mr. Barton, I have needs for your services in recovering another of the amulets. Please make your way to the main L1 spaceport, I will meet you there."
Trowa nodded, never one to question orders.
"Mr. Winner, I have other orders for you - and I wish for you to relay some orders to Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Yuy as well."
Soon after, all instructions and cautions given, the conversation ended. Trowa picked up his duffle bag and bid Quatre farewell, hurrying to catch the next shuttle to L1. Quatre remained in the phone booth for a few minutes, trying to think of what to say, how to say the things he had just been told to the last two ex-pilots. He bit his lip, dialed in the beeper number Lady Une had given him, and waited for the return call.
-------
-end Leo-
-TBC?-
AN: If you're still reading, please review - and be honest. Praise flatters and encourages. Critique inspires and improves. Flames fuel determination and hardens sensibilities. In short - the worst thing you can do, is say nothing.
