Valhalla: Birth and Binding [2/7, 4xD]

[Terra]

Disclaimer: It is with great regret that I admit that Gundam Wing does not belong to me. If only fanfiction would be profitable... Again, much of this fic is inspired by Ayn Rand?s The Fountainhead, and if any of you have read it, then you?ll know who Quatre Raberba Winner and Layla al-Nahdiyah are, to an extent, based on.

A/N- For clarification purposes, I do use footnotes, so if you?re reading a word and there?s an italicized number next to it, scrolling to the bottom to the corresponding one will probably elucidate the word, sentence or idea.

Gestalt means: a configuration or pattern of elements so unified as a whole that it cannot be described merely as a sum of its parts.


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Birth and Binding II:
Gestalt
by Terra
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Layla bint Khalid ibn Fanan al-Nahdiyah1 was not the descendent of a noble bloodline. She was neither wealthy nor destitute; she was not brilliant but quietly intelligent. She was not a great beauty, but no one who had ever looked at her remembered that. Layla was simply real. Real in a way countless tabloids had never succeeded in denying. If she had not been Quatre Raberba Winner?s lover, she would simply have lived all of her life in relative obscurity, not feeling cheated in the least. She was the fulfillment of a dream little girls have been spoon-fed from infancy. She had succeeded in captivating a prince of the stars, who coincidentally was the wealthiest man in Outer Space.

The day Layla met the love of her life she had spent every credit she owned on a one-way spaceline ticket to the L4 cluster. Sitting in economy class, she was disappointed to discover that hers was an aisle seat, instead of the window seat she coveted. A blonde man in his mid-twenties, by her estimation, occupied the other seat. He wore a snug pair of jeans and a nondescript blue polo shirt that eschewed fashion for comfort. He was leaning against the headrest, with his eyes closed, humming an unfinished concerto. For Layla, there were few pleasures she allowed herself; curling up with a good book in blessed silence was one of them. Especially today, she had counted on her novel to distract her from the shuttle?s liftoff into space, hoping she might be so engrossed in the pages that she would forget her fear of flight. She meant to interrupt his humming, but instead found herself restrained by his expression of complete tranquility, as if nothing could disturb him.

She knew then that she would not disrupt his melody. She listened as he played the notes on an imaginary keyboard, composing as he whistled tunes of struggle lulling into triumph. He appeared the image of the artist mesmerized in the process of creation. When the man finished the last measure, he slowly opened his eyes and caught hers in his heated blue gaze. He asked, ?Did you enjoy that??

Layla, slightly embarrassed at being caught staring unabashedly, told him, ?Oh, very much! Whom were you humming??

His smile dazzled her breathless. ?Me.?

Layla, surprised to discover a young virtuoso, shyly introduced herself: ?I?m Layla. And I?m very impressed.?

?I?m Quatre. And I?m very pleased that you are.?

The conversation that followed was a whirlwind of countless topics and Layla had noticed with a pleasant shock that the shuttle had taken off without her noticing. When the shuttle had docked onto the main L4 colony, nicknamed L4-AWINNER2 by its inhabitants, some seventeen hours later, Layla had disembarked trying to quell her disappointment at having to bid her new and, so far, only friend in space farewell. The feeling quickly dissipated when she exited the spaceport and realized that she had finally achieved her dream of visiting a space colony. Days later, she would be stunned to discover upon installing her vidscreen and watching the news that the young man she?d met had been none other than Quatre Raberba Winner, the head of the Winner Foundation and CEO of Winner Enterprises Colonial. His family was the ruling party of L4 in all, but name.

However, nothing could?ve prepared her to find him sitting in the lobby of her apartment complex a month later looking at her as if they had just seen each other only the day before. She had invited him in and over cheap generic-brand tea, they had listened to the recording he had brought of his completed piano concerto. He had entitled it, Descent of the Valkyries, and had dedicated it to her. In the days that followed, she had expected nothing and wanted nothing more than he had been willing to give. In the sometimes interminable absences that followed his visits, she had not called him, had made no effort to reach him unless he had initiated the contact. It had never occurred to her that he might have been ashamed of her or was simply using her as a cheap thrill. She did not demand his faithfulness nor did she beg him to escort her to fancy functions.

Layla simply allowed Quatre to live his life and expected that he would allow her the same liberty and that, she had realized some months later, was the whole secret of her power. She had never tried to use her influence over him as a means to some end. Other women would?ve worried that he might leave when he no longer found the experience novel, but Layla was simply too honest with herself to have those insecurities. She refused to avoid tabloid articles detailing his love affair with this supermodel or that actress. She saw her love for Quatre as almost independent of him; he did not need to be in love with her for her to love him. As long as he would come to see her from time to time, she wanted nothing else and never knew that it was this lack of need which gave her all the power in the relationship.

When he had introduced her to some of his sisters, Layla had known that some dynamic in their relationship had changed. With her now in the public eye, there were wild speculations on any given day of nuptials. Layla had only known Quatre for a year and harbored neither the hope to bind him nor the desire to be bound herself. Then what, she mused, was she still doing here in Quatre?s bedroom? Ordinarily, she would?ve long departed for the small apartment she had refused to give up even when their relationship had become public. The quaint coffee shop across the street was her favorite place to curl up with her laptop and a mug of Earl Grey and while away the afternoon writing her column for Society.

She was the book reviewer for the woman?s magazine, a position she had secured before the world became aware of her relationship with the Winner heir. Afterwards, numerous magazines and publishers solicited her, but she had adamantly refused to allow her personal life to color her professional one, even positively. The bathroom door abruptly swung open and Quatre walked out, clad only in a towel wrapped snugly around his waist. He looked mildly surprised to find her still sitting daydreaming on his bed.

?I have a meeting in an hour,? he said, casually, entering his walk-in closet. ?There?s no time for breakfast.?

?I?m on my way out, anyway.?

Quatre emerged in a severely tailored navy blue suit, adjusting his red-tinged tie. Layla hadn?t even shifted her posture since he?d first turned on the shower. He said, wryly: ?No need to rush.?

Layla inclined her chocolate brown eyes to meet his sharp blue ones. Tilting her head deep in thought, she replied, ?I feel restless, somehow. I want ? I think I want to travel.?

?Any place in particular??

?Well, there?s this banquet for Society writers in two weeks. It?s being held in Sicily,? she hesitated, ?and I haven?t visited Earth since I left.?

Any words of encouragement or advice that may have been the tip of Quatre?s tongue were interrupted by a polite knock on the door and the words, ?Master Quatre, your sister, Miss Fatima is on the line and wishes anxiously to speak with you,? delivered in the dry, exact tones of his butler.

Quatre strode to the door, discreetly opening it only a crack to protect her privacy, and told her, ?Being on Earth is not the same as sitting in your family?s living room,? before stepping through and shutting the door behind him softly but firmly.

Reflecting on these words of wisdom, Layla grimaced, recalling her traditional family?s reaction to her chosen vocation as a writer and possibly, even a novelist one day. If she had not run away, she would have been disowned. Coming to a decision, she slipped out of bed and upon keying in the desired temperature on a touchpad, stepped under the jets of warm water. I only have one fashionable gown, she thought, startled, do I have to go shopping?


In the back of his limousine, Quatre Raberba Winner settled comfortably against the headrest before receiving his sister?s call. Fatima Winner?s austere face lit the vidphone. Her chilly azure eyes immediately clashed with his softer turquoise gaze. Fatima?s dark brown hair was pinned severely into a bun and she brushed impatiently at a few strands that had escaped. She was Quatre?s oldest sister and she was the CEO of Winner Enterprises International on Earth. The latter role had always taken precedence to the former; blaming him for their father?s death, she had never bothered to feign affection for him.

?What do you think you?re doing hiring some little upstart to design Winner Tower on L1?? she accused, bitingly. ?What will our corporate shareholders think about handing the entire project to some novice with ridiculous notions of architecture??

?I held a competition for the rights to design my tower and he won it,? Quatre replied, politely, as if he were speaking to a stranger.

?I?ve seen his model and it?s ludicrously out of place.?

?His design is revolutionary.?

?His design stands out like some damn obelisk. Winner Tower is a place of business. It needs to conform to the buildings around it.?

?He followed my specifications completely,? he answered, as if he had not heard her. ?Its form mirrors its function. I won?t have it any other way.?

?Don?t be foolish,? Fatima replied, dancing as closely to outright insult as she dared. ?Now, the firm Francon & Heyer3, they have the right idea.?

?You won?t understand, but that last you?ve just uttered is a far greater insult to me than calling me foolish,? Quatre said, slowly, strained and precise. ?I asked for a monument of enterprise, of human ingenuity and the design they submitted ? their answer was offensive. Their model was undignified and unremarkable. They?re so far gone, they gave me forgettable, mediocre clones when they should?ve seized this opportunity to build ? to build ?? His voice broke when he caught his sister?s livid expression.

?Y-you, why do you think you?re so goddamn superior? What right have you to build something like that?? Her breath hitched as she fought to control her anger. ?You have to listen ? listen to other people, to the shareholders! What makes you think you know best??

?I don?t,? he said, his brow creased in mild frustration, ?but I know what I want.?

If anything, Fatima looked even more outraged at his admission. Then, she smiled bitterly and said: ?I heard a rumor that the architect is a friend of yours. I can?t believe you would be so selfish as to jeopardize our family?s ? our father?s ? legacy.?

?You?re right and wrong. Heero Yuy is one of my closest friends, but I didn?t choose his design, because of that.? Quatre?s tone was resolute but patient as he reached for his briefcase and retrieved his laptop, a silent gesture of dismissal. ?I?m sorry we don?t see eye to eye on this. But I chose his design, because he came nearest to getting it right.?

Her thin lips pursed severely as she bit back a seething retort. ?This conversation isn?t over, but I?m too busy right now to save you from making yet another catastrophic mistake.? She terminated the connection.

Fatima thought that his love affair with Layla was a dangerous mistake. Quatre knew that she couldn?t conceive of a woman who didn?t hope to gain from her association with him. Fatima was stolidly blind to any attractive quality in him and could not fathom Layla?s desire for his presence. But Quatre knew that even if he were a starving artist, Layla would feel no differently. He had met her a year ago en route from Earth and had found her homely and genuine on that first meeting, with a lovely smile. Of the countless women he had known, she was the only one whom he had ever played his music for. He could have any woman he met and he knew it; he knew that he could have Layla; he wanted her; she loved him and had admitted it simply, openly, without fear or shyness, asking nothing of him, expecting nothing; somehow, he had never stopped being astonished by her.

When his responsibilities would become overwhelming, he forgot Layla for weeks at a time and she never reminded him. He had always come back to her, suddenly, inexplicably. His visits were unpredictable and the absences long, but because she always welcomed him back as if he had just left, it seemed as if she was a constant presence in his life. In those moments, he had felt at peace. Inevitably, on those nights, he would dream of suffocating sandstorms, mechanical whispers and a clammy feeling of relief at discovering that he had survived another battlefield. Quatre didn?t know if he stayed with Layla to run away from the fighting of his past or to punish himself for the loss. She anchored him to the present and made no demands for a future. That was all he could give. The reality of his life was the helm of an interspatial corporation, the hopes and dreams of his family and the irrepressible memory of bloodbaths.

Quatre imagined that if hell existed, he would be drowned in the metallic taste of blood in the afterlife. He had been raised religious ? a devout Muslim. That was before he had taken up arms, before he had met Instructor H, before the Maganac Corp. Now, he could not comprehend of a benevolent, active deity who had allowed so much suffering. Islam ? literally meaning submission to God ? at present held no place in his life4. He no longer recalled how to prostrate himself, how to grovel for forgiveness. He would readily sacrifice his humanity, his soul to protect others; it was more than he could say for Allah. Most of his sisters rejected his views passionately and Quatre respected their mutual agreement to disagree. But he no longer spent torturous, sleepless nights over what he had no power to change. Only three values had given him the key to escape the dangerous nightmares of carnage that had threatened to smother him as he aged: reason, purpose and self-esteem5. He could now conceive of no other principles to live by.

Quatre absently examined the list of news articles on the internet, falling into a well-worn morning routine of chasing the ever-changing world. As he tentatively tasted his still-steaming Turkish coffee, his eyes hovered upon an article published in the Earth edition of Society, a magazine he vaguely recalled Fatima having once forced upon him to educate him on the views of women in his social class. Since Layla wrote book reviews in the colonial edition of Society, he had developed a habit of scrolling through its pages, but he had never been impressed enough to take up readership of its counterpart publication. He scanned the editorials, a counterpoint piece in which two columnists idly discussed the various achievements of his life.

He did not accord the author any distinction as he adeptly speed-read: The only male heir to an estate King Midas would have coveted? richest test tube baby in the solar system? attended the best academies on L4? rebelled against devout Islamic roots? Winner family runs the resource mining empire single-handedly? sheltered by his father during the worst conflicts of the Eve War? devastated when his only living parent died, a victim of an uprising? finished construction of L3-X18999 after the Mariemaia Incident? invested heavily in the terraformation of Mars? at age 25, he is most eligible bachelor in Outer Space no more? in a true rags-to-riches story, Quatre Winner plans to wed commoner Layla al-Nadiah? Winner Legacy is in the safe, capable hands of the man with the Midas touch.

Quatre casually disregarded his ?plans to wed? and amused himself with the misspelling of Layla?s last name, who was a Society staff member. Unimpressed, he almost bypassed its companion piece when the name ? Dorothy Dominique Catalonia ? involuntarily dragged his eyes back to the screen. He laughed dryly. It was fitting that he felt no astonishment. Writing for a frivolous woman?s magazine was exactly the sort of punishment he would expect Dorothy to inflict on herself. Mildly curious of what his once-enemy, once-something more, thought of him, he read her weekly syndicated column, entitled: One Small Voice6. Dorothy had written ?

??And there Winner Tower will stand, as an obelisk to nothing but the egotism of Mr. Winner. It will stand, much like the man himself, between stock skyscrapers and obtuse warehouses. This, perhaps, is not an accident, but a testament of fate?s sense of humor. No other setting could bring out so eloquently the essential insolence of this building and of its patron. It will rise as a mockery to all the structures of the city and to the men who built and condescend to live in them. Our structures are meaningless and false; this building will make them more so. But the contrast will not be to its advantage. By creating the contrast, it will have made itself a ray of light falling into a pigsty. It is the ray that shows us the muck and it is the ray that is offensive, much as is Mr. Winner with his ?superior? capitalism and claim to humanity. Our structures, much like ourselves, have the great advantage of obscurity and humility. Winner Tower is shameless and proud. It will attract attention, but only to the immense audacity of Mr. Winner?s conceit. When this building is erected, it will be an abomination on the face of L1 and the derision of Outer Space.?

The car screeched to a stop and the driver opened the door to find his employer laughing, openly and so honestly, it sounded much brighter than his usual deep tones. Quatre suddenly understood his sister?s vehement opposition to his project on L1. As he nodded graciously at his driver, exiting the vehicle, he realized pleasantly that he had never received a more flattering compliment. He had not reflected on Dorothy in years, but he was not astonished by the things she had written and the thoughts behind her words. Dorothy Catalonia, he thought, surprised at the extent of his relief, is still the same woman. And then: as I am the same man.


Chang Wufei shrugged on his Preventer jacket and stepped through the sliding doors of the Winner Group Building in one controlled motion. He was on his way to the top floor, to Quatre Winner?s office. His eyes alert from years of enforced habit and his stride steady, he rode up in the mirror-plated elevator, glancing absently at the details ? the capacity of the contraption, the location of the emergency phone, the escape hatch ? as the other passengers compulsively smoothed wrinkles and fixed cosmetic blunders in the condemning presence of their reflections. There had been a security breach and Quatre was on a very short list of those who needed to be briefed.

Wufei walked into a spacious office area enclosed off by tinted glass into cubicles where the majority of the administration for the corporation resided. He approached the most imposing desk, occupied by a young brunette woman who was simultaneously answering calls, penning messages and nibbling on pita bread dipped in what smelled faintly like olive oil7. Wufei interrupted her well-organized movements, briefly relating to the Winner heir?s secretary the urgent nature of his business, sensing correctly her predilection for efficiency. She politely, but firmly informed him that Mr. Winner was in the middle of an important teleconference. He stared her down for a few seconds before presenting his badge and credentials and calmly demanding an audience, citing the all-purpose access word ? security. Quatre?s secretary, with a measured degree of disdain, slowly reached for her vidphone and made an exaggerated gesture of paging him. She told her employer: ?There?s a Preventer agent here to see you, sir. He insists that he cannot wait.?

Quatre?s reply was seamless and casual: ?I?ll see him.?

Wufei noted that the man he met through the reinforced tinted glass doors looked only faintly surprised to see him. He admitted, grudgingly: ?Your secretary is very protective of your time.?

?That she is,? Quatre stood to greet him. He did not ask, but stated, ?This is not a social call.? Sensing rather than seeing Wufei?s nod, he entered a code on the keypad under his desk, activating the voice privacy machine embedded within the office. Quatre could easily afford the cutting edge in security technology and considered it a necessary expenditure; no one would eavesdrop on this conversation.

?No,? the Preventer affirmed. ?There was a security breach at headquarters two hours ago. Classified files were stolen and a virus was released to wreak havoc on our systems to cover the hacker?s trail.?

?What were in the files??

?Mainly intelligence gathered by OZ during the Eve War8.? Pausing, Wufei revealed his first hint of discomfort, his mouth drawing into a mild grimace. ?Quatre ? those files contained general schematics of the Gundams ? along with our identities.?

Quatre?s brow creased as he roughly mentally projected the fallout from releasing those files to the public. He needed more data for his calculations. He asked, ?Are we being held hostage? Is there a ransom? Or is this the work of a fanatic??

?We?re still tracing the hack. We had to completely reboot the mainframe from a restore point. Of course, we have a press blackout over this, but if the bastards plan on going public?? He trailed off, leaving the last part unsaid.

?Whom do we suspect??

?This breach has forced our hand in a number of operations. We?ve had to dismantle a few terrorist cells prematurely. We?re investigating Romefeller as a matter of course.? Wufei said, softly, dangerously: ?I feel uneasy. It?s too well-planned to be the work of amateurs.?

?If you suspect disgruntled aristocracy in Romefeller,? Quatre?s hand bridged the short distance to his console, keying in the commands to retrieve confidential files. ?I?ve conducted extensive background checks into many of my more dubious business partners on Earth.?

?We?d appreciate whatever you can forward to us. We?re running on a tight schedule. We may have anywhere from 48 hours to several weeks to rectify the situation.?

?Have you contacted the Foreign Minister?s office? Relena may be instrumental to controlling the fallout, if it comes to that.?

?Sally?s briefing her as we speak. But the Preventers consider her our last resort.?

?Do the others know yet?? There was no need to specify ?others.?

?I have no doubt Yuy knew moments after it happened. That means Maxwell will already have been informed. Barton is my next stop.?

?Then, I shouldn?t delay you any longer.? Quatre handed his former comrade a disc with the encrypted files. He advised: ?If you?re looking for another Romefeller insider, you may want to consider Dorothy Catalonia.?

Wufei placed the disc in the hidden folds of his jacket?s inner pocket. His reply was curt: ?I saw her a few days ago at the Presidential Gala. I don?t trust that woman. She has no loyalties.? Before turning around, Wufei?s dark chestnut eyes conveyed a brief warning and his departing nod communicated caution. Then, he was en route to his next destination.

Quatre sat deep in thought in his leather swivel chair for a long time thereafter, gazing through his vacuous windows at the deceptive artificial atmosphere sequestered by the colony?s metallic shell.



1Layla, ?daughter of Khalid, who is son of Fanan,? al-Nadiyah. Arabic names contains many parts, including patronymics and descriptions, such as ?son of?? and ?righteous.?

2The original settlers of the L4 colony cluster originated from Arab nations. The Winners, one of the oldest and most renowned families, helped to fund the first colony in this cluster. Colony nomenclature begins with L#, depending on the Lagrange point, followed by the first English letter of its founding nation or continent. Lastly, the number of the colony is designated. The oldest colony of the L4 cluster is named L4-A946637, but nicknamed AWINNER by its residents and neighbors.

3The most prestigious architecture firm in Outer Space; it is very closely affiliated with the Devolution movement in architecture, which eschews contemporary techniques to embrace the Classics. [inspired by a firm that exists in the The Fountainhead]

4I mean no offense against any Muslims or against the religion or anyone who is religious. Quatre?s views here are not representative of my own. As a character, and survivor of war, he is disillusioned with his previous faith, or any faith for that matter.

5Ayn Rand?s philosophy of objectivism embraces three core values: reason, purpose and self-esteem. In another of her novels, Atlas Shrugged, one of her protagonists lives by these principles and they are, for her, the highest virtues.

6A weekly syndicated column penned by Dorothy Dominique Catalonia about the latest trends, scandals and gossip. [inspired by a column written in The Fountainhead]

7A popular Middle Eastern breakfast, also served with labneh ? a type of creamy curd ? and za?atar (common spice mix).

8OZ, under Lady Une?s command, had identified all five of the Gundam pilots and even held them in captivity. During the Eve War, their Gundams were also captured and analyzed by some of OZ?s best scientists, including Chief Engineer Tsuberov. This information was not discarded when OZ disbanded and the Preventers were formed. There is no indication that the general populace has ever been made aware of the Gundam pilots? identities. The Alliance and OZ acted primarily in secret, leaking intelligence to the media only when it suited their purposes. In the post-war After Colony world, the world is largely democratically governed and the media once again serves a watchdog function.


A/N- Next time, Dorothy returns and we are introduced to Sylvia Noventa, with brief cameos from Peter and Relena Darlian. The next chapter will be entitled: A Perfect Sinner.

New installments of Valhalla will be posted on Tuesdays.

[Blondesimone]

I am amazed that there are no other reviews to this. Can people not read?

[Terra]

Awww, thanks for the lovely comments, Blondesimone. I'd love to reciprocate. Do you have any stories archived here?