Disclaimer: Gundam Wing does not belong to me. All I own are a few Gundam Wing books and manga, so it'd be useless to sue me for what you already have.
Going Away- Quatre
"Where's my son?" The head of the Winner family burst into his basement, ignoring the sign that stated "Please knock before entering."
"Um, he's upstairs, packing I believe," the stout, mustached Instructor H stuttered. Silently, he breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness he had finished up earlier. "Er, would you like me to fetch him for you?" he asked timidly. For a pacifist, Mr. Winner was not exactly rational when angry, and pretty strong for a man of his age.
"Quatre!" he shouted. He charged up the stairs.
Instructor H looked taken aback. "Apparently not."
Mr. Winner stormed into the living room. Sweet music flowed down from the second floor of their mansion. "Quatre Raberba Winner, get down here this instant!" he bellowed. The music stopped abruptly.
Quatre stumbled down the stairs, his clear blue eyes showing some annoyance. He had a violin tucked under one arm and a bow in his other hand. His elder sister, Iria, came down behind him, holding a clarinet.
"What is it father?" He asked calmly. Though somewhat irritated, he maintained his innocent, boyish face that, with his blond hair made him look like an angel. For a moment, his father almost forgot what he was angry about, looking at his little boy. He looks so much like his mother, he thought. Indeed, he did take after her the most. He was like her in his actions as well as looks, always wanting to see the best in everyone, devotedly passionate to the causes he found important and loyal to the people he cared about. Mr. Winner felt a swell of pride looking at him. He was a good boy and would turn out an even greater man, although his father felt he didn't necessarily earn the right to take credit for that. The boy would do it on his own, with a little help from the Maganac Corps.
"Well?" Quatre said, trying not to sound impatient. He had always felt uncomfortable in his father's presence, ever since teenage rebellion had taken its hold in rather unusual circumstances. But the events of earlier this year had almost made things worse instead of better. Though Quatre had gotten past his ill feelings about his birth, thanks to the help from his new friends, it also caused another conflict. Quatre felt that the distance between them was becoming even greater, in more ways than his father had realized.
Remembering his purpose, Mr. Winner's look of pride turned back to anger. "What's this about Alliance soldiers running the camp you're going to?"
Quatre turned pale. He had known he couldn't hide from the fact forever, though that didn't make this any easier to deal with. He felt bad about lying to his father, but he never would let him go otherwise. And he needed to do this.
"It's not Alliance soldiers," he corrected. "They're just cadets. Teenagers like me. And it isn't just cadets either. Normal kids will be there too."
Mr. Winner turned red with fury. "I don't care what they call them, fighting is fighting, no matter what age you are. I forbid you to get mixed up in that."
"I won't," his only son replied wearily. "Rashid is coming too, and so are Abdul, Auda, Ahmad, and a lot of others."
That's what I'm afraid of, his father thought to himself.
"They won't let anything happen to me. It's just like any other camp, it's perfectly safe."
"Than why do you have to go to this one, if there are so many others. Are you planning something foolish?"
Quatre thought his father somewhat resembled an eggplant, the way he was turning purple like that. "No," he lied. "I just want to see the Earth, and this is the only way I know of getting there. No other Earth camp would accept someone from the colonies," he reminded him. "Even one with your connections." That was the truth, not that it mattered to him one way or another. Whether his father liked it or not, he would go, even if it meant he had to run away.
His father sighed. "Fine, I give up. Go to your camp. But stay out of trouble."
"I will." Quatre crossed his fingers behind his back. Trouble was exactly what he was looking for. By his father's standards, anyway. Deep inside, he felt he was doing something good, useful, helpful. Something that being the Winner heir and a businessman couldn't do for the colonies. Even though he had believed he was insignificant because he was born in a test tube, he still could do something important. The Maganacs had taught him that. They were his family in a way his 29 sisters, however much they meant to him, could never be. And they would continue to be there for him throughout this ordeal. At that moment, they were setting up tents near the camp, ready to help their "Master Quatre" at a moment's notice. What his father had been told was that Rashid and the others would be there to protect him as bodyguards. In reality, they were his back up. This was his responsibility and his alone: to fight to protect the people he cared about.
"Come on, Quatre," his sister said. "I'll help you pack." She put her arms around him protectively and walked with him up the stairs. At the top of the staircase, she turned back to look at her father. "Go easy on him" her face said. Mr. Winner waved her away.
"I need a drink," he muttered once they were out of earshot.
"Here you go." Instructor H appeared beside him, holding out a glass of rum. He looked at him in surprise.
"Thank you," he said and took a long swig. "Too much ice," he commented.
The scientist shrugged innocently. Mr. Winner wasn't a heavy drinker, but it wouldn't do any good to start now. He waddled up the stairs after the children before their father could notice.
* * * * * *
Quatre fiddled with his violin, checking to make sure it was in tune. "He just doesn't understand," he complained.
Iria nodded sympathetically. "I know it seems that way, brother. But he just doesn't want you to get hurt."
Quatre tested his work. Squeak! "I guess, but I have to do this. I just wish he would support me for a change, instead of making me lie to him. Nothing I do ever pleases him."
His sister chuckled. "Welcome to the club. He only acts like that. He really is proud of you. He just isn't good at showing it."
Quatre sighed. "I'll say. I can't remember the last time he said something positive to me, or anything for that matter without yelling."
"Oh, Quatre." Iria hugged her little brother tightly. She loved him dearly. Out of all his sisters, she was closest to him. Perhaps it was because of their mother. He reminded Iria so much of her. He was as brave and noble as she was. If only he had known her. She sighed inwardly. He'd be even worse off if he knew the truth. It was one thing to be born in a test tube, but to be the cause of his mother's death… His gentle soul wouldn't be able to bear it.
* * * * * *
Mr. Winner swirled the ice around in his glass. He was reclined in an easy chair in their living room. In his other hand, he held a picture frame. It displayed himself and Quatre when he was just a little boy. Quatre was holding his hand and gazing up at his father, smiling adoringly.
His father took another sip. He missed that little boy. Though he loved all his children equally (and that was certainly plenty to love), Quatre was his only son and still his little boy. It tore him apart that he resented him so much.
"What am I going to do with him, Quatrine?" He spoke to his dead wife. "He's so stubborn. Just like you."
I'm no more stubborn than you are. The voice echoed over and over in his head, as clear as someone had really spoken. She'd always said that to him whenever he called her stubborn. He supposed she was right. With his wife he could take it when she disagreed with him about something, but it was different with his son. What happened to the sweet little boy in the picture? He turned into a brooding moody teenager almost overnight. True, he was still sweet, but the resentment in his eyes when he talked to his father was clear. Mr. Winner blamed himself for it. But the Winner family was famous and with that fame came a responsibility. He couldn't simply throw away his ideals of pacifism; his son knew that. As heir of the Winner family, it was his responsibility to carry on that tradition in the colonies. The truth was that Mr. Winner was proud of his son for fighting for what he believed in. But he only supported his son in his head, and Quatre would never know it.
Mr. Winner glanced at the drink in his hand in disgust, finally realizing what he was doing. It would do him no good to drown his sorrows in alcohol. All things considered, he would forget about his reputation if it meant he could prove to his son that he truly did love him. But he was terrified. He'd seen the horrors of war that he'd spoken out against. He'd seen the lives lost, the people suffering. He didn't want his son to go through the same thing that he was fighting to stop. Mr. Winner sighed. If only Quatre could see that.
* * * * * *
"Are you ready, Master Quatre?" Instructor H asked him.
"I'm ready." Quatre's jaw was set as he accepted what the scientist had given him. Iria had never seen him look so determined in all of his life. She buried her face in her hands.
"Oh, Quatre, you're really going to go?" she sobbed. Though she knew little about the details, she knew that he had lied. Quatre refused to tell her about it, but she could see it in his eyes. This wasn't an ordinary trip.
"Yeah, I am," he said simply. He hugged his sister fiercely. She wiped her eyes on his sleeve.
"Oh, Quatre," she repeated in a whisper. She knew nothing she could say or do would stop him and she wouldn't try. She knew him better than all of their sisters, though they saw eachother only a little while she was in medical school, and she knew he needed his freedom. But it wouldn't keep her from worrying. "Be careful."
"I will. And I'll see you during the holidays, I promise." Tears welled up in his eyes too. He would miss all of them. "Tell father…" He couldn't finish. He didn't have to.
"He knows, Quatre, he knows." She sniffled.
"I'd hate to interrupt the moment," Instructor H cut in, "but you have a phone call."
Quatre walked over to the vidphone. The face of a large Arabian man was on the screen. It was Rashid, the head of the Maguanac Corps.
"We await your arrival, Master Quatre," he said. His voice was stern, but his eyes were warm. Rashid was somewhat of a father figure to Quatre and very protective of him, though somewhat more understanding than his real father was. The two had become very close in the short time they'd known eachother.
Quatre smiled at him gratefully. "Thank you, Rashid. And I look forward to seeing you."
"As do we." He heard shots in the background. "The others wish to say hello."
"Hey, Master Quatre!" The three faces of Abdul, Auda and Ahmad appeared trying to squish together so he could see all of them. Out of the whole Maganac Corps, these men and Rashid were his favorites. They liked him just as much as he did them.
"We'll be there to meet you at the airport," said Abdul. He was distinguished by his sunglasses, which he rarely took off, even inside. Quatre had heard that he'd had problems with his eyes because of damage from the sun, which was apparently very intense in the desert. He'd soon see for himself.
"We can't wait to see you," they chorused.
He wiped the tears from his eyes. "Me neither."
"He'll show those guys, right?" said Auda. A cheer erupted in the background.
Quatre blushed. "I'll do my best." Rashid pushed them away, shaking his head.
"As they said, we'll meet you tonight," he said, his tone not betraying his own excitement. "Good bye."
"Bye." Quatre hung up. "Well, I guess I'd better finish packing." Iria burst into tears again.
"Come on, let's leave him alone." Instructor H took her by the arm gently and led her out of the room. He lingered in the doorway.
"Was there something else?" Quatre asked him. He shook his head, but still didn't move. The scientist observed him carefully.
"Are you sure…?" he began. "No, never mind." He knew he couldn't talk him out of it either. Instructor H didn't feel right about it. Quatre was too kind a person for this. He couldn't, no, shouldn't be going. It could ruin him for life.
Instructor H cleared his throat. "Well, just one thing."
"Yes?" Quatre waited for him to continue patiently.
"No matter what, don't lose that kind heart of yours. Don't listen to what other people tell you. Follow your own heart, Quatre. It will be hard, but try not to change. Promise me, for everyone's sake." With that said, he slipped quietly out the door.
"I'll try," Quatre promised softly. He would, but he knew it would be difficult. Something, whether it was the soul of outer space or just a gut feeling, told him that he would never be the same again.
