Memento (Part Twenty-Four)

A ruckus was the last thing anyone would have suspected from a critical unit room of the Preventer facility. For one, the person in critical condition lying on the bed was blissfully unconscious as his bed shifted every which way, the sheets once neatly arranged now in disarray. Music was blasting from a boom box that had been plugged in at the other end of the room, thankfully out of reach of the rather fragile medical equipment. Although the tubes connected to skinny arms were intact, the patient himself looked like he'd partied all night. His bedmate for the time being was moving around with the beat of the music, a beer can in one hand and a half-eaten hotdog on the other. If Trowa didn't know any better, he probably would have believed that Quatre had woken up and partied with Duo until he passed out.

"Don't you know what 'let him get some rest' means?"

"On the contrary Mr. Barton, your hubby over here had the 'this is so damn boring' sign plastered all over his face. I couldn't just let him go ahead and suffer through the boring beeps that come out of that blasted machine every second and a half."

Trowa looked pointedly at the beer can in Duo's hand as it shook with his movements. A few drops escaped the can to drop almost unnoticeably on the comforter Trowa had purposely brought for Quatre. Duo, alarmed that he'd forgotten to hide the evidence, put the beer can behind his back and looked at him sheepishly.

"Oops?"

"You're paying for dry clean," Trowa said, picking up a couple of empty candy wrappers on the floor. He would have said that Duo was unbelievable but thought otherwise. Strangely enough, the scene was more believable than anything else he could have imagined. Despite the clearly written sign that read Intensive Care Unit on the entrance to the closed off section, Quatre's room felt anything but intensive.

"Aww, and here I thought that the first thing you would notice was the 'I want to get laid' sign plastered on Quat's face," Duo said, shoving the rest of the unfinished hotdog into his mouth. Trowa couldn't fathom how it could fit into the tiny looking mouth and shook his head in disbelief.

"He obviously won't get laid with the way this is going since I don't do spectators," Trowa answered, choosing that moment to turn off the music. Screaming was not his forte and he doubted the other inhabitants of the closed off section would appreciate the ruckus.

"Could I at least get a video? Hilde wants at least one picture of you completely naked."

"Perverts," Trowa muttered, picking up a stray pillow and throwing it in the direction of Duo's head. Duo, prepared of what was to come, ducked and shoved the pillow far away from Quatre's slumbering form.

"What, you want me out of here right away?" Duo asked, quickly drinking up the rest of his beer and aiming for the already overflowing trash bin. The can tittered on the edge of the bin before successfully leaning itself against the rest of the trash. One wrong move and it would surely tip over and fall.

"Catherine's coming to visit."

"Ah, I see the sister-in-law wants to take a look at this bony but damn sexy thing over here," Duo said, pointing at the unmoving patient who had his hair flying in all directions. His bedclothes were also in disarray making it look as if he spent the night rolling around in his sleep, which he didn't - of that, Trowa was sure.

"Out."

With one word, Trowa had successfully evicted Quatre's sulking companion so that he was now left to clean up the mess. He sighed, knowing that it was inevitable. Quatre's room felt like home. He himself had inhabited the place, taking refuge in the same bed Quatre occupied. He'd requested a large enough one for that purpose. While it was not recommended, it was most certainly pleasant. Besides, he was not about to kick Quatre in his sleep or displace any of the tubing connected to him. He was careful of his movements even if he did getcuddly at times. No one knew and he would keep it that way.

"What is this, a frat house?" was the disapproving tone that came from the slowly opening door. Catherine shook her head, picking up a few pieces of trash that had unwittingly escaped the disturbing mountain of mess that was the trash bin. "You didn't invite me in here for maid service, did you?"

Trowa shook his head, ushering his sister in as he stopped her from cleaning up the mess. He would do it himself later. What was important now was that she saw Quatre for herself. The last time she had seen him was years ago, during one of her few visits. She was yet to see how he looked like now. Trowa was sure she would be surprised. He'd described him to her a couple of times, but seeing for herself was a different story.

Trowa's suspicions were confirmed when he heard his sister's shocked gasp from where she stood. With her hand to her open mouth, he could tell that she was more than surprised. He hadn't been able to keep her informed on the progression of the case. He was only able to tell her about the turn of events and Quatre's current condition only a few days ago. He knew Quatre looked awful.

"Trowa Barton, you could at least keep your hands to yourself while he's unconscious," she said unexpectedly.

Trowa raised both eyebrows, eyes widening with a mixture of shock and mortification. He had no idea that it looked to be that way from her angle. Now that he thought about it, Quatre looked helplessly molested. Duo must have made him look that way on purpose.

"No... I didn't... He's," he said, unable to explain himself. A palm met his pained expression as he groaned in relative annoyance. Duo would get his turn later. "I wasn't..."

Catherine would have none of it, eyeing him suspiciously before making Quatre more presentable. She combed his hair with her fingers and straightened out his clothing, making sure to tuck him into the covers afterwards. When she was satisfied with her work, she led Trowa to the couch at the other end of the room.

"This is the worst I've seen him," she started, glancing at Quatre before looking directly at him. She picked up his hands in the process. "How are you handling it?"

"I'm better," Trowa said casually. Over the stretch of the week, he had come to terms with what had happened. While he still worried about Quatre's condition every minute, he was more rational and more controlled, leaving behind his initial feelings of devastation. He was learning how to cope. He could say the same for the rest of his friends.

"He really does look different," Catherine said. "He looks like he's aged." It was easy to see why. The passage of time did minimal transformations. It had been the obstacles along the way that initiated the change. Quatre was more mature now, more tired than he was during his better days.

"He's skin and bones," Trowa sighed, not liking the sight but accepting it all the same.

"Tell me, how's the case moving along?"

"They've got everyone they need," Trowa said, seating himself more comfortably for what he knew would be a long narration. "He," Trowa said, pointing to the figure on the bed. "...made sure of that."

"I'm not surprised," she said, finding an unopened bag of chips and digging into it. Trowa enjoyed her light-hearted attitude, glad that someone stopped being too somber for once. It did wonders to pick up his mood. "So why an engineer?" she asked, examining one oily chip before shrugging and then placing it into her mouth.

"They needed to hide his identity," Trowa answered, not specifying who the 'they' was nor going into any detail.

"You better start giving me longer answers," she huffed, her hair bouncing with the movement. His vagueness did not deter her one bit. It never did.

"He picked the profession himself," Trowa explained, readjusting the position of his hair which had grown far too long to manage. "His abductors were forced to comply with his choice to hide the fact that he'd managed to escape and associate himself with an outsider, an engineer. Mr. Whitfield, creator of the Plow Master 200X, was that person, the same person whose facilities we inspected not too long ago. Quatre had left his clues there, making sure that the man created something memorable enough to remember him by. That would be the anatomically male mobile suit. I'm sure Duo would be more than happy to describe it to you."

Catherine raised a brow but didn't ask, nudging him to continue.

"When Quatre had stumbled upon that man, he was already loosing his memory, so much that he was unable to get himself any further. To make sure that his attempt at escape served at least some purpose, he studied with the man, learning how to hide his messages within scientific formulae that none of his captors would understand or suspect. He was seized again a week later. After that, he attempted no further escapes knowing that he was not going to be able to find his way around."

"So you mean his work..."

"Up until now, all the machines he'd been designing included manuscripts which were, in reality, hidden messages. The childish looking maps he drew, when matched with those manuscripts, served as a guide to find the people we were looking for. As I found out, every little thing he did, every detail served a purpose."

"No wonder he looks tired," she commented, grabbing an unopened can of coke from the coffee table before her. Once she'd taken her fill of the carbonated drink, she looked at Trowa with a knowing smile. "You do know that you married a brilliant man?" she said, looking again at the man on the bed. Quatre remained still, the life monitors just beside him not giving any indication that he'd heard anything.

"He's crazy," Trowa said as he leaned back on the couch. It was a consensus. Even Heero had to agree after much reluctance. "To go this far to erase his identity, to get people off my back... He doesn't even know who he is."

True, he would no longer be the politician, the businessman who owned more than anyone could imagine. Quatre would no longer be a distinguished figure, no longer be someone who led a public life that disseminated every aspect of his being and those around him. He would probably be, if he recovered any of his memories, nobody but Trowa's. Trowa allowed a selfish smirk to grace his lips. It was slightly unnerving the way things had progressed, but he could at least be happy and grateful for what Quatre had gone through for him.

"Trowa, you better not be thinking what I'm thinking," Catherine said, hitting the back of his head in the process. As it was, she was always able to read his mind, or at least part of it. Used to being scolded, Trowa simply returned her warning look with a look of absolute innocence. "Selfish brat," she murmured.

"He kicked their ass," Trowa said, choosing a phrase from one of Duo's varied and almost generic responses. It seemed appropriate for the situation. Whose ass in particular was kicked was not specified. He was sure that there were angry, dubious criminals blaming Quatre for not being able to get their revenge on him. He was sure that there were annoyed reporters unable to follow the young businessman around trying to discover who that married, odd-haired fellow was that he was always with. But most of all, he was sure that the woman who had claimed to be a member of the Barton family was satisfied with her demise.

Strangely enough, Lara Sedgwick (her true name he later found out) wasn't angry, only downtrodden as she admitted to being defeated by a formidable enemy. She still despised Trowa, believed she was a Barton, and was prone to bouts of hysteria that no specialist could confirm what her ailment was. Trowa had inkling that it had something to do with the war as was usually the case. The disillusioned could do nothing but reject the reality forced upon them. He himself had almost been on the brink of insanity but had been mercifully spared by one of the most peculiar methods available. He got married.

"Is he going to get any better?" Catherine asked quite bravely. She must have known it was a touchy subject but inquired anyway. From anyone's vantage point, Quatre looked too sick to recover.

"Lara, the supposed best friend I've told you about, told us that there's still hope," Trowa answered reluctantly. He kept on forgetting that she still did have some use when she wasn't nearly possessed by her demons.

"I see. The woman you were jealous of."

Trowa frowned at his sister. The topic had already been discussed before and he'd had enough of it. What made the jealousy even more prominent was the fact that she was willing to help Quatre in his state despite claiming to be his adversary. She respected him, he could tell. Quatre had somehow instilled in her a feeling of awe. She worshipped him in her own, demented way.

"She's a doctor," Trowa added, making it clear that it was the only reason why he trusted her. At that stage in Quatre's illness, any help was welcomed.

"I've never heard of a cure." Catherine blinkedat him, her silent question obvious from the way she was looking at him. 'I don't think he's going to get better' was her unwelcome and unspoken theory.

"There are two ways," Trowa said, standing up so that he was standing beside Quatre. His husband's sunken eyes did not respond to his touch nor did his skin acknowledge that another's was caressing it. "It's either a brain tissue transplant or something they call GDNF." (1)

Several specialists, including Lara, had explained it to him repeatedly, but no matter how many times he tried to grasp the concept, only the words behind GDNF stayed in his mind. "Glial cell-derived neurotrophic factor," he said, certain that he was saying it correctly even when he didn't know what it meant. "Doesn't that sound promising?" he said with a snort.

"I should hope so if it's the only way to get him better."

"He will," Trowa said with certainty, tracing his fingers along Quatre's jaw. "He's had everything planned from the start. I'm sure he won't just give up now when it's almost over." And it was; he assured himself of that. "Do you mind if I leave you for a few hours?" he said, looking at Catherine for her confirmation. There were still some things he'd had left to do.

"Of course, as long as you have someone explain the rest to me," she said, not too discreetly implying that Trowa was near incapable of long explanations.

"Duo would be more than happy."

Relinquishing his hold on Quatre, Trowa moved back to his sister to place a quick peck on her cheek before he left the room. Duo, as if psychic for some reason, was already at the door, entering it as he exited. Trowa pointed his thumb toward his overly enthusiastic friend, indicating that Heero should watch over Quatre while the two talked. Heero nodded in his direction, their unspoken exchange finished just as quickly as it started. Trowa headed out of the Preventer facilities with only one destination in mind.

The strong winds blew Trowa's hair in all directions as he hurried in his steps toward the piece of land he'd yet to visit. Dry leaves in the shade of light yellows, deep orange, and striking reds rushed passed him to an unknown destination. Sand and dirt followed in their wake, forcing Trowa to shield his eyes from their onslaught. It was a sunny day, allowing him ample daylight and encouragement to follow the hastily scribbled map on the back of a used post-in note.

Trowa shrugged his nearly flying jacket back on, zipping it up as a means of protecting the thin material from flying to a far off direction. With nothing but marble tombstones of the same size and orientation in sight, Trowa doubted that he'd be able to find his destination soon. He closed his eyes momentarily, allowing the passing wind to take all the tiny particles of debris with it.

"Left when you reach the pine tree," Trowa murmured, assessing his map again before finally landing at his destination. "Right under a cherry tree," he said, eyeing the slab of stone that looked up at him with cold, hard formality.

Quatre's grave was simple, decorated with nothing more than a few flowers whose petals all but disappeared with the call of the wind. The name Quatre Raberba Winner was carved delicately into the white marble together with two dates indicating his year of birth and year of passing. For the first time, Trowa allowed himself to examine the stone, the implications of which he could never have considered.

"Not yet," he whispered into the wind, sitting down on the dry grass before looking at the simplistic reminder of what could have been. Back then he had refused to attend the funeral set up to announce the passing ofa public figure. Thousands of mourners had attended, the event even broadcast on live television. He, however, did not take part in any of it, choosing not to involve himself in the ritualistic ceremony that he believed was a lie. In truth, this had been the first time he'd visited.

After much deliberation and consultation with the Preventer organization, the discovered body parts had been buried under the same grave. It gave the pretense that Quatre, or at least his public image, was no more. In a way, it had allowed him to let go and to look forward to the challenges ahead.

Trowa touched the grass before the grave, noting how the blades of green remained healthy despite the coming of autumn. It swayed with the wind, tickling his fingers so that he was reminded of why he had come in the first place. Digging his fingers deep into the soil, Trowa picked up handfuls of dirt, unmindful of the granules that got in between his fingernails. The motion was repeated again and again until his fingers felt a familiar object within its reach.

The box Trowa had requested his friends to hide within the grave was a small, ordinary object covered in black with a thin lining of gold. To whoever might have discovered it, it would look nothing more than a lost of no value.

"Still here I see," Trowa whispered as he opened up the tiny box. Inside the folds of satin lay a simple, gold ring similar to his own. The only difference was that this one had a gold chain looped through the center. Unpolished and still crusted with some blood, the ring's shiny areas sparkled in the sun's rays as if it was only yesterday that the owner had taken it off.

"I see that you've found it."

Startled at the sudden appearance of thevoice just behind him, Trowa looked up to find Wufei looking down at him. Dressed in casual clothing and a thick jacket, Wufei looked very much like the seasoned visitor who knew what the weather was going to be like. Trowa suspected that he'd visited enough times to be familiar with the temperamental weather in the area.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Wufei said, looking hesitant to intrude on what looked like a private moment. "I was on my way here so Heero wanted me to check on you just to make sure you didn't get lost."

Trowa, more comfortable somehow that someone else was with him, nodded in understanding.

"I thought it appropriate to retrieve this now," Trowa said, his tone of voice signaling to the other that he should join him. "It looks exactly the same as the last time I saw it."

Wufei sat cross-legged next to him, examining the ring hanging on the golden chain as the light continued to dance around the shiny surfaces.

"The operation is tomorrow," Wufei said. He was sure Trowa was aware, but the statement seemed appropriate somehow.

Trowa nodded as he put his raised hands down into his lap, the chain resting itself on his thigh. The wind continued to blow mercilessly, forcing the thick fall of hair to plaster itself all over his face. Trowa turned to face Wufei, allowing the wind to blow his hair away from his face and giving his companion a good view of his unshielded face.

"He won't remember who you are," Wufei continued, the meaning of the statement not deterring him from what he had to say. "Are you willing to take the chance?"

With the operation ensuring a very low success rate, Trowa knew that they were taking a gamble. Whichever of the two procedures he had to choose from had never been done before. It was a matter of waiting out Quatre's illness until he passed or putting him through the risky procedure that could shorten his life even further.

"He planned it this way," Trowa said, firmly believing that Quatre would fulfill his mission to the very end, especially now that it had gone this far. It was apparent that Quatre's body and mind continually fought for him, so much that even when unconscious, he still resisted the pull of his illness.

"He won't remember you," Wufei repeated again, looking directly at him with bottomless black eyes that served as a mask to what he must have been thinking. "It won't be the same. He may find somebody else."

Looking down on the chain on his lap, Trowa sighed, knowing very well what Wufei was trying to tell him. While he was grateful for the honesty, he did not like becoming suddenly aware of the brutal truth. He had hoped that it wasn't going to be the case, but there were just some things he had no control over. Quatre would be a different person when he woke up. What was once his was no longer guaranteed to be his forever.

"It must hurt," Wufei said, facing away from him as he faced the direction of the wind. Stray hairs conveniently blew out of his face, but his expression was hidden from Trowa's view. "Remembering someone dear will ensure that they continue to live in your memory. Great people are considered immortal not because they breathe forever but because they continue to survive in people's minds. Don't you notice how the great artists and philosophers continue to live forever? My wife, she is still alive if only in my mind."

Trowa looked up, surprised that Wufei was discussing with him a topic he'd always refused to talk about. He knew the other was trying to help him understand, to help him get through the grief and it was with appreciation that he continued to listen.

"It must hurt more than anything to find the memory of you erased from him. It's almost tantamount to loosing part of yourself, the part of yourself you shared with him. Part of you died when he forgot."

Trowa stared off into the distance, finding comfort in the words he could not express himself. He remembered the feeling of selfishness, the feeling of wanting only the Quatre who knew him and not the one who had forgotten. After all, he had to continued to remember even when his other half didn't.

"And he still won't remember when he wakes up," Wufei continued, standing up and not making a move to face him. "I trust that you will give him time to adjust. With time, he will find you."

They were such strong, absolute words with not a hint of doubt in them. Trowa could not help but feel more confident, the initial anxiety of looking forward to the worst gone from his mind. He looked up, intending to thank the more reclusive and wiser of his comrades only to find that he was already gone, walking off to the cemetery's parking lot.

"I'll keep that in mind," Trowa murmured to the strong winds. He placed his retrieved treasure into his pockets and restored what he had dug before walking off to the parking lot. Tomorrow was the start of another struggle and strangely enough, he welcomed it.

(1) Dementia, much like Alzheimer's disease, has no cure. The two suggested procedures are only speculation at this time.