Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Gundam W, except for the fanfics I write, the fantasies I dream up, and the pictures I draw; I don't own anybody here, okay! Just the story!

Tommie Gurl here, I just got back from Durango, after taking a much needed vacation sight-seeing in CO...The first thing I did when I came back was add this chapter. I sure hope you enjoy it! I just happened to write it while listening to Metallica, silly ol' me, letting music influence my tone...'Sokay so far, I stayed up 'til midnight to finish it, so appreciate the hard work!

Wufei stalked to his room. He slammed the door loudly, and then collapsed on his bed, glaring at the ceiling above. He folded his rock-hard fists behind his head and chewed his lip for a minute or two.

What could've happened to Heero and Duo? Where in the hell could they be? He'd noticed that they, well...were becoming rather intimate with each other, and it had been a real turning point for everyone, especially Quatre and Trowa, who were starting to exhibit the same signs of higher affection. Wufei snorted. Sissy stuff. It made him sick to think that Heero would start bending, especially towards that lunatic. Wufei had always thought lowly of Duo Maxwell; he was always annoying Wufei and humiliating him with his crude humor and stupid pranks. Heero was the only one Wufei respected out of their group. Because of Duo, all that was gone; now he was starting to doubt Heero's ability to stand tall and remain stoical in his ways. Now Heero was a failure, a complete weakling for letting his lovey-dovey feelings get in the way of his real decisions.

The Chinese boy growled a curse to himself and punched the wall angrily. He hated things he didn't understand, and this whole mess was one of them.

He again reviewed the possiblity of a set-up. They never failed missions, except for the occasional botch from Duo, but otherwise, Heero's missions were always completed on time, without any evidence, and he even returned at the exact time he said he would. He was that good at keeping promises. Duo on the other hand, was rather unpredictable, and he had an affinity for getting sidetracked. Often he would return scruffy, disheveled and broke, obvioiusly having gambled somewhere before returning. On one occasion, he even came home, singin' drunk. Wufei never had so much as a drop of alchohol in his life, and he wasn't about to start now. He had too many things at risk, mainly his pride and poise.

Who could've set them up? OZ, of course. OZ was the enemy. Destroy OZ. Wufei sat up on the bed, folded his legs, and began his meditation.

Trowa and Quatre were sitting on the couch in the den, silently gazing at the flickering images on the large flatscreen TV in front of them. The faint smell of chai tea hovered in the atmosphere, and the only sounds in the room were that of the TV, the occasional sip, or shifts in movement.

Trowa's mind wandered. It was the first time his mind had ever wandered, it seemed. He was thinking about everything at once. Heero and Duo, Wufei's sudden outburst, and the taste of sweet tea on his tongue. It was bliss to be sitting here, calmly sipping hot tea on a leather sofa next to Quatre. He didn't dare look Quatre too much in the eye. For some reason, he felt that the boy would read everything about him, just by gazing at him with those gentle blue eyes, shaded by soft, platinum blonde hair.

Trowa crossed and uncrossed his legs, and moved his hand to scratch behind his ear. He examined the stitching on the sofa. He watched a boy fall off his bicycle on TV.

"Trowa...are you okay?"

Trowa almost flinched at the sound of his name. Quatre had said it in such a way that it was totally directed at him, and him alone. Strangely enough, it didn't feel like an intrusion. In fact, the tall boy was almost relieved that Quatre had asked him such a question. Was he really being abnormal? He looked from the corner of his eye at the blonde teenager and noticed that Quatre was looking concerned, even a little fearful.

"It's nothing." Trowa answered. Damn. He had answered too hastily. Maybe he should just leave the den and head upstairs to bed...

"You look a bit flushed. Are you feverish?" Quatre leaned in a bit closer to examine Trowa's features. Trowa leaned away instinctively, and suddenly felt Quatre's hand on his forehead.

The softness of it, the warmth... Trowa felt a shiver run through his body, even though he felt like he was burning up inside. He held his breath. What was wrong with him? He didn't feel nauseated or feverish, just jittery. About what? He instantly blamed the tea. Too much caffeine, too much energy...

Quatre's voice erased all his thoughts. "You're a bit warm..."

"I'm fine." Trowa noticed the slender hand was now touching his face, his ear, the back of his neck. It drove him crazy. It felt wonderful, it was exactly what he needed...the touch of another human being on his skin. It was a missing piece of the puzzle.

"Trowa?" Quatre now sounded surprised. Trowa opened his eyes, realizing just now that they were closed, and that his own hand was now pressing Quatre's to his cheek. Heart pounding, he let go of Quatre's hand and swiftly got up from the sofa. "I'm going to bed now," he said quietly, and departed, leaving the dumbfounded boy on the sofa.

In a faraway colony, doctors had just finished operating on Patient no. 807397. Swathed like a mummy, the figure on the table was hardly recognizable; his face was cleansed of blood, but the bandages and the oxygen mask made it hard to distinguish his features. Not a muscle moved, save for the steady up and down movement of his chest. His shoulder was swathed completely in bandages, with a darkening patch of blood forming where the stump was located. His arm lay seperately in a pack of ice, lifeless and gray in a stainless steel pan. His body was connected to monitors and several bags of liquid substances essential for his survival.

"Hmm...We have a good chance of reattaching his arm...the problem is, if we do it manually, he's going to take years to heal and rehabilitate. Have you identified him yet?"

"No, Doctor. We haven't been able to trace any records to either Earth or the colonies. I'm afraid he's lost, practically a nobody in this world..."

"Anyhow...I will perform the surgery. And I will do so using my latest method."

"But Doctor...it might be too late. Will he even adapt to it?"

"If he's been able to pull through this far, he's more than likely to adapt. I'm going to get ready now."

"If you insist. If it goes wrong, don't say I didn't warn you."

"I will accept full responsibility of this patient. I understand what you say, but this will be my own doing."

The doctor briskly walked into the room where he scrubbed his hands down, drew on a fresh set of scrubs, and snapped on a pair of surgical gloves. Wrinkling his nose at the latex smell, he directed the nurses and doctors to prepare the patient and get the tools ready. As soon as everything was set, he took a long look at the mangled arm in the pan by the operating table.

"Dispose of the arm. We won't be needing it from here."