Review response time:

Wolfkun: Yeah, I'm aware that Tro's not the cleanest player on the field, but he's not one to toss his fellow compatriots into the fray as strategic pieces... And I was focusing more on a blend of the Episode Zero Quatre and early episode Quatre (he who offers mercy right before slicing people in half. Gotta love it.) rather than "Zero System", if that's what you were referring to, as this story happens long before Zero was completed by Quatre. :)

GundamPilot03: Posting as quickly as possible! Some delays from duty days (can't do much when trapped onboard my ship (may she sink)), some from pure laziness, but there shouldn't be any significant delays until MUCH latter. And THAT'S only if I don't manage to get rid of the boulder-sized writer's block that landed on my head nearly a year ago by the time I have to start writing fresh material to continue updating. :P

YiyangYoung: Ah, glad you're finding this story enjoyable. I strive to be as accurate so far as my utilization of grammar is concerned; used to have the Grammar Queen back in college, so the rules have been so pounded into my skull that I can't begin to dream of escaping them. (laugh) And thank you so much for your confidence in my characterizations! That's my biggest vice with fanfiction, and I'm glad that others think I'm doing a good job. :)

Disclaimer: I in no way own Gundam W. Don't sue; I'm simply an E-5 in the USN, therefore I have no money. Ha.

-BEGIN FIC-

02:05 Hours --

Trowa's eyes remained hooded, his gaze completely casual as he sipped from his glass. Letting the pungent taste of the screwdriver's overly strong vodka rest upon the top of his tongue for a few moments, the HeavyArms pilot closed his eyes then swallowed.

Cracking open the one eye that was obscured by his heavy bangs, he stared through the thick veil of brown at the gathering of people just a few tables before his own, closer to the stage than he was.

Resting his chin in the palm of his hand, Trowa slowly snaked a finger through his hair to his ear and gently pressed upon the small receiver that he was wearing, attempting to up the volume of the conversation he was eavesdropping on.

"But still, I feel rotten about it…"

"He would have betrayed us anyway. You know that."

"Yeah. Stop being so hard on yourself. He was getting himself slaughtered on his lonesome."

"… Hai."

"You can't be letting a small setback like this upset you so much, man. So some news leaked to Bradshaw, and Browens had to be sacrificed. Hell, you gave him a better end than he could ever have hoped to meet…"

"Enough! I've heard enough…."

Trowa simply frowned, his finger remaining firmly upon the receiver pressed into his ear canal.

22:53 Hours --

Trowa still stared at the door.

Thoughts raging in his mind, he narrowed his eyes, attempting to analyze everything his brain was feeding him.

'Lesley, Johnson, Waverly and Browens. All are officers of OZ. All were located at that base. Browens is dead. The other three are apparently alive.'

'Quatre is connected to these people.'

'How?'

Shaking his head, the acrobat made his way back over to the chessboard to stare at the intricately carved pieces, studying the final moves that had secured the blond boy victory.

'I lost because I moved my queen.'

'It was almost as if he could read my mind and react to what was happening.'

Shaking his head, Trowa wandered to one of the other boards and looked down upon the pieces.

He found his jaw unhinging from the rest of his face, dragging his eyes wide open as it did so.

Rather than the typical set of pieces found upon a typical chessboard, this one sported an entirely different figurine collection, each piece's true identity recognized only by the letters emblazoned upon the bottom of it as Trowa discovered in his critiques of the craftsmanship of the statuettes.

OZ soldiers - pawns.

OZ mobile suits - knights, rooks, bishops.

OZ communication tower and supporting troops - queen.

OZ commanding base - king.

Rubbing his eyes, he stared once again, allowing his senses to tell him that his mind was indeed not playing tricks with him.

The pawns were carved as little gatherings of multitudes of soldiers.

The mobile suits were gatherings of ten.

The communication tower was tall and straight, an exact replica of what sprang from the forests Trowa'd last seen before awakening in the Winner manor, and surrounded with uncounted mobile suits and soldiers.

The squat building he'd infiltrated was correct to the smallest possible detail.

And the opposing pieces:

Sandrock the rook.

Deathscythe the rook.

Quatre the queen.

Trowa the…

Trowa, the newest addition.

The pawn.

Trowa swallowed the lump that had risen to block his airway.

02:08 Hours --

Trowa sipped from his drink again, his bangs still casting a thick brown haze upon the world as he carefully watched his quarry.

'Come on, Quatre. Say something of importance. Start that conversation you dropped again.'

And, almost as if by request, the boy and his party revived their conversation.

"So, what do you think Waverly wants?"

"Besides you?" one of the two men with Quatre chuckled.

Trowa arched a brow as he listened, staring as Quatre seemed to shrink into his chair.

"Ah, stop picking on the kid, Lesley," the other man said with a laugh.

'Lesley. That's the guy who was outside of my cell, standing as guard,' Trowa's brain recalled.

"Hm. Ah, who the hell knows with someone as odd as Waverly," the first voice continued.

"Is he even on our side? I doubt that at times. I mean, what he did to you…" Lesley cut in.

"Is acceptable."

"Eh?" both men questioned at once in reply to Quatre's stark answer.

"It was an acceptable gamble to take, considering the stakes. It was an acceptable road to travel. He did it to keep from blowing our cover, gentlemen. You should be grateful."

The unidentified man's voice growled his disapproval. "Whatever you say, man."

"Anyway," Quatre's voice began again, "We can be certain of his loyalty. I know this…."

"It's telling you that?" Lesley asked.

"… Aa."

22:56 Hours --

Trowa had seen enough in the chess room.

Having slammed the door on his way out, he marched down the ancient hallway, his boots clicking loudly on the marble floor below his feet. Rounding the corner that came before him, he barely kept from crashing into Duo, who seemed to be on his way in the direction Trowa'd just left from.

"Yo, buddy. Sorry 'bout that… let me just get out of your way."

"Where is he?"

Duo's large violet eyes blinked owlishly at Trowa. "Eh? Mind clarifying that?"

"Where is Quatre?"

"Garage. Why're you so curious? And why the hell're you so rude? God, remind me of Heer…"

"Where's the garage?"

"If you don't interrupt me anymore, I'll show you."

"Lead the way."

"Do you have a three word cap on your sentences, or something?"

"…."

02:15 Hours --

Trowa frowned as the three fell silent once more, then noted that their attention had turned towards the door. Opening his other eye, Trowa afforded himself a sidelong glance.

A well-built man of modest height, sporting dark hazel eyes and long brown hair that was tied back into a relatively unkempt pony-tail had just walked in through the club's curtain doors. Dressed in loose-fitting jeans and a tight tee shirt that displayed his excellent physique, he looked calm and comfortable in the loud techno-filled environment. Sauntering towards Quatre's table, his gait swaggering haughtily, he grabbed a drink from a nearby waitress and slurped most of it back in his first draw.

Upon reaching the edge of the platinum-haired youth's table, he slammed his heavy hand solidly onto the desktop and leaned over, whispering into Quatre's ear.

"It's arranged."

"Thank you, Waverly," Quatre softly replied, lifting his carbonated drink to mask his words.

The man called 'Waverly' continued his arrogant strut towards the back of the club and the shadow enshrouded tables that were encased therein.

Trowa's ice cold glare followed him.

23:15 Hours --

The wind whistled through Trowa's hair, blowing his bangs free of his stern face as he tore down the road upon the back of the Yamaha bike.

His narrowed eyes made certain to keep the taxi he'd finally tracked down in his line of site.

Nothing was coming through his receiver at that moment. Of course, why would Quatre carry on a conversation with a taxi driver?

Soon enough, they came into town and stopped in front of a fairly rough and sleazy nightclub known as "Cop-U-L8."

Trowa grimaced at the site of the establishment. Something just didn't sit right with him.

Keeping his bike behind the cars awaiting unloading to be parked by the club's valets, the young pilot watched as Quatre emerged from the taxi, clad not in khakis but in tight black jeans, and having abandoned his vest, leaving only his light rose dress shirt, which along the course of the journey had managed to become partially unbuttoned.

Simply staring, Trowa barely managed to get off his bike and follow the boy when asked to do so by the valet.

Making certain that Quatre failed to see him, Trowa slid into a seat a few tables away from him, keeping to the blond boy's back. Soon enough, a pair of taller, older gentlemen, one whom he could swear he'd recognized from the OZ base they'd been captured on recently, walked over to join the Arab with smiles and clasping hugs of comradery.

Trowa made certain to thank whatever God would listen to him that Quatre had yet to discover the bug he'd planted upon his cuff when they'd shaken hands after their chess game.

02:35 Hours --

Quatre had separated from the group of soldiers and walked over towards the bar that occupied the west wall.

The pair of men that Quatre had been speaking too had already left.

Trowa didn't care. His eyes remained upon his quarry.

He watched as Quatre sat upon the barstool, sipping a margarita.

'Margarita?' Trowa's brain mused. 'I thought he was Muslim….'

'And he's definitely under-aged.'

Smirking, he looked down at his own drink, this time a MGD.

'Not that THAT ever stopped anyone.'

Taking a sip, he watched as Quatre's eyes drifted slowly closed.

The music in the club changed.

'Come Together? My god, how old is this… Beetles, something or other…'

He watched, utterly enraptured, as Quatre rose from his stool.

He was walking his way, his eyes half-shut, his step perfectly in time with the heavy, hearty base-beat.

Trowa silently wondered if Quatre knew exactly how sexy he looked.

Apparently, he did, as anyone could judge by the smirk that spread across his lips.

Gulping as the blond boy approached, the green-eyed pilot attempted to still his nerves. 'He saw you. He knows you followed him. And he's…'

'He's…'

'He's really fucking hot….'

And he watched as Quatre walked right past him and leaned over the table right behind him.

In Trowa's microphone, he heard Quatre's voice, thick with lusty intent, whisper seductively, "I don't believe I've seen you around here before… new in the area?"

"Yes," he heard the man behind him say. Trowa gritted his teeth, attempting to keep his hands from balling into fists at the suggestive tones that flowed in that suddenly very sleazy sounding voice. "I'm looking for someone, actually," the voice continued, "named Winner. I was told I could meet him here for… a bit of fun and a tour 'round the town. You know him?"

"Aa," the blond boy answered.

Trowa watched the events behind him in the reflection of his beer bottle.

He stared as Quatre leaned over the table, every movement still in time to the erotic thumping of the music, taking the unidentified, distortedly-reflected man's apparent tie into his hand.

"He's me. Nice to meet you."

Trowa's eyes narrowed as he watched the blond kneel on the table with his left knee, bending over, his tight jeans doing nearly nothing to preserve his questionable dignity.

Trowa's hand formed that deadly fist it desired to make on the MGD's neck as the man pressed his lips to those of the blond boy offering himself upon the table to him.

The beer bottle creaked.

tbc...