DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gundam Wing or any song by the Smashing Pumpkins. Don't sue; I am simply an E5 in the USN, and therefore have no money. So ha.

-BEGIN FIC-

The world is a vampire, sent to drain
secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames
and what do I get, for my pain
betrayed desires, and a piece of the game

Bullet With Butterfly Wings

-- 22:22 --

Trowa narrowed his eyes as he peered through the high magnification binoculars at the car that sat in the parking lot approximately two hundred yards away just outside of the brightly lit pub that was the only bright spot on the otherwise dark Fresno street at that time of night.

It had taken him two days. Two long, torturous days of tracing signal after signal, plotting travel paths and reading coordinates rebounded off of the local satellites to locate the person he now considered his 'prey' in the city of Fresno, which laid a good two hundred and forty miles away from the remote hotel room he'd shared with Quatre in Barstow. From one desert to another had he ridden the Harley Davidson V-Rod, having abandoned the nearly useless and thoroughly destroyed Mercedes in the parking lot of that hotel that seemed so many millions of miles away.

He still harbored doubts about this maneuver. He'd abandoned Quatre, going directly against the almost stringent orders that had been placed upon his person by the only other person involved in the investigation behind who was responsible for the aggressive attempts on the blonde's life. He'd abandoned him without word or warning that morning in Barstow, leaving naught but a note proclaiming that he would be back within a couple of days and instructing him to sit tight until he returned.

'Why did I do that?' Trowa silently questioned, shaking his head. 'Of any of us, he's the most headstrong. Without someone there to keep him out of trouble, who knows what he'll get himself into….'

'Shit. Movement.'

As the door of the pub swung open, Trowa leaned forward in his seat, gripping the motorcycle's strong metal handlebars to support his frame.

He gulped, sweat beading upon his forehead as he saw his target emerge from the establishment.

He recognized far too well the six-foot tall form, thin and lanky in its seemingly traditional or customary white t-shirt and acid-washed jeans combination, head topped by shortly cropped brown hair spiked with styling gel. The figure, apparently unaware that it was being observed, turned to its partner and opened his wide, thin lips to continue with a conversation hat had very likely begun within the confines of the bar.

Turning his attention to Xavier Johnson's companion, Trowa found himself huffing softly in annoyance. It was a person he did not recognize.

Standing as tall as the lank spy by his side, this man was a bit heavier set in the shoulders. Wearing a dark trench coat and jeans coupled with a t-shirt who's color blended in too well with the dark shades of the fallen night to be properly discerned, he was more of a shadow beside his partner for everything but his hair, who's blonde locks which had been swept into spiked, flowing bangs off to the right side of the man's face veritably glowed with the florescent light that spilled from the gaudy beer advertising signs that hung in the pub's windows. His stride was precise and calculated, worlds different than the strolling, casual stroll his walking companion adopted. Hands stuffed in the deep pockets of his trench coat, this man looked cautiously from side to side as if seeking those who would be overly observant of their departure from the drinking establishment, far to the contrary of his almost lackadaisical companion.

Trowa frowned as they continued to speak, silently cursing his inability to read lips as a distance of two hundred yards even when assisted by high power binoculars.

The two men walked to the Ford Taurus that Xavier had rented, Trowa rested his finger against his ear, pressing the small microphone he had stashed in his channel more firmly into place. As their voices came in crystal clear over the small device, the emerald-eyed ex-pilot felt his lips turn with an angry frown.

Xavier's voice was the first to merrily chirp out, "Yeah, they apparently have subverted us somehow. We found him trying to dodge our little trap."

"How very annoying. So what you're telling me is that this person you'd hired to assist you in eliminating him is working against us?" the voice that belonged to the person Trowa had failed to recognized growled quietly.

"Unfortunately. And he's gotten the person he claimed was going to be his field assistant to trust him explicitly. Unfortunately it would seem that the brat is better protected for my efforts."

"You're disappointing me, Xavier," the other man warned.

A quick laugh escaped Xavier, recognizable by its slightly higher pitch than the other voice had. "I know, I know. But don't worry about it. I've got more than one plan, my dear friend. I won't fail. The kid will be dead by the end of the month."

"You'd better see to it," that other voice hissed softly, "or you'll be dead by the end of the month. The man I'm working for doesn't like long delays, and he doesn't like lame excuses. You've been screwing us over, and our patience with you is beginning to wear thin."

"Give me a little more time. James'll spill. He'll know exactly where they're located. And if I play my cards right, he'll lead us right to them."

"And if he doesn't?"

"Then I get to do what I've been praying I'd be able to do to him since I first started having to work with him," Xavier said softly.

"I'll kill him."

-- 09:25, Yesterday --

It had been three days since the bold strike against Quatre at the Aquarium of the Pacific, and still they were hiding in the hotel room that Trowa and James had originally occupied upon their arrival in Southern California. The two adolescent boys had hidden in that room, almost terrified of leaving the establishment, worried that by some off chance the attackers who'd moved so suddenly and unexpectedly had followed them and were simply awaiting their emergence into the light of day.

To wile away the time that slowly plodded morosely about them, the pair had been indulging in television and aimless chatter.

"I'll bet you my shirt that the Bills score the next touchdown."

"You're on," Trowa said with a slight smirk turning the corners of his lips even as his eyes remained glued on the screen, watching carefully the arrangement of the players on the bright green field.

"And I'll bet you that we're being overly cautious."

"No way in hell."

The blonde sighed quietly, shaking his head. "Call it cabin fever. Call it being antsy. Call it whatever you want. I want to leave this place, Trowa. Do you realize how many meetings I've missed? Mr. Fugardi's probably leaving messages up the wazzoo on my cellular, which is STILL in my old hotel room."

"I'm not going to risk another attack, Quatre," Trowa said, glancing over as the referee blew his whistle, calling an off sides penalty on the Chargers. "Until I'm certain that whoever your attackers are aren't in the area, I don't want us leaving."

"But…!"

"No buts."

Crossing his arms, the blonde huffed. "You're being entirely unreasonable. I was unprepared when that occurred. I'll be ready this time. And you'll be prepared as well. See? I've nothing to fear."

"I'm not going for it, Quatre."

"Don't tell me you're going to make me sit here and wait!" he whined.

"Yep."

"I need my phone. What if James calls?"

"Use this phone to call one of your lackeys. They'll be able to get it, won't they?" Trowa asked, arching a brow.

"They aren't my lackeys," Quatre huffed.

"Then what do you call them?"

"Loyal retainers."

"As said, lackeys. Call the one with the sunglasses."

"Fine," Quatre said with a snort, reaching over and picking up the phone's handle. Quickly typing in a phone number, he crossed his arms and waited.

Trowa shook his head at the blonde's peevish behavior before turning back to the television set.

Quatre suddenly got a dark green turtleneck deposited on his head.

"Huh?" he gasped, reaching up to blindly grope the fabric and rip it off its golden nest. Staring at it, he blinked in confusion before turning a questioning gaze to the now shirtless boy on the bed with him.

"The Bills scored."

Sticking out his tongue, Quatre sniggered. "Told you they would, silly. Ah! Abdul! You finally picked up!"

Trowa lost the conversation as the blonde switched languages, speaking to the Arab on the other end of the line in their native tongue. Turning back to the television, he sighed and continued to watch, his mind turning the information he'd been gathering over the last few days over and over.

'He might be right. They might not have followed us out here.'

'But if they did, they could simply be biding their time. Perhaps waiting for us to make a run for it, or to meet back up with Mr. Waverly, or go to one of Quatre's meetings. That strike at the Aquarium… it was entirely uncalled for. Either a tactical maneuver that resulted in failure, or a mistake made by someone who was entirely too ambitious.'

'Which still brings up the question of who exactly is out to take Quatre's life. And how they knew where to look for him. And why they're after him in the first place.'

Glancing over at the easily chatting Arab, he frowned. 'Is he right in his suspicion that he's voiced; is this all because he's taking part in the newly forming government of the Earth Sphere United Nation, fighting for peace between the Earth Sphere and the colonies that circle it?'

'If that's it, then it doesn't make any sense. Why strike against him? Relena Dorlain is as loud and present as he is in declaring that peace should rule, and she takes as much a part in the peace processes as he does when it comes to establishing new policies and procedures.'

'Why Quatre Raberba Winner? Is it because he's a representative from the colonies? Or….'

'Is it because he was once a Gundam pilot?'

Trowa shook his head. 'Can't be that. To the Earth Sphere, the pilot of Gundam 04 is still and forever will be an unknown in the flow of the history of the Eve War. The Maganacs have already confirmed that Sandrock is still technically their property in the eyes of those who've shown interest in its existence.'

'And so where does the interest in his Gundam play into all of this?'

Rubbing his forehead, he leaned back, returning his focus to the television, trying to lose himself into the less perplexing intrincities of the game that played on. 'I wish I had a few answers. I wish I knew what was going on.'

'I wish I could truly help you.'

The phone clicked onto its base behind him. Without turning Trowa asked, "They're going to get your phone?"

"Yeah," Quatre said quietly, crawling along the bed to sit beside him once again. Turning his gaze to Trowa's face he frowned slightly, his gesture washing his face in a blanket of concern. "I know nothing either. Please, stop troubling your mind about this. If we sit on our brains all day and simply try to figure all of this out without actively seeking information, we're going to be running in circles and coming up with naught but the conclusions we've already reached."

Arching a brow, Trowa glanced over. "How did you know…?"

A calm shrug moved Quatre's shoulders. "I just do. Now please, do relax. There's nothing we can do at this moment than play into their hands and see what move they'll make next."

Trowa narrowed his eyes.

"After all, even in the most perfectly played of games there must be sacrifices if one's to see what their opponent's strategizing."

As the boy's quietly spoken words registered in the emerald-eyed boy's mind, Trowa felt his lips turn with another frown. 'And just who is that sacrifice supposed to be, Quatre? Me?'

'Or is it you?'

'That won't be allowed. Not so long as I am here. Not so long as you're in my care.'

"Can't always be safe in this life, Trowa," Quatre softly said, closing his brilliant blue eyes. "After all, it's only for a sacrifice of pain and the betrayal of our deepest desires that we get a piece of the game. And only once we sacrifice ourselves can we ever hope to escape this board and fly from this horrible plot that envelops us all…."

Trowa snarled.

And, unable to take Quatre's soft proclamations that he would indeed be the sacrifice offered to those who hunted him for the simple prize of information and resolution, he did the only thing he could think to do to silence him.

The blonde froze, eyes wide, as Trowa took his lips with his own.

Many a long minute passed before they finally separated and Trowa brought himself to look into the smaller boy's eyes.

A frown took his lips, even as he softly said, "You're staying put."

"But-" Quatre began to complain.

"No buts. If information is what you need, then information is what you're going to get."

Nodding once, Trowa crossed his arms.

"We can't wait on Mr. Waverly's call. You remain here. I'll go find out who's after you and why."

"But why…?"

Trowa let the smile that threatened to tear at his lips slowly leak out. "Because."

"Care to expand on that?"

"Because I feel like it."

-- 20:10, 9 Days Ago --

Turning a curious eye to his companion, Trowa frowned. "So-"

"We're here," James interrupted with a nod. "Best head on inside before it gets much colder, kid."

A clip of a nod indicating agreement was all that Trowa gave the longhaired man before he delicately pushed against the door of the ransack little shack. As the door creaked loudly, he eased himself inside.

The door clicked shut behind him, effectively separating him from the world that existed outside and the man whom had made his life a living hell barely a half year ago. Trowa sighed quietly, his shoulders drooping from their taunt position with visible relief at being away from that man.

"Shit, I didn't think you'd actually come," a voice chirped out of the darkness.

Trowa froze. He'd known that this person would be here. He'd known that he was meeting yet another shadow from the past, one who had been involved in the events that had turned his life upside down on what had seemed to be nothing more than a simple mission all those months ago, turning that data recon trip into a nightmarish brain-demolishing escapade into the warped plotting of the Romafeller Foundation and the equally eclectic plans woven by the blonde he'd found himself caring deeply for. Still, that knowledge didn't ease the shock of that sudden meeting any.

Turning on his heel, he stared. 'He's just as I remember him. Nothing's god-damned changed,' Trowa's mind silently hissed.

Standing easily before him, a gun in hand and a smile upon his lips, Xavier Johnson motioned to a chair. "Please, over there. And let me pat you down for weapons first, yes?"

"Of course," Trowa softly said, inclining his head slightly to look the taller man in the eyes. "Provided you put your weapon down first, Mr. Johnson."

"Ah, so you do remember me?" Xavier said brightly, his lips curling into a cheerful smile.

"I could never forget any of you three, no matter how hard I try."

"I suppose I should be honored," the older man laughed, shaking his head as he put his gun back into its holster at his side and bent a the knee to pat Trowa's legs, searching for any hidden weaponry at his ankles and the tops of his boots.

Enduring the quick pat-down silently, the boy frowned. "I was brought here to hear what you have to tell me concerning what's occurring with Quatre Raberba Winner. I expect that you're going to tell me everything that's relevant?"

"Wow, that certainly killed any chance for small-talk," Xavier said with a chuckle.

"I'm not here for small-talk. I don't care how you are or what you've been doing for these last six months."

"Alright, point taken." His smirk still upon his lips, the man slipped into a chair and shook his head. Leaning against the table, his elbow resting firmly against its top, he pressed his cheek into the cupped palm of his hand. "You do already know that there's someone after the life of Quatre Raberba Winner, don't you?"

"I've been allowed to be aware of that. Otherwise I wouldn't be here," Trowa said with a snort.

"Alright. There's some suspicion that it's a radical terrorist group who opposes to the peace promotion that he's heading. They want him out of the picture to throw the Earth Sphere into chaos and utilize that situation to begin another war, one which would possibly secure them a foothold at the head of rule on its termination."

"Something like what Romafeller originally intended?"

Xavier chuckled. "More like what Dekim of the Barton Foundation had dreamed about."

Trowa let his eyes widen.

"Yes, I know all about Operation Meteor. Don't be so shocked, kiddo! Despite what that jackass outside has told you, I'm not as incompetent as I look."

"I never believed you were incompetent for a moment," Trowa truthfully admitted, narrowing his eyes. "I believe you, like Duo, play the part of the chipper fool to turn people away from the suspicion that you actually know much more than you let on. You hide your knowledge, your awareness of the situations that surround you, and your intellect behind a mask."

Arching a brow, Xavier finally let his lips fall from their smile. "I see."

"Please, continue. What group is this, and why are they only targeting Quatre? Certainly Relena Dorlain would be as much of a probable target for such a purpose."

"Well, here's what I know. From what my employer has told me, it's not simply because he's a representative in this fight for peace. It's also because he's from the colonies. The same stigmatism isn't held towards Ms. Dorlain as she's a simple earthling, and can't be held to the expectation to understand the pain and the loneliness experienced by the colonies as Mr. Winner should be able to. He's become Earth's lap dog, and the people are angry."

"And how does your employer know this?" Trowa asked softly.

"Because he's been petitioned by this organization to join them in their quest to overthrow the current reign of the Earth Sphere and assist in their rise to power."

"And how could your employer do this?" he pressed on.

Xavier shrugged as he calmly confirmed, "Because my employer was once CEO of a weapons manufacturing enterprise. Though he's since turned his plants to colony-based manufacturing in an attempt to assist in the repair of the damages done during the battles of the last few turbulent months that preceded the Eve War, his reputation as a weapons manufacturer remains rather widely spread and well known."

Trowa arched a brow and frowned. "And why would this person be concerned for the continued welfare of Mr. Winner? Certainly he could make more profit from turning to weapons manufacturing once more."

"My employer is not a person who wishes for war, Mr. Barton. He, like most other people in this new era, is enjoying the taste of peace and the joy of doing something to benefit people rather than doing something that brings harm to the innocent populous. And he has had the wisdom to see that Mr. Winner's assassination would indeed bring about the turmoil this terrorist organization is striving for, and being a fan of the boy who's very company has assisted his own in their combined efforts to bring peace and quality life to the members of the colony population, he wishes for his continued existence."

"Mr. Winner's subsidizing him?"

"Yep."

Trowa rubbed his forehead. 'Very round-about story, but it all makes sense. Damn. What if he really is telling the truth…?'

"And what's the name of this organization?" Trowa ventured.

"You know them well enough. They're the remnants of the White Fang."

Trowa felt his eyes widen considerably as he nearly choked on his own breath of air. 'No… no way!'

"And one more thing," Xavier calmly continued, "you'd best watch yourself."

"Why do you say that?" Trowa attempted to calmly ask.

"Because the man who was responsible for their introduction into the chaos near the termination of the conflicts at Christmas, who was partially responsible for assisting Quinze with their initial establishment, is working with them once again."

"What do you-"

"Mr. Waverly, Mr. Barton. Mr. Waverly, working with Sedici, was responsible for the assassination of Colonel Tsuberov, for the overtaking of Space Fortress Libra, and for the rise of the White Fang."

Trowa narrowed his eyes. "There's no proof of-"

"Will a security video from the Libra be proof enough?"

And Trowa stared as the television monitor flickered on and the tape began to play, carefully reading the movements of the persons' lips to catch what they were saying at the moment that tape rolled.

-- 21:59, 91 Days Ago --

Turning away from the screens, James Waverly walked calmly towards the doors that occupied the rear of the large control room he was in, passing with casual ease amongst the scurrying, busied soldiers that inhabited the cramped spaces of the station with him. And, in passing, he nodded quickly to the soldier known simply as Sedici.

Brushing past the strong-jawed man, James nodded once. "Now's the time. Let's try to stop the flood from flowing where it's not wanted."

"Think we can?" the other man softly whispered.

"No. But we can slow it before the damage to our plan is too great to recover from."

"Got'cha."

A quick wink of a hazel eye and a muttering of "Glory to you, White Fang. Hopefully Tsuberov will cooperate," ended their conversation as James hurriedly left the room.

-- 22:31 --

Trowa rolled the motorcycle into the parking lot, the headlights spilling their bright radiance over the pavement before him. Frowning as he noted that his entrance into the lot was rather obvious, he made his way towards the rental office in a vain attempt to make it look as if he were simply a customer looking for a place to stay for the night.

Helmet firmly on head, he walked towards the office. A breath of relief escaped him as Xavier Johnson and the man who'd accompanied him left the car without giving a single glance to his direction, apparently either having not noticed him or not truly caring.

'Alright, you lying son of a bitch,' Trowa's brain growled, 'let's see what you're up to.'

Abandoning the helmet, he slipped away from the office door and instead headed towards the hotel room he'd seen the pair dive into. Leaning against the thin hotel room's door, he calmly pressed a high-powered microphone to it and listened.

"So where is he being held now?" the man who Trowa didn't know asked.

"Lyssa has him in Santa Barbara."

"Fabulous. And his partner?"

Xavier's voice sighed quietly, its bright and cheerful edge finally leaving it. "Hell if I know. He slipped our clutches. Killed a few of our men, too."

"Most unfortunate. Well, do continue looking for him."

"You know I will. No worries in that. Never once before has a pesky fly escaped my grasp. It's not about to start happening now."

"I'm counting on you," the unknown voice calmly stated.

"I know."

Trowa dove into the nearby bushes as he heard footsteps approaching the door.

He glared as the blonde man left, hands buried in his trench coat's pockets. Trowa's eyes narrowed even further as he observed that man getting into a rather nondescript black Honda Civic.

'Great. Like I haven't seen a fucking million of those on the roads!' Trowa's mind spat angrily.

Remaining for only a few more moments until he reasoned the coast was clear, he stood and walked over towards his motorcycle and his abandoned helmet, his feet scraping along the pavement in an expression of his frustration and disappointment. "Fabulous," he quietly spoke into the cool night air, "they've separated. So either I can get onto my bike and follow that mystery man to only God knows where and try to learn something about this entire fiasco from his interactions, or I can follow Xavier and find out what's going on with his end of this mess. Damn it all."

"Having some problems there, mister?"

Trowa's heart nearly stopped. Turning on his heel, he stared.

Behind him, as black as the night itself, a lank figure walk towards him with an easy, strolling gait. Violet eyes pierced the dark shadows that surrounded them both, glistening from under the veil cast over the heart-shaped face by the soft fall of chestnut colored hair that glistened in the faint light that spilled from the hotel office's interior.

A casual wink and a cheerful smile met Trowa full on, even as slender fingers found their way to the end of a long, trailing braid and twined into it, tightening the black twist-tie that held the immaculate weave intact. "Fill me in on what's going on and why exactly one of my dearest friends went calling me in the middle of the night pleading me to help you out, and I'll take that guy in the hotel room. No payment, no problem. Call it a one time special."

tbc...