Chapter Twelve
1/
"Is that . . . Trowa?"
Heero Yuy's eyes narrowed, dark blue slits embedded in brown skin. He looked up from the white glow of his laptop. The apartment was dark except for the laptop's screen and the flashing scenery of the television. Stifling a yawn, he minimized all the windows open on the computer and crossed the room to sit carefully down upon the sofa. Duo Maxwell, cross-legged on the carpet, remained glued to the t.v.
"I'll be damned," Heero swore softly, directing Duo to turn up the volume.
A Channel 7 reporter stood before the camera, mike held close to his mouth as he pushed his way through a crowd of cameramen and journalists towards the steps of a huge building.
"I'm here at the historical Governor's Mansion on Colony C1716, Lagrange Point 1," the reporter shouted above the roar. "Crucial information related to the plot against the powerful Winner family has just been uncovered--the mastermind behind this scheme has surrendered himself, and is about to make a public statement--"
The camera zoomed in on a small figure behind a podium at the top of the steps. The boy was dwarfed by the men surrounding him and the century-old columns holding up the roof of the Governor's Mansion, but his features were unmistakable.
"It is him!" Duo's mouth fell open, shock written all over his face. "What the fuck?"
Heero frowned.
Somewhere on Colony C1716, Trowa Barton coolly addressed the hundreds of cameras focused on him.
2/
"I don't regret my actions, nor do I care to explain them." Trowa held his breath for a moment. This was it. This was his moment. Butterflies swooped around in his stomach--felt like he was going to puke. "I confess to all charges against me, and am prepared to accept the consequences."
3/ Heero felt Duo's left hand on his right shoe. Anchor. An anchor into reality. He blinked.
The camera returned to the Channel 7 reporter as Trowa was led into the Mansion. "As you can see," the reporter said breathlessly, "Barton is being taken to the colony's maximum security prison at this moment--the Winner family has not pressed charges yet, but it has recently suffered a huge blow with the death of the late Mr. Winner's daughter, Iria Winner."
The television screen abruptly divided into two halves--on one side the reporter, on the other the Channel 7 studio and two newscasters.
"Is it true that Barton was a Gundam pilot in the Eve Wars?" a pretty Asian newscaster asked.
"Yes, it is," said the reporter. "In fact, there are rumors that the young heir of the Winner family was himself involved in the Wars, and was a comrade of Barton's at some point."
"That might explain the Winners' reluctance to press--"
Heero got up and pressed the power button.
"Wh-what!" Duo reached forward to turn the television back on, but Heero caught his hand. "Heero--"
"Shut up." His head hurt. Half of him sort of anxious about Duo's fingers warm against his own; he should really let them go, but he didn't want to. Half of him reeling because he knew Trowa was bullshitting the billions of people out there attached to their screens like Heero had been only seconds before. And by now he had concluded that Les Frères--or whoever they were--had indeed been targetting Quatre Winner. So of course Trowa had no reason to confess to anything--but then why . . . ?
That girl, Cathrine. She had bait written all over her. So maybe Trowa had been framed. Or blackmailed.
Duo's gaze was piercing, curious but wary. Like he knew what was going on inside of Heero's head. But Heero wasn't sure what exactly he could do. If Trowa was going public with this, in all likelihood his sister was in danger and he was willing to sacrifice himself for her. Heero didn't think he could interfere without treading on a lot of toes. Thin ice all around.
"We aren't going to talk about this," he told Duo firmly.
A shrill tone from the laptop announced that Heero had mail. Duo jerked his hand away, giving Heero a strange look before turning away to face the television again. Sighing inwardly, Heero stood and returned to his computer, clicking on the icon that brought up his mailbox. He guessed what it was before he actually saw it; not many people had his e-mail address, and he could think of only one that had reason to contact him.
The message was short and to the point--Heero hadn't been expecting sentimentality, but the cold honesty worried him a little. 'By the time you receive this, I will have confessed to a crime I won't say I'm innocent of, and will be unable to initiate contact with the outside world. I must therefore ask a favor of you . . .'
He hastily memorized the number the message supplied, and deleted the message entirely, as it had directed.
Then he picked up the nearby telephone receiver, and dialed.
4/
When they dropped her off at the airport and gave her the ticket she cried. Not aloud, just soft little sobs that went unnoticed by the people around her hurrying from point A to point B. When she was in control again, she walked in the direction opposite the terminal. First to the bathroom, where she washed her face and avoided looking at herself in the mirror. Then outside, under the stars. The colony weather control system was simulating night. She was vaguely aware that this involved blocking out sunlight in some way; the sleep patterns of the residents of the colony were at odds with the length of time that the earth's orbit obstructed the rays of the sun.
Mentally numb, Cathrine's feet led her down a street crowded with businessmen and construction workers, families and couples, war veterans and pacifists. They'd be boarding the shuttle in a few hours. Here was a souvenir shop, selling overpriced tee-shirts and figurines. Across the street was an ice-cream stand. And there was a growing collection of people, staring up at the huge rectangular surface of the public vid-screen.
". . . do I care to explain them." Trowa. That was Trowa speaking, his feral green eyes blinking slowly, as if he didn't quite know what he was saying. She stepped forward, face uplifted and blank. "I confess to all charges against me, and am prepared to accept the consequences."
"What . . . what's going on?" A girl beside her was tugging on the sleeve of her tall companion.
Cathrine listened, half-dazed as the man explained, "Some former Gundam pilot turned himself in a few hours ago--he was, like, the leader of some sort of anti-Muslim organization that was, you know, targetting that Winner guy . . . I dunno, it's been all over the news, but I haven't been paying much attention. Your sweet little face keeps distracting me . . ."
The girl giggled. For a moment, Cathrine was somewhere else--
Trowa bound and walking down the aisle of the church that was really a prison. Trowa blindfolded but still unmistakably himself. The shape of his mouth when it formed her name. How dear his voice, his scent, his presence was. How much she loved him.
--and then she was turning away. It hurt. More than she thought anything could ever hurt, but it did, and she wasn't sure she could stand it.
"I know what you're thinking, Trowa," she whispered to herself. The lights of the terminal, of the airport lobby, made a gaudy yellow parallelogram upon the gray sidewalk. She halted just short of the entrance. "You always take . . . the easy way out."
But she'd thought those old urges had died after Trowa's retirement from the battlefield. She'd thought she would never again see that look in his eyes (Trowa in his mobile suit, preparing to self-detonate--her hand hard against his face and it wasn't impossible for him to see reason, after all).
What would become of him? Her captors must have threatened him somehow; maybe if she went into hiding, and contacted him anonymously, and said she was safe and he didn't have to do this--but where, and how long did she have? Maybe . . . maybe she could get in touch with Winner . . . but what good would that do? Would anyone believe Trowa if he retracted his confession now?
A stocky little man in uniform came running out of the airport, his face very red. When he saw her, he asked quickly, "Are you Miss Bloom?"
"Y-yeah," Cathrine said, startled out of her thoughts.
"Good, good, please come with me." The man spun on his heel and reentered the airport, Cathrine following behind warily.
Past the lobby and the reception desk the man led her, down a sterile white hallway and into a private office. The man gestured to the phone, which was off its hook--"You have a call waiting."--and left her.
Well this is how it all started, isn't it? Telephone calls and men in suits. She cradled the receiver in her hands for a moment, then pressed it to her ear. "Hello."
"Cathrine Bloom?"
"Here." She thought she recognized the voice, throaty and deep, but couldn't place it.
"Your brother says to not worry about him, and please take care of the lions."
"H-huh?" A click, like the caller had hung up. "Wait a second!" Silence and then the dial tone. Cathrine replaced the receiver where it belonged. She could only assume that Trowa had made contact with someone and told them to deliver his message. Just like him. Basically telling her to butt out and return to the circus, where she belonged. She would have laughed if the tears hadn't already been falling from her eyes like pearls.