AN:
I don't own Gundam Wing. I wish I did, but I don't.
Warnings - violence, harrowing, angst, scary scene(s)
I must say a big, big apology, because it has taken me absolute ages to get this sorted. I hope that you all enjoy the ending, which will be released next week!
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The Tainted Promise
Chapter 4
"Sir, sir," Duo woke up to the smiling face of the stewardess, which calmed him instantly. "What would you like to eat? Chicken or beef?"
The boy yawned. "Err, chicken, thanks." He had been considerably shaken by the nightmare, but he wasn't about to let it show. He beamed at the blonde as she placed his meal in front of him. She flicked her hair again as she prepared to move on.
"Root beer, right, sir?" As he nodded, she opened the can with a slight hiss. Her dutiful expression was soothing to the pilot, but it would take a while for him to completely relax. His hand reached across his forehead. He had slightly broken out into a cold sweat. Removing his hand, he let his bangs flop back onto his face. His hand shook slightly as he took up the plastic fork, but he willed it to stop and it obeyed. As he ate, the boy pondered over the dream. Why had Trowa warned him to stay away? He was only trying to protect Quatre, so what was the big deal? Things were getting hopelessly complicated, and it made Duo's head spin thinking about them. Was there a solution to this problem? Perhaps it was one of those unanswerable questions, like the meaning of life. No, there had to be an answer, and someone had to find it, and quickly, before something more drastic happened.
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Quatre sat on the cold stone sphere, tears streaking down his face. He watched the sun set. "Oh, Trowa," he sighed. As he hung down his head, the tears fell to the floor, wetting it in little polka dot patches. It was growing dark, but the blonde boy just sat, letting the world pass him by. He didn't know what to think anymore. One month ago, he was as happy as could be, he had his best friend with him, and they were on holiday together. The wars were over, and finally the five pilots could live normal lives - or so they thought. Now, Trowa had been killed, and Quatre had been plunged into a deep sea of melancholy. Everything had been changed. His world had been turned upside-down. Nothing was the same, and the Arabian wondered if he could cope anymore. He had just thrown away all chance of Heero helping when he took out his frustrations on the Japanese pilot. He probably hated him now. All Heero was trying to do was help. Unfortunately, he didn't understand. He was Doctor J's perfect soldier - trained to be so emotionless, so unfeeling. He didn't have a clue what his friend was going through. How could he ever understand? Maybe it was better to be that way. If he was that way, too, maybe he wouldn't feel such pain at losing Trowa. He remembered his friends' reactions when he informed them that Trowa was gone. Wufei was shocked, Duo went numb and Heero...seemed emotionless as always. He was trained from childhood not to get upset, to let nothing shake him. In a way, that was the most tragic thing. Now, in an instant, Quatre had lost all hope of seeking comfort in him. It was his own fault, and he'd give anything to apologize, but he guessed the perfect soldier wouldn't want anymore to do with him. Not now. He stared at the growing puddle on the ground. If it was possible to cry one's self to death, he was certain he was halfway there. But it didn't matter to him anymore. Trowa was right, he was far too weak to survive in this world alone; and Heero was right, too, dwelling on it would drive him crazy. Maybe he was halfway there, also. His life wasn't important to him anymore. All he felt was the pain.
A sudden noise disrupted his thoughts. He looked up and his teary eyes were temporarily blinded by a set of car headlights. The boy remained sat there as the driver of the car got out and started to walk towards him. He blinked in disbelief. It was Heero. He had come back. He cared enough to come back.
"Heero?" The blonde asked, his voice shaky from crying and cold.
"You'll be cold," he tossed the while bundle he had been carrying to the boy. It was Quatre's white jacket. "Put this on." Obediently, he did as he was instructed. He didn't want to offend his friend any more than he already had.
"Heero," his voice was quiet and weak, "I'm so sorry." The Japanese pilot said nothing, but knelt down next to his companion and wiped away the tears with his fingers. Quatre was unsure whether his apology had been accepted or not. He was grateful that his friend had come back for him. Abruptly, the brown haired boy stood up.
"Come on," the boy instructed, "it's time to get Duo. Quit crying if you don't want him to notice." Silently, he got up from the sphere. It was a different kind of silence now. An understanding silence, that told each boy that nothing more needed to be said. Entirely different from the silence that had put a rift between them all day. He felt weak and stumbled slightly as he took a step. Without saying a word, his friend placed Quatre's arm around his shoulders and supported him. The Arabian forced a smile in order to show his gratitude, but he felt awful inside. The pain had mingled with cold and confusion to produce an all consuming weakness within him. His head hurt and he didn't feel that much like facing his friends, pretending he was all right. Heero put him in the passenger seat and fastened the seat-belt for him. After getting in himself, he pointed to a package on the dashboard. "Your burger's there. If you don't want it, Duo won't say no. Are you gonna be all right?" Quatre mouthed a 'yes' and proceeded to consume the burger slowly. He had meant to speak it but the word just didn't come out. Convinced by his friend's sincerity, Heero drove on to the airport.
"Are you gonna be all right?" Heero repeated the question as he parked the car. His comrade sighed.
"Heero, I'm sorry," he confessed, looking down, "I shouldn't have shouted like that. Can you forgive me?" His voice was still small and weak. He still felt bad inside.
"You were right," Heero didn't even look at him, "I don't understand. But I'm going to stay with you. I'm gonna make sure you don't do anything stupid." Weakly, the blonde smiled out of gratitude. Glimpsing into the other pilot's eyes he saw no emotion, but thankfully, a recognition.
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The arrivals room was very crowded, and Heero had to keep a firm hold of the sleeve of Quatre's jacket so as not to loose him in the confusion. It was hard enough to stay together, let alone look for their friend. However, it was Duo who found them.
"Hey," he called, waving frantically until his comrades noticed him. He dumped the heavy bag on the floor beside him.
"Duo!" Quatre rushed to embrace his friend in greeting, slipping out of the other pilot's grasp. "I'm so glad you could make it. Thank you."
"Well, here I am," pulling back slightly, he took a minute to look into the deep blue eyes. He didn't need to be told how much the blonde needed his help. It was obvious - he could see it. His eyes and that long scratch gave everything away. The smile on Quatre's face, as genuine as it was, hid many grievances. The American looked in the direction of the Japanese pilot. "Hey, Heero." He wasn't expecting a greeting from him, and the 'hn' under the soldier's breath was all he was about to receive. The braided boy stretched and yawned, cunningly slipping out of the Winner heir's embrace. "Well, shall we get out of this place?" Heero led the way back to their car, carrying Duo's blue sports bag. The other two chatted apparently happily, catching up on news and gossip. But it was a veneer. Duo masked his concern and Quatre masked his sorrow. Heero knew this. Duo saw right through it. Thankfully, in his dazed state, it was something that Quatre missed.
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Heero and Duo sat awake, cradling cups of coffee. Quatre had fallen asleep twice on the journey back to the apartment, and so upon arrival, went straight to bed. He slept peacefully, exhausted by the day's events. It was tough, caught in the middle of a conflict, confused, afraid and sorrowed. Duo drew his eyes away from the sleeping angel to his coffee cup.
"How long have you been living with Quatre?" He asked, sipping the hot, black liquid.
"A week," bluntly, the assassin replied. An air of tension hung around the room. It was obvious to both the boys that neither was entirely happy in each other's presence.
"It hurts to see him like this, doesn't it?" Slackening his smile, he flicked his head back towards where the Arabian youth was sleeping. The brown haired braided boy sighed slightly as he waited for a reply, but none came. "It makes you wonder how much he's hurting, inside. He's lucky he can still sleep so well."
"Yeah," Heero's reply seemed distracted. He didn't seem at all talkative, not that he was ever that way. Placing his mug onto the table, the American boy walked slowly over to where his friend slept. He brushed his bangs away from his face, although they immediately fell back into place. Quatre was a heavy sleeper and barely moved at his friend's touch. Taking the opportunity, the American took a good look at the scratch, fingering it gently.
"You know how he got this, don't you?" He looked back up at his comrade.
"Yeah," the reply was short and slightly curt. It looked like the information would have to be drawn out long and slowly.
"Don't you say anything but 'yeah'?" Duo chuckled to himself as he tried to make a joke of the situation. Upon getting no response, he asked, "Well?"
"One of the attacks," the calm boy ran his thumbnail across his cheek, as if recreating the incident. The other pilot looked at his friend in shock.
"What?" He stood up quickly, wide-eyed, "and didn't you do anything to stop it?"
"Trowa warned me not to," his voice remained as flat as ever. Pure fact and nothing else.
"How?" The braided boy was angry at his friend. Did he not care?
"He wrote us a note," he tipped his head back as he drained the last of the coffee, "it's still on the writing desk if you want to read it. And then, I had a dream."
"And you're taking notice of that?!?" Duo was furious. "You coward! It means nothing. Nothing!" Heero just sat there. "So you had a dream? So what? I had one, too! I...I can't believe you!" He paused, mid breath, picking up Trowa's scribbled note and ripping it down the middle unevenly. "You coward! It means nothing!" The two halves drifted down to the floor.
"Quiet," was his only reply, "you'll wake Quatre." Duo sat down in frustration and finished his beverage.
"You coward," he stared deeply into the other pilot's eyes, searching for something that wasn't there, "I really thought you were stronger than that, Heero." However weak it may seem, Heero was strong. He was just caught in the middle. Coming from a different cultural background to Duo, he strongly believed in the spirit world. Although Quatre was his close ally, it didn't bode well to aggravate deranged spirits. The American, on the other hand, his belief's caused him to deny such conflictions between the spirit world and this. That was, of course, if and when he could be defeated in argument that there actually was a spirit world. He sighed, and returned to the blonde's sleeping form, fiddling gently with the platinum strands. "Did you tell him?"
"No, and I don't intend to, either." Heero got up from the table slowly. "He has enough to worry about without adding this. Goodnight." Not saying another word, he began to go to bed. It had been a long day, and tomorrow could well turn out to be just as long. Pushing the blonde bangs back to watch them fall one last time, Duo decided that it was time for bed himself.
"Night, Quatre," he whispered softly. "Hang in there, buddy."
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The next day the rain fell out of the sky that next day, drenching the three boys in the short space of time it took to dash from the car to the building in which Madame DePlume worked. Quatre and Heero's hairstyles were more or less plastered to their faces, and it was nearly possible to wring Duo's braid like a freshly washed T-shirt. Just lately the weather had become unpredictable on that colony, even though it was completely manually controlled. Their jackets, being designed for summer-wear, offered little protection from the torrent above, and so by the time they saw the psychic, the three were soaked to the skin. All were very grateful when she offered them hot chocolate and towels.
"Thanks," Quatre smiled as he rubbed his platinum gold hair dry.
"No problem," reassuringly, she smiled back. "Summer isn't the time of year one expects a downpour, is it?"
"No," he half laughed. His two friends sat quietly, drying off next to the medium's fireplace, both satisfied to let the Arabian deal with his own business.
"How have things been, Master Winner?" Tentatively, she asked the question. She didn't exactly know if she wanted to hear the answer. In truth, she had wondered if taking on this case was such a good idea, but the woman had already committed herself, upon seeing the distress in the young heir's eyes. A client was a client, and she wasn't about to refuse, especially now times had been none too great. For some reason, clients hadn't been coming as frequently as they used to. Perhaps the times had changed, but it meant that although she was a medium by trade, she had been relying on what she considered as 'petty' psychic dealings - one-off tarot and palm readings. Neither required much skill, but it was the only way to keep up the income. And so, when Quatre Winner had approached her with this case, she jumped at the chance to do some true medium's work. Madame DePlume had not thought out the implications - she was only to find them later.
"Oh, not too bad," the boy squeezed the blue towel in his hands, uncomfortable at answering such a question. "Have you found anything?"
She drew her cup of tea closer, relieved. "I wasn't entirely sure what to research, but I did contact the spirit world. I was rather surprised at what I found."
"What was that?" He cradled the mug of hot chocolate in his hands, warming them up. Who'd have thought it'd be summer and so cold?
"The spirit of Trowa Barton is at peace," the woman wore a rather puzzled expression, which quickly spread itself to Quatre, and to some extent, Heero and Duo. Then, it dawned on the small blonde.
"Of course!" He exclaimed. "I'm ever so sorry, Miss DePlume, I forgot. The Trowa Barton we know is not the real Trowa Barton. It's a name that he took when someone died. I'm sorry." Quatre tensed, expecting reprimand, but Madame DePlume didn't seem to mind.
"Oh, don't worry about it," she soothed. "It's not a problem." There was a knock at the door. She rose, offering her hand. "Maybe I could meet you again tomorrow?"
"Sure," the Arabian took her hand and shook it thankfully, his friends standing, ready to leave. "Goodbye."
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The three of them were equally soaked while getting back to the apartment. Driving there had been the small talk again. Heero was quiet by nature, but what made Quatre uneasy was that Duo was being unusually untalkative. It made the Arabian wonder what was up with him. Had he said anything to offend his friend? Had he done something wrong? He paused from pulling the small red comb through his short blonde hair to watch his American friend. After flopping down on one of the beds almost immediately when they got in, still in his wet clothes (unlike Quatre, who had sensibly changed into a fresh pair of pants and polo-neck), he was now amusing himself by fiddling with the loose part at the end of his braid. He'd twist it and watch it unwind itself; split it flawlessly into three in order to braid it; wound it around his finger again and again, in different patterns. For what seemed much longer than a moment, the Arabian sat, transfixed, hypnotized by his friend's antics as a silent tear even he was unaware of slowly coursed its way down his cheek. The Arabian suddenly realized that his pal had come to a complete halt.
"Quat?" Tipping his head up, he noticed the tear, "you ok, buddy?"
"Huh?" Duo's voice brought the boy back to reality. He began to feel the wet path of the tear, wiping it quickly away with the back of his free hand, "oh, yeah, I'm fine Duo." He paused. "Are you?"
"What? I'm great, Quat, why shouldn't I be?" He pulled himself into a sitting position.
"Just wondering," the sparkling blue eyes darted away from a beaming smile.
"Say," the smile turned slightly mischievous, "are you gonna sit there with that comb half-way down your hair all day, or can I use it sometime before next year?" The young Arabian blushed slightly as he realized how silly he must look.
"Sorry. Here." He handed over the comb. "I'm finished with it." He picked up his novel and opened it, flicking towards the page he had remembered he read last time. Meanwhile, Duo was undoing his braid. Having been wetted, it waved all the way down his back, part spilling onto his wet shoulder. Quatre stifled a small giggle at how funny it looked. He had never imagined what Duo would look like with his hair loose. The American went to great lengths to hide it from his fellow pilots, and it made his friend wonder why he chose to let it down in front of him now. Perhaps he didn't think the Arabian was watching, perhaps it was best to keep his head down and his nose in the book. However, it wasn't like the braided pilot to take chances like this. With his life, yes, but not with his pride. The young heir watched out of the corner of his eye. Before long, the long hair was re-tyed up into a ponytail.
"When do we get something to eat around here?" Duo sat down by the table, tipping over to read the title of Quatre's book. He caught a 'The' but for the rest, it was angled too steeply towards the table. The blonde looked up.
"Whenever Heero comes back with something," he returned to reading, and turned a page. "He's gone early today." There was an anxious pause between the two. "Duo, are you sure you're ok?"
"Why?" Quatre could read him like a book, though he couldn't work out how. Sometimes there was just no use in hiding it. He would always find out in the end.
"It's just," the boy closed his book resolutely, "you've been quiet since this morning." Duo sighed.
"To tell the truth," the expression on his face weakened, "I don't know about that psychic. I don't really believe in spirits and the like."
"Duo," Quatre looked right into his eyes with a part sorrowful expression, "neither did I. Until now."
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Heero mentally kicked himself. How could he be so inconsiderate, so escaping? He, who had risked his life countless times; he, who grew up never knowing fear. Now, the same 'he' was virtually running away. Perhaps before, he didn't have to fear. There was always some higher power to fear for him. Perfect soldiers don't fear. He was created that way, a perfect soldier. One to fight and not ask questions, to kill and not ask questions. Now, it seemed he had lost that. Wherever it had fled to, it had hidden itself well. The boy doubted it was still inside him. Now, he had done this. He had run away like a stupid coward. Duo was right, for once. He was using escapism to run away from his problems. Or rather, someone else's problems. Pure cowardice!
He looked at his watch and prayed that when he got back it'd be forgotten. There was no time not to make the mistake now. Even if he ran, he wouldn't arrive in time. Now, he had to carry on with the task in hand, it was Duo's turn to deal with the demons. If he could trust that there were any. The boy smiled as he thought of Duo desperately trying to cope. He chuckled. If only the messy-haired boy had been there to watch - and laugh.
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The blonde cried out in surprise as a blow from the back of his head pushed him onto his hands and knees, panting.
"Huh?" His American friend stood up, taken aback. He glanced at the clock, "oh, no!"
Duo stood, completely unable to move, as his friend coiled in his fingers as if they had been trodden on. Duo shook his head to break his daze.
"Quatre, buddy?" Duo bent down, but his movements were far too slow to keep up. Plus, unlike other members of the once-team, he wasn't able to think efficiently quickly. His new strategy was to keep his Arabian friend off the floor, where he was most vulnerable.
"Not a good plan, Duo," Quatre frowned as his friend pulled him to standing and held him up.
"Why not, Quat?" He hardly had time to finish, before their legs were swept from under them. Duo's face hit the side of a bed, while Quatre fell flat.
"That's why not," the long-haired boy was holding the side of his face, not bothering to get up. "Are you ok, Duo?"
"I'm all right, I think," as suddenly as the blink of an eye, he doubled up in pain.
"Duo!" The blonde let his whole body relax for a minute. He didn't feel anything. "Duo! Trowa's attacking you, isn't he?"
"You...could say that, buddy boy," although the small Arabian was concerned, a thought of amusement crossed his mind. His friend was being beaten up by an angry spirit that was after himself, and still, his friend was smiling. Well, there was Duo for you. His thoughts were quickly broken.
"He's not going to stop, is he?" Tears formed. The remaining ghost was going to keep beating his poor friend until... "No!" The drops rushed down, as if a dam had burst to release them. "Please, please stop. You can't!" His stomach crunched inwards as it was hit. Then, nothing. No violence. It had all stopped. Trowa had gone.
"You've, um," the Arabian pilot stumbled to say what he had to say as he stood up again. "You've got a black eye, Duo." His friend rushed to the mirror.
"So I have," everything was with slight amusement. It was difficult to imagine what he was thinking. The boy sat down, his friend joining him.
"Duo," Quatre fiddled with his fingers as he asked a question he wasn't quiet sure he wanted to ask, "what do you think now?"
"Huh?"
"About...you know?" More fiddling.
"I'm not sure...perhaps...maybe. Yeah,"
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Heero came in about half an hour later. He placed the paper wrapped packages on the table, and nearly laughed (if he wasn't quite so well trained) when he saw Duo's eye.
"You have a black eye," he commented. In anyone else, it would have been considered slightly sarcastic, but the two boys were used to their friend's realism.
"You know, Heero, I could have worked that out for myself," however, Duo comically took it as if it was an insult. Quatre merely giggled at the two's antics. It was pure fun, and all of the three of them knew it. Including the Japanese boy, who didn't smile, because his emotional lack had become a habit over the years. It all quieted down when the braided boy unwrapped one of the packages and began to push thick chips into his mouth in quick succession.
"Is that a bruise on your wrist?" The blonde nodded his reply to the messy haired friend as he quickly drew a package towards him. In truth, he hadn't noticed, but he wasn't going to admit that to anyone but himself. After all, there was no point in causing anymore anxiety than had already befell them. Just like normal, two of them ate in silence. However, the American young man insisted that he kept talking. Silence was something creepy, not golden, to him.
"You know," he was saying, as he thrust in the last piece of battered fish, "in the war, I think we should've been a little more publicized, know what I mean? I mean, then, our own homelands, the colonies, wouldn't have turned to OZ, but supported us." The papers were stuffed in the somewhat already overfilled bin. Then, for once, Heero replied to him in a level manner.
"No," he civilly argued, "I don't think so. When I went out with Trowa for OZ, I learned a lot about them. They're an extremely crafty military organization, they would have turned the people against us whatever we'd done to try to stop it."
"True, I mean, unlike the Alliance, they mostly rely on intellect and not firepower." He was signaled to fall silent as the Japanese pilot realized that their comrade had gone completely quiet and still. A fair quarter of the Arabian's meal had made it into his system before the abrupt halt. "Quat," his joyful voice fell soft, "it's ok, come on. He's gone, yeah, but there isn't anything we can do. I'm sure he wouldn't want you to sit around and mope like this."
"It's not that," the monotonous voice interrupted him as he sat on the floor next to their blonde friend's chair.
"I nearly killed him, then, Duo," as the heir lifted his head the other two pilots could clearly see his tears. "I had to built that stupid Wing Zero, and I nearly killed him with it. I nearly killed my best friend, Duo!" His voice came out between sobs. Unusually, it was the turn of Heero to comfort him.
"Quatre," he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, "we've been through this. It wasn't your fault. You were crazy with grief for your father, and wanted revenge on OZ. Trowa was just caught in the crossfire." Meanwhile, the braided boy stood up.
"Hey, Heero," he said to the pilot, "do you ever wonder what side Trowa was on? I mean, first he was in OZ, then he was in their successor, the Barton Foundation." Quatre stood up suddenly and stamped on Duo's foot.
"Trowa's dead now," he cried, "don't doubt him now, show some respect!" A well-aimed punch at the American's middle sent the boy backwards to the floor.
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After what had been an anxious night with a unexpected thunderstorm, the three boys were surprisingly quick to go to down to the office of Madame DePlume. They had dashed in between the now more frequent downpours. As they sat down, the look on the psychic's face told them that she was as anxious as they were about the incidents.
"I think I've contacted your friend," the woman cautiously said, "I'm sorry but I can't be sure, not without having a real name." She sat at the other end of the table.
"I can't," commented the blonde, "I just don't know. He died without ever knowing his name...his parents...who he was."
"That must be sad," the emotion she showed was quite synthetic. The curly haired woman had grown accustomed to showing sadness at clients' tales, even when she didn't feel it. "The person who I contacted said that they'd only talk to you, Quatre Raberba Winner. That is your middle name, isn't it?" This was greeted by an astonished acknowledgement from all three guests. "However, you said that your mother and father are also gone to the other world?"
"Yes, but I'm pretty sure they'd be accustomed to speak to someone like you," the young heir explained. "They both learned when they were still young that in a high-class family, you often have to pass on messages to other members of your family. Trowa, however, it's possible that he'd only speak to me, this time." He picked up a cup of tea to drink from it.
"There is one way I can be sure," the medium seemed uneasy to mention this, "if I have you three boys to think constantly of your friend, I can be sure that the spirit is the one we're looking for." The Arabian looked at his friends. Although he wasn't meaning to be manipulative, his friends never could resist his loving blue eyes. The woman didn't have to ask what their answer was. "If you'd follow me to my spirit room, please." She beckoned and the boys followed, led by the Arabian, and lastly, the American, who was unsure but after yesterday's events, wasn't going to go against the petite pilot.
The room was small by length and width, but had a high ceiling. It was dominated by the large mahogany table in the centre and the Victorian fireplace at the far door. Although the room was dressed in reds and marroons, it was dark-looking. There were no decorations on the walls apart from a reasonably unpatterned wallpaper. The pilots were slightly unnerved at entering such a room because an element in particular made it seem rather sinister - there was no window, no light, except for three taper candles as a triangle in the centre of the large, otherwise bare table. As Madame DePlume closed the door behind them, the three saw just how dark the room was. There was barely any light at all. If you had turned away from the triangle of candles, and put your hand its own length from your face, it would have been a meagre outline. Duo shuddered slightly, involuntarily. What was it about this room that chilled him so much? The psychic gestured for them to sit at four quarters of the round table.
"You need to sit close to the table. Link thumbs with yourself and link little fingers with the person next to you. That's right." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Sit with your eyes closed and think about your friend." And thus, they waited, each concentrating as hard as they could on their friend. It was a very long five minutes before anything happened.
"Stay away, stay away," something was whispering quietly in Duo's head. He wasn't completely sure it wsn't his own mind at first, warning him that dabbling in the occult doesn't pay. As it grew louder he became sure of it's source. "Stay away, stay away," Heero knew who it was immediately. The voice was unmistakable. Trowa Barton. Or rather, the young man who called himself Trowa Barton. After hearing this definate sign, he wasn't sure what to do. What do you do, when one friend warns you to leave, and another begs you to stay? "I won't talk to you. I will only talk to Quatre Raberba Winner," was the message the medium was receiving. The words seemed polite, but the tone was unnerving. However, Madame DePlume was not afraid. She was used to these meeting with disturbed ghosts, and was quite content that she had fulfilled the spectre's wishes. However, across the table, to the west side of the room, there was an extremely different message.
"Good morning, Quatre," formalness with a tone of discontempt. It needed time to get used to it, but there wasn't time. The blonde boy looked up, but still had his eyes closed.
"Good morning, friend Trowa," it was unusual to talk to someone else in your own head. The Winner heir was used to giving dignified responses, even when they weren't entirely felt, but he still felt amicable to the spirit that once was his friend.
"You're completely weak," it commented in a strange tone. It was if he was playing with his friend, a cat with a mouse.
"What do you mean?" Politely, he retorted quickly. The Arabian had an idea of what the answer would be, but he wanted to be completely sure. If Trowa had any last wishes, it was his duty to complete them.
"You're not strong at all, you always need someone with you to be strong for you, you couldn't hurt a fly," it kept repeating, over and over. Quatre snapped open his eyes.
"That's not true!" He screamed. All he could see was a blood red room, with no windows, nothing, no door.
"Pacifist! Pacifist! Pacifist!" Over and over, and over. It blcoked his vision apart from the red room, hio thoughts and hearing blocked apart from the repeating word. "Pacifist!" To the others in the room, he looked as if he had completely blanked out.
"Hey, Q-man?" Duo asked with much concern. No response. "Quatre? You ok? Come on, snap out of it!" He looked into the eyes of the small blonde pilot. The pupils were accessively large, as though he had been drugged, but he had been watched closely that morning by his two friends.
"Forgive me, Quatre," a large slap came from the Japanese boy's direction onto the face of the dazed young man. He seemed to come out of it a little, but he was still quite distant. The psychic apeared concerned. A trick well practiced, but it wasn't every client who walked out of a contact session trance-like.
"I'd like to meet you on Saturday, about ten to four? At the Masion Grande hotel?" She inquired of the client's Japanese friend.
"Sure," the monotonous voice quickly dismissed Madame DePlume as Duo put his friend's arm around his shoulder to support him. He slipped his own hand around the Arabian's ribs. The psychic sat down, and spent the next half-hour wondering if she should continue to persue this case.
To Be Continued...
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AN: Please review (again). Criticism will be accepted, flames extinguised. More coming next week! The final chapter is already written! And, I'll be running an 'interview with the author' chapter after the fifth and final chapter, if you want. Please send any and all of your questions to Lilly_fics@hotmail.com, and not AshLillymon@hotmail.com! Please state whether you wish to be annonymous or not.
AshLillymon
I must say a big, big apology, because it has taken me absolute ages to get this sorted. I hope that you all enjoy the ending, which will be released next week!
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The Tainted Promise
Chapter 4
"Sir, sir," Duo woke up to the smiling face of the stewardess, which calmed him instantly. "What would you like to eat? Chicken or beef?"
The boy yawned. "Err, chicken, thanks." He had been considerably shaken by the nightmare, but he wasn't about to let it show. He beamed at the blonde as she placed his meal in front of him. She flicked her hair again as she prepared to move on.
"Root beer, right, sir?" As he nodded, she opened the can with a slight hiss. Her dutiful expression was soothing to the pilot, but it would take a while for him to completely relax. His hand reached across his forehead. He had slightly broken out into a cold sweat. Removing his hand, he let his bangs flop back onto his face. His hand shook slightly as he took up the plastic fork, but he willed it to stop and it obeyed. As he ate, the boy pondered over the dream. Why had Trowa warned him to stay away? He was only trying to protect Quatre, so what was the big deal? Things were getting hopelessly complicated, and it made Duo's head spin thinking about them. Was there a solution to this problem? Perhaps it was one of those unanswerable questions, like the meaning of life. No, there had to be an answer, and someone had to find it, and quickly, before something more drastic happened.
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Quatre sat on the cold stone sphere, tears streaking down his face. He watched the sun set. "Oh, Trowa," he sighed. As he hung down his head, the tears fell to the floor, wetting it in little polka dot patches. It was growing dark, but the blonde boy just sat, letting the world pass him by. He didn't know what to think anymore. One month ago, he was as happy as could be, he had his best friend with him, and they were on holiday together. The wars were over, and finally the five pilots could live normal lives - or so they thought. Now, Trowa had been killed, and Quatre had been plunged into a deep sea of melancholy. Everything had been changed. His world had been turned upside-down. Nothing was the same, and the Arabian wondered if he could cope anymore. He had just thrown away all chance of Heero helping when he took out his frustrations on the Japanese pilot. He probably hated him now. All Heero was trying to do was help. Unfortunately, he didn't understand. He was Doctor J's perfect soldier - trained to be so emotionless, so unfeeling. He didn't have a clue what his friend was going through. How could he ever understand? Maybe it was better to be that way. If he was that way, too, maybe he wouldn't feel such pain at losing Trowa. He remembered his friends' reactions when he informed them that Trowa was gone. Wufei was shocked, Duo went numb and Heero...seemed emotionless as always. He was trained from childhood not to get upset, to let nothing shake him. In a way, that was the most tragic thing. Now, in an instant, Quatre had lost all hope of seeking comfort in him. It was his own fault, and he'd give anything to apologize, but he guessed the perfect soldier wouldn't want anymore to do with him. Not now. He stared at the growing puddle on the ground. If it was possible to cry one's self to death, he was certain he was halfway there. But it didn't matter to him anymore. Trowa was right, he was far too weak to survive in this world alone; and Heero was right, too, dwelling on it would drive him crazy. Maybe he was halfway there, also. His life wasn't important to him anymore. All he felt was the pain.
A sudden noise disrupted his thoughts. He looked up and his teary eyes were temporarily blinded by a set of car headlights. The boy remained sat there as the driver of the car got out and started to walk towards him. He blinked in disbelief. It was Heero. He had come back. He cared enough to come back.
"Heero?" The blonde asked, his voice shaky from crying and cold.
"You'll be cold," he tossed the while bundle he had been carrying to the boy. It was Quatre's white jacket. "Put this on." Obediently, he did as he was instructed. He didn't want to offend his friend any more than he already had.
"Heero," his voice was quiet and weak, "I'm so sorry." The Japanese pilot said nothing, but knelt down next to his companion and wiped away the tears with his fingers. Quatre was unsure whether his apology had been accepted or not. He was grateful that his friend had come back for him. Abruptly, the brown haired boy stood up.
"Come on," the boy instructed, "it's time to get Duo. Quit crying if you don't want him to notice." Silently, he got up from the sphere. It was a different kind of silence now. An understanding silence, that told each boy that nothing more needed to be said. Entirely different from the silence that had put a rift between them all day. He felt weak and stumbled slightly as he took a step. Without saying a word, his friend placed Quatre's arm around his shoulders and supported him. The Arabian forced a smile in order to show his gratitude, but he felt awful inside. The pain had mingled with cold and confusion to produce an all consuming weakness within him. His head hurt and he didn't feel that much like facing his friends, pretending he was all right. Heero put him in the passenger seat and fastened the seat-belt for him. After getting in himself, he pointed to a package on the dashboard. "Your burger's there. If you don't want it, Duo won't say no. Are you gonna be all right?" Quatre mouthed a 'yes' and proceeded to consume the burger slowly. He had meant to speak it but the word just didn't come out. Convinced by his friend's sincerity, Heero drove on to the airport.
"Are you gonna be all right?" Heero repeated the question as he parked the car. His comrade sighed.
"Heero, I'm sorry," he confessed, looking down, "I shouldn't have shouted like that. Can you forgive me?" His voice was still small and weak. He still felt bad inside.
"You were right," Heero didn't even look at him, "I don't understand. But I'm going to stay with you. I'm gonna make sure you don't do anything stupid." Weakly, the blonde smiled out of gratitude. Glimpsing into the other pilot's eyes he saw no emotion, but thankfully, a recognition.
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The arrivals room was very crowded, and Heero had to keep a firm hold of the sleeve of Quatre's jacket so as not to loose him in the confusion. It was hard enough to stay together, let alone look for their friend. However, it was Duo who found them.
"Hey," he called, waving frantically until his comrades noticed him. He dumped the heavy bag on the floor beside him.
"Duo!" Quatre rushed to embrace his friend in greeting, slipping out of the other pilot's grasp. "I'm so glad you could make it. Thank you."
"Well, here I am," pulling back slightly, he took a minute to look into the deep blue eyes. He didn't need to be told how much the blonde needed his help. It was obvious - he could see it. His eyes and that long scratch gave everything away. The smile on Quatre's face, as genuine as it was, hid many grievances. The American looked in the direction of the Japanese pilot. "Hey, Heero." He wasn't expecting a greeting from him, and the 'hn' under the soldier's breath was all he was about to receive. The braided boy stretched and yawned, cunningly slipping out of the Winner heir's embrace. "Well, shall we get out of this place?" Heero led the way back to their car, carrying Duo's blue sports bag. The other two chatted apparently happily, catching up on news and gossip. But it was a veneer. Duo masked his concern and Quatre masked his sorrow. Heero knew this. Duo saw right through it. Thankfully, in his dazed state, it was something that Quatre missed.
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Heero and Duo sat awake, cradling cups of coffee. Quatre had fallen asleep twice on the journey back to the apartment, and so upon arrival, went straight to bed. He slept peacefully, exhausted by the day's events. It was tough, caught in the middle of a conflict, confused, afraid and sorrowed. Duo drew his eyes away from the sleeping angel to his coffee cup.
"How long have you been living with Quatre?" He asked, sipping the hot, black liquid.
"A week," bluntly, the assassin replied. An air of tension hung around the room. It was obvious to both the boys that neither was entirely happy in each other's presence.
"It hurts to see him like this, doesn't it?" Slackening his smile, he flicked his head back towards where the Arabian youth was sleeping. The brown haired braided boy sighed slightly as he waited for a reply, but none came. "It makes you wonder how much he's hurting, inside. He's lucky he can still sleep so well."
"Yeah," Heero's reply seemed distracted. He didn't seem at all talkative, not that he was ever that way. Placing his mug onto the table, the American boy walked slowly over to where his friend slept. He brushed his bangs away from his face, although they immediately fell back into place. Quatre was a heavy sleeper and barely moved at his friend's touch. Taking the opportunity, the American took a good look at the scratch, fingering it gently.
"You know how he got this, don't you?" He looked back up at his comrade.
"Yeah," the reply was short and slightly curt. It looked like the information would have to be drawn out long and slowly.
"Don't you say anything but 'yeah'?" Duo chuckled to himself as he tried to make a joke of the situation. Upon getting no response, he asked, "Well?"
"One of the attacks," the calm boy ran his thumbnail across his cheek, as if recreating the incident. The other pilot looked at his friend in shock.
"What?" He stood up quickly, wide-eyed, "and didn't you do anything to stop it?"
"Trowa warned me not to," his voice remained as flat as ever. Pure fact and nothing else.
"How?" The braided boy was angry at his friend. Did he not care?
"He wrote us a note," he tipped his head back as he drained the last of the coffee, "it's still on the writing desk if you want to read it. And then, I had a dream."
"And you're taking notice of that?!?" Duo was furious. "You coward! It means nothing. Nothing!" Heero just sat there. "So you had a dream? So what? I had one, too! I...I can't believe you!" He paused, mid breath, picking up Trowa's scribbled note and ripping it down the middle unevenly. "You coward! It means nothing!" The two halves drifted down to the floor.
"Quiet," was his only reply, "you'll wake Quatre." Duo sat down in frustration and finished his beverage.
"You coward," he stared deeply into the other pilot's eyes, searching for something that wasn't there, "I really thought you were stronger than that, Heero." However weak it may seem, Heero was strong. He was just caught in the middle. Coming from a different cultural background to Duo, he strongly believed in the spirit world. Although Quatre was his close ally, it didn't bode well to aggravate deranged spirits. The American, on the other hand, his belief's caused him to deny such conflictions between the spirit world and this. That was, of course, if and when he could be defeated in argument that there actually was a spirit world. He sighed, and returned to the blonde's sleeping form, fiddling gently with the platinum strands. "Did you tell him?"
"No, and I don't intend to, either." Heero got up from the table slowly. "He has enough to worry about without adding this. Goodnight." Not saying another word, he began to go to bed. It had been a long day, and tomorrow could well turn out to be just as long. Pushing the blonde bangs back to watch them fall one last time, Duo decided that it was time for bed himself.
"Night, Quatre," he whispered softly. "Hang in there, buddy."
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The next day the rain fell out of the sky that next day, drenching the three boys in the short space of time it took to dash from the car to the building in which Madame DePlume worked. Quatre and Heero's hairstyles were more or less plastered to their faces, and it was nearly possible to wring Duo's braid like a freshly washed T-shirt. Just lately the weather had become unpredictable on that colony, even though it was completely manually controlled. Their jackets, being designed for summer-wear, offered little protection from the torrent above, and so by the time they saw the psychic, the three were soaked to the skin. All were very grateful when she offered them hot chocolate and towels.
"Thanks," Quatre smiled as he rubbed his platinum gold hair dry.
"No problem," reassuringly, she smiled back. "Summer isn't the time of year one expects a downpour, is it?"
"No," he half laughed. His two friends sat quietly, drying off next to the medium's fireplace, both satisfied to let the Arabian deal with his own business.
"How have things been, Master Winner?" Tentatively, she asked the question. She didn't exactly know if she wanted to hear the answer. In truth, she had wondered if taking on this case was such a good idea, but the woman had already committed herself, upon seeing the distress in the young heir's eyes. A client was a client, and she wasn't about to refuse, especially now times had been none too great. For some reason, clients hadn't been coming as frequently as they used to. Perhaps the times had changed, but it meant that although she was a medium by trade, she had been relying on what she considered as 'petty' psychic dealings - one-off tarot and palm readings. Neither required much skill, but it was the only way to keep up the income. And so, when Quatre Winner had approached her with this case, she jumped at the chance to do some true medium's work. Madame DePlume had not thought out the implications - she was only to find them later.
"Oh, not too bad," the boy squeezed the blue towel in his hands, uncomfortable at answering such a question. "Have you found anything?"
She drew her cup of tea closer, relieved. "I wasn't entirely sure what to research, but I did contact the spirit world. I was rather surprised at what I found."
"What was that?" He cradled the mug of hot chocolate in his hands, warming them up. Who'd have thought it'd be summer and so cold?
"The spirit of Trowa Barton is at peace," the woman wore a rather puzzled expression, which quickly spread itself to Quatre, and to some extent, Heero and Duo. Then, it dawned on the small blonde.
"Of course!" He exclaimed. "I'm ever so sorry, Miss DePlume, I forgot. The Trowa Barton we know is not the real Trowa Barton. It's a name that he took when someone died. I'm sorry." Quatre tensed, expecting reprimand, but Madame DePlume didn't seem to mind.
"Oh, don't worry about it," she soothed. "It's not a problem." There was a knock at the door. She rose, offering her hand. "Maybe I could meet you again tomorrow?"
"Sure," the Arabian took her hand and shook it thankfully, his friends standing, ready to leave. "Goodbye."
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The three of them were equally soaked while getting back to the apartment. Driving there had been the small talk again. Heero was quiet by nature, but what made Quatre uneasy was that Duo was being unusually untalkative. It made the Arabian wonder what was up with him. Had he said anything to offend his friend? Had he done something wrong? He paused from pulling the small red comb through his short blonde hair to watch his American friend. After flopping down on one of the beds almost immediately when they got in, still in his wet clothes (unlike Quatre, who had sensibly changed into a fresh pair of pants and polo-neck), he was now amusing himself by fiddling with the loose part at the end of his braid. He'd twist it and watch it unwind itself; split it flawlessly into three in order to braid it; wound it around his finger again and again, in different patterns. For what seemed much longer than a moment, the Arabian sat, transfixed, hypnotized by his friend's antics as a silent tear even he was unaware of slowly coursed its way down his cheek. The Arabian suddenly realized that his pal had come to a complete halt.
"Quat?" Tipping his head up, he noticed the tear, "you ok, buddy?"
"Huh?" Duo's voice brought the boy back to reality. He began to feel the wet path of the tear, wiping it quickly away with the back of his free hand, "oh, yeah, I'm fine Duo." He paused. "Are you?"
"What? I'm great, Quat, why shouldn't I be?" He pulled himself into a sitting position.
"Just wondering," the sparkling blue eyes darted away from a beaming smile.
"Say," the smile turned slightly mischievous, "are you gonna sit there with that comb half-way down your hair all day, or can I use it sometime before next year?" The young Arabian blushed slightly as he realized how silly he must look.
"Sorry. Here." He handed over the comb. "I'm finished with it." He picked up his novel and opened it, flicking towards the page he had remembered he read last time. Meanwhile, Duo was undoing his braid. Having been wetted, it waved all the way down his back, part spilling onto his wet shoulder. Quatre stifled a small giggle at how funny it looked. He had never imagined what Duo would look like with his hair loose. The American went to great lengths to hide it from his fellow pilots, and it made his friend wonder why he chose to let it down in front of him now. Perhaps he didn't think the Arabian was watching, perhaps it was best to keep his head down and his nose in the book. However, it wasn't like the braided pilot to take chances like this. With his life, yes, but not with his pride. The young heir watched out of the corner of his eye. Before long, the long hair was re-tyed up into a ponytail.
"When do we get something to eat around here?" Duo sat down by the table, tipping over to read the title of Quatre's book. He caught a 'The' but for the rest, it was angled too steeply towards the table. The blonde looked up.
"Whenever Heero comes back with something," he returned to reading, and turned a page. "He's gone early today." There was an anxious pause between the two. "Duo, are you sure you're ok?"
"Why?" Quatre could read him like a book, though he couldn't work out how. Sometimes there was just no use in hiding it. He would always find out in the end.
"It's just," the boy closed his book resolutely, "you've been quiet since this morning." Duo sighed.
"To tell the truth," the expression on his face weakened, "I don't know about that psychic. I don't really believe in spirits and the like."
"Duo," Quatre looked right into his eyes with a part sorrowful expression, "neither did I. Until now."
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Heero mentally kicked himself. How could he be so inconsiderate, so escaping? He, who had risked his life countless times; he, who grew up never knowing fear. Now, the same 'he' was virtually running away. Perhaps before, he didn't have to fear. There was always some higher power to fear for him. Perfect soldiers don't fear. He was created that way, a perfect soldier. One to fight and not ask questions, to kill and not ask questions. Now, it seemed he had lost that. Wherever it had fled to, it had hidden itself well. The boy doubted it was still inside him. Now, he had done this. He had run away like a stupid coward. Duo was right, for once. He was using escapism to run away from his problems. Or rather, someone else's problems. Pure cowardice!
He looked at his watch and prayed that when he got back it'd be forgotten. There was no time not to make the mistake now. Even if he ran, he wouldn't arrive in time. Now, he had to carry on with the task in hand, it was Duo's turn to deal with the demons. If he could trust that there were any. The boy smiled as he thought of Duo desperately trying to cope. He chuckled. If only the messy-haired boy had been there to watch - and laugh.
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The blonde cried out in surprise as a blow from the back of his head pushed him onto his hands and knees, panting.
"Huh?" His American friend stood up, taken aback. He glanced at the clock, "oh, no!"
Duo stood, completely unable to move, as his friend coiled in his fingers as if they had been trodden on. Duo shook his head to break his daze.
"Quatre, buddy?" Duo bent down, but his movements were far too slow to keep up. Plus, unlike other members of the once-team, he wasn't able to think efficiently quickly. His new strategy was to keep his Arabian friend off the floor, where he was most vulnerable.
"Not a good plan, Duo," Quatre frowned as his friend pulled him to standing and held him up.
"Why not, Quat?" He hardly had time to finish, before their legs were swept from under them. Duo's face hit the side of a bed, while Quatre fell flat.
"That's why not," the long-haired boy was holding the side of his face, not bothering to get up. "Are you ok, Duo?"
"I'm all right, I think," as suddenly as the blink of an eye, he doubled up in pain.
"Duo!" The blonde let his whole body relax for a minute. He didn't feel anything. "Duo! Trowa's attacking you, isn't he?"
"You...could say that, buddy boy," although the small Arabian was concerned, a thought of amusement crossed his mind. His friend was being beaten up by an angry spirit that was after himself, and still, his friend was smiling. Well, there was Duo for you. His thoughts were quickly broken.
"He's not going to stop, is he?" Tears formed. The remaining ghost was going to keep beating his poor friend until... "No!" The drops rushed down, as if a dam had burst to release them. "Please, please stop. You can't!" His stomach crunched inwards as it was hit. Then, nothing. No violence. It had all stopped. Trowa had gone.
"You've, um," the Arabian pilot stumbled to say what he had to say as he stood up again. "You've got a black eye, Duo." His friend rushed to the mirror.
"So I have," everything was with slight amusement. It was difficult to imagine what he was thinking. The boy sat down, his friend joining him.
"Duo," Quatre fiddled with his fingers as he asked a question he wasn't quiet sure he wanted to ask, "what do you think now?"
"Huh?"
"About...you know?" More fiddling.
"I'm not sure...perhaps...maybe. Yeah,"
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Heero came in about half an hour later. He placed the paper wrapped packages on the table, and nearly laughed (if he wasn't quite so well trained) when he saw Duo's eye.
"You have a black eye," he commented. In anyone else, it would have been considered slightly sarcastic, but the two boys were used to their friend's realism.
"You know, Heero, I could have worked that out for myself," however, Duo comically took it as if it was an insult. Quatre merely giggled at the two's antics. It was pure fun, and all of the three of them knew it. Including the Japanese boy, who didn't smile, because his emotional lack had become a habit over the years. It all quieted down when the braided boy unwrapped one of the packages and began to push thick chips into his mouth in quick succession.
"Is that a bruise on your wrist?" The blonde nodded his reply to the messy haired friend as he quickly drew a package towards him. In truth, he hadn't noticed, but he wasn't going to admit that to anyone but himself. After all, there was no point in causing anymore anxiety than had already befell them. Just like normal, two of them ate in silence. However, the American young man insisted that he kept talking. Silence was something creepy, not golden, to him.
"You know," he was saying, as he thrust in the last piece of battered fish, "in the war, I think we should've been a little more publicized, know what I mean? I mean, then, our own homelands, the colonies, wouldn't have turned to OZ, but supported us." The papers were stuffed in the somewhat already overfilled bin. Then, for once, Heero replied to him in a level manner.
"No," he civilly argued, "I don't think so. When I went out with Trowa for OZ, I learned a lot about them. They're an extremely crafty military organization, they would have turned the people against us whatever we'd done to try to stop it."
"True, I mean, unlike the Alliance, they mostly rely on intellect and not firepower." He was signaled to fall silent as the Japanese pilot realized that their comrade had gone completely quiet and still. A fair quarter of the Arabian's meal had made it into his system before the abrupt halt. "Quat," his joyful voice fell soft, "it's ok, come on. He's gone, yeah, but there isn't anything we can do. I'm sure he wouldn't want you to sit around and mope like this."
"It's not that," the monotonous voice interrupted him as he sat on the floor next to their blonde friend's chair.
"I nearly killed him, then, Duo," as the heir lifted his head the other two pilots could clearly see his tears. "I had to built that stupid Wing Zero, and I nearly killed him with it. I nearly killed my best friend, Duo!" His voice came out between sobs. Unusually, it was the turn of Heero to comfort him.
"Quatre," he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, "we've been through this. It wasn't your fault. You were crazy with grief for your father, and wanted revenge on OZ. Trowa was just caught in the crossfire." Meanwhile, the braided boy stood up.
"Hey, Heero," he said to the pilot, "do you ever wonder what side Trowa was on? I mean, first he was in OZ, then he was in their successor, the Barton Foundation." Quatre stood up suddenly and stamped on Duo's foot.
"Trowa's dead now," he cried, "don't doubt him now, show some respect!" A well-aimed punch at the American's middle sent the boy backwards to the floor.
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After what had been an anxious night with a unexpected thunderstorm, the three boys were surprisingly quick to go to down to the office of Madame DePlume. They had dashed in between the now more frequent downpours. As they sat down, the look on the psychic's face told them that she was as anxious as they were about the incidents.
"I think I've contacted your friend," the woman cautiously said, "I'm sorry but I can't be sure, not without having a real name." She sat at the other end of the table.
"I can't," commented the blonde, "I just don't know. He died without ever knowing his name...his parents...who he was."
"That must be sad," the emotion she showed was quite synthetic. The curly haired woman had grown accustomed to showing sadness at clients' tales, even when she didn't feel it. "The person who I contacted said that they'd only talk to you, Quatre Raberba Winner. That is your middle name, isn't it?" This was greeted by an astonished acknowledgement from all three guests. "However, you said that your mother and father are also gone to the other world?"
"Yes, but I'm pretty sure they'd be accustomed to speak to someone like you," the young heir explained. "They both learned when they were still young that in a high-class family, you often have to pass on messages to other members of your family. Trowa, however, it's possible that he'd only speak to me, this time." He picked up a cup of tea to drink from it.
"There is one way I can be sure," the medium seemed uneasy to mention this, "if I have you three boys to think constantly of your friend, I can be sure that the spirit is the one we're looking for." The Arabian looked at his friends. Although he wasn't meaning to be manipulative, his friends never could resist his loving blue eyes. The woman didn't have to ask what their answer was. "If you'd follow me to my spirit room, please." She beckoned and the boys followed, led by the Arabian, and lastly, the American, who was unsure but after yesterday's events, wasn't going to go against the petite pilot.
The room was small by length and width, but had a high ceiling. It was dominated by the large mahogany table in the centre and the Victorian fireplace at the far door. Although the room was dressed in reds and marroons, it was dark-looking. There were no decorations on the walls apart from a reasonably unpatterned wallpaper. The pilots were slightly unnerved at entering such a room because an element in particular made it seem rather sinister - there was no window, no light, except for three taper candles as a triangle in the centre of the large, otherwise bare table. As Madame DePlume closed the door behind them, the three saw just how dark the room was. There was barely any light at all. If you had turned away from the triangle of candles, and put your hand its own length from your face, it would have been a meagre outline. Duo shuddered slightly, involuntarily. What was it about this room that chilled him so much? The psychic gestured for them to sit at four quarters of the round table.
"You need to sit close to the table. Link thumbs with yourself and link little fingers with the person next to you. That's right." She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "Sit with your eyes closed and think about your friend." And thus, they waited, each concentrating as hard as they could on their friend. It was a very long five minutes before anything happened.
"Stay away, stay away," something was whispering quietly in Duo's head. He wasn't completely sure it wsn't his own mind at first, warning him that dabbling in the occult doesn't pay. As it grew louder he became sure of it's source. "Stay away, stay away," Heero knew who it was immediately. The voice was unmistakable. Trowa Barton. Or rather, the young man who called himself Trowa Barton. After hearing this definate sign, he wasn't sure what to do. What do you do, when one friend warns you to leave, and another begs you to stay? "I won't talk to you. I will only talk to Quatre Raberba Winner," was the message the medium was receiving. The words seemed polite, but the tone was unnerving. However, Madame DePlume was not afraid. She was used to these meeting with disturbed ghosts, and was quite content that she had fulfilled the spectre's wishes. However, across the table, to the west side of the room, there was an extremely different message.
"Good morning, Quatre," formalness with a tone of discontempt. It needed time to get used to it, but there wasn't time. The blonde boy looked up, but still had his eyes closed.
"Good morning, friend Trowa," it was unusual to talk to someone else in your own head. The Winner heir was used to giving dignified responses, even when they weren't entirely felt, but he still felt amicable to the spirit that once was his friend.
"You're completely weak," it commented in a strange tone. It was if he was playing with his friend, a cat with a mouse.
"What do you mean?" Politely, he retorted quickly. The Arabian had an idea of what the answer would be, but he wanted to be completely sure. If Trowa had any last wishes, it was his duty to complete them.
"You're not strong at all, you always need someone with you to be strong for you, you couldn't hurt a fly," it kept repeating, over and over. Quatre snapped open his eyes.
"That's not true!" He screamed. All he could see was a blood red room, with no windows, nothing, no door.
"Pacifist! Pacifist! Pacifist!" Over and over, and over. It blcoked his vision apart from the red room, hio thoughts and hearing blocked apart from the repeating word. "Pacifist!" To the others in the room, he looked as if he had completely blanked out.
"Hey, Q-man?" Duo asked with much concern. No response. "Quatre? You ok? Come on, snap out of it!" He looked into the eyes of the small blonde pilot. The pupils were accessively large, as though he had been drugged, but he had been watched closely that morning by his two friends.
"Forgive me, Quatre," a large slap came from the Japanese boy's direction onto the face of the dazed young man. He seemed to come out of it a little, but he was still quite distant. The psychic apeared concerned. A trick well practiced, but it wasn't every client who walked out of a contact session trance-like.
"I'd like to meet you on Saturday, about ten to four? At the Masion Grande hotel?" She inquired of the client's Japanese friend.
"Sure," the monotonous voice quickly dismissed Madame DePlume as Duo put his friend's arm around his shoulder to support him. He slipped his own hand around the Arabian's ribs. The psychic sat down, and spent the next half-hour wondering if she should continue to persue this case.
To Be Continued...
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AN: Please review (again). Criticism will be accepted, flames extinguised. More coming next week! The final chapter is already written! And, I'll be running an 'interview with the author' chapter after the fifth and final chapter, if you want. Please send any and all of your questions to Lilly_fics@hotmail.com, and not AshLillymon@hotmail.com! Please state whether you wish to be annonymous or not.
AshLillymon
