By El Su/Ashy
Act I Chapter IV
The Brussels Interstellar shuttle port was a hive of activity as
usual. There was the odd interruption to the repetition of activity,
such as the two male cross-dressers having a flamboyant argument at
the ticket office, and a homeless drunk ordering his skeletal dog to
perform acrobatic tricks for vaguely interested passers-by. Trowa
Barton blended in easily with the rest of the crowd and refrained
from jabbing an elbow into the sides of those bustling travellers
invading his personal space. He didn't care. Those people had lives
too, and who was he to judge whether their haste was warranted or not?
He wasn't in a hurry. The L-3 base wasn't expecting him till
tomorrow. As he boarded the shuttle, just another economy passenger,
Trowa wondered why he could not shed the idea that his he- his very
existence- was inconsequential. It wasn't that such a thought
bothered him. It was more the fact that it didn't bother him. This
very nonchalance piqued some small part of him, the part that
Catherine tried to cultivate, the part that told him he was still of
importance to the cosmos even in an increasingly near-middle aged
body, such a long time after the war that had made him- however
briefly- of some consequence.
"Don't you want to know if we're related?" he remembered his sister
demanding when he was eighteen, begging to let some lab technician
screen his DNA.
"It doesn't matter," he had said. "It doesn't change anything."
"That's what you always say," she had answered, her pretty face
marred with discontent. "It doesn't matter. Well it matters to me."
"Okay. Take a swab if you want."
"But I want it to be what you want too. Don't you realise what a big
deal this is? If our samples match, this means we are family."
"We're already family."
"Why are you being so blas? about this, Trowa?" she said with a
frustrated sigh, her mahogany curls drooping along the same lines as
her shoulders, "I thought that after the war you were going perk up a
little, brother. I thought you were going to be like?"
"Like you?" He absently tossed some slick scarlet meat from a bucket
into the lion's enclosure. It stank. He'd seen the same raw flesh on
human beings- albeit lightly cooked in some cases- and it had stunk
worse. "Don't you understand, Cathy? I can never be like you."
He had not taken the test in the end. Just because his original name
was most likely Triton Bloom, did not mean he must assume the persona
of Triton Bloom. Whoever this Triton was, he had never lived.
Instead, a nameless boy had assumed his place, just as he had later
assumed the name of a dead man, a murdered man. He had lived this way-
a sort of shape-shifter- for years, and despite Quatre Winner's
insistences that it suited him; Barton was not his name either. After
the war, `Trowa Barton' was a redundant title and he knew Catherine
yearned increasingly for Triton. This produced a quandary: which
persona to settle on.
"You're thinking too much," Quatre had said, sipping his Arabic
coffee thoughtfully.
Quatre always made better coffee and tea than he did. Or rather, his
butler did.
"Why are you growing a moustache?" Trowa had asked.
"Don't change the subject, I can read you like a book." Cerulean eyes-
younger then- had twinkled with the affection of friendship. "But if
you must know I think it makes me look more business-like. What do
you think?"
Trowa had merely shrugged.
He had always acted a little distant, so as not to appear to regard
his blonde friend as warmly as the ex pilot of the Sandrock Gundam
regarded him. But surely, if Quatre could indeed read him as well as
a clich? romance novel or a predictable detective thriller, then he
had to know how much Trowa was grateful for his companionship, and
always had been. Quatre had once predicted that all the Gundam pilots
would have the sort of fraternal bond, a noble and insular one, like
the ancients had, which would one day transcend their love towards
their spouses.
"Sounds a little camp, don't you think?" Trowa had replied, amused by
his friend's romanticising. He couldn't go as far as to claim he and
his fellow pilots had ever loved each other. They had been married by
a collective mission, and now they were not.
But however much he had scoffed at it, he, for his part, had adhered
to this notion. His relationships with women were mostly brief and
meaningless. He saw no real need to form attachments with strangers,
with people who didn't understand war. It seemed, however, that
Quatre's fantasises about noble friendship and the devotion of
brothers had dissolved as soon as a new reality entered his
consciousness, ingratiating her socialite self to him. He and Trowa's
visits soon became phone calls, then phone calls regressed to emails,
and Quatre's typed messages became briefer and shallower in content.
The numerous typos they contained were further evidence of his
wandering priorities.
Trowa took a swig of his swiftly diminishing coffee, glad the shuttle
was at last cruising. Space, beyond the porthole on his right, was
black and familiar. A barren void. It wasn't that he was jealous of
Quatre's completion with another. Of course he was ecstatic that his
one time closest companion had found new love with the same woman who
had once caused him hideous pain; the woman who had suppressed her
innate kindness to embrace the glories of war. Trowa had since seen
evidence of Dorothy Catalonia's kindness- in the way she poured her
disposable cash into charitable causes and such- but no evidence that
it was innate.
Quatre had not given him any indication of when the wedding would be.
Apparently his fianc?e wanted it to be a small affair, after her
lavish wedding to her former husband had ended badly. Quatre had
never explained in his emails just what had driven Dorothy to divorce
aristocrat Josep Pujol. And it was none of Trowa's business.
He placed his plastic cup down in the holder provided, laid his head
back against the chequered headrest and closed his eyes.
Yes; Quatre was none of his business anymore.
****
Chang Wufei was sitting alone in his office, in a near-meditative
state, when his communicator received a transmission from the L-3
X18999 base. It was a state brought on by boredom and a headache,
rather than some spiritual pursuit. He had sent a report to L-3 an
hour ago, and this was the response he had anticipated. Opening his
eyes, he flicked on the visual feed. As it was patched over, a
uniformed young woman configured on the screen, with thick black hair
swept back from her forehead, arched brows and grey slanted eyes.
There were two small silver hoops in her earlobes.
She gestured to the memo she held in front on her. "Hello, Agent
Raven." Her syllables were drawn out like one speaking to a naughty
child. She looked put out.
He grunted softly at her image, her absence. "Charlotte."
He hated it when she called herself Charley. Why must she use that
unfeminine title?
"I don't know if you've had a makeover since?" she said, and her
stern face softened a fraction, became painfully familiar. "?because
an hour ago on my screen, I must say, you looked rough." She leaned
forward and jabbed a finger at the screen. "But," she added, "that
doesn't mean I'm not going to give you a piece of my mind. Because in
my last message-?" She looked affectedly at her wristwatch. "-two
hours ago- I told you that Chief Kushrenada was eager for an update
on the situation with the latest arrests related to money laundering.
I distinctly remember asking you if Blue Team had anything to
report."
Wufei steepled his fingers in front of his communicator, watching the
woman's frustration intently, the flat Eastern planes of her face, at
odds with the delicate eyebrow ridges.
"And do you seriously expect me, Agent Raven, to write "No" on my
memo and give that to my superior?" Her lips pursed.
Indeed "No" had been too brief a response, and most unprofessional.
It was true that there was nothing to report besides the knowledge
that the identities of the three were fake. The woman had been
particularly abusive when it came to the retina scan, according to
Agent Fire. The scans carried out three hours ago did indeed match
the identities of three people previously convicted for fraud. But
Wufei had held this information back for the purpose of provoking
another transmission from this woman. It was manipulative, he knew.
"?.I am asking you to elaborate," she hissed, "Do your job properly.
You've been in the force for twenty-two years, for goodness sake. No
uncovered links to terrorism? No leads at all? Are you even
interrogating them?" She slammed her hand down on edge of the control
panel. "I expect to hear from you in one hour sharpish. And make it a
proper report!" Briefly, her grey eyes levelled with his, narrowed
slightly. Obviously the fuzzy screen had not disguised his dark
circles, his unhealthy pallor. "And you should get some better sleep,
Agent Raven. Goodbye."
"Goodbye to you too," he growled to himself, despising the illusion
of her company. She could mind her own business, the smug thing. An
insolent disgrace to proper Chinese women everywhere. Why did he even
bother to think about her?
With a terminating beep at the other end, the screen blanked. She was
gone. Chang Wufei stared half-forlornly at the black square, half
furious. Allowing a small, angry sigh to escape his lips, he reached
to react, glowering at the camera before him;
"I hope this response satisfies you, Deputy, seeing as you appear to
be spoiling for a fight." He frowned, snapped, "The retina scans were
positive. And in answer to your question, of course we are
interrogating the suspects! What do you think we are doing all day?
Sitting on our backsides? I take objection to your insinuation that
the Martian Outpost is functioning below par?.We are working at full
capacity here. But we can't make them speak. Any of them." He rubbed
his head, embarrassed at how easily goaded he was. It came to him
that he was the one spoiling for a fight. He wanted to ask her how
she was but chose not to. It was not the time or the place. And she
would probably dismiss his inquiry anyway. "Well, that is all. Blue
Team are still investigating on Earth so if there is anything else,
someone will be in touch immediately. I hope that is enough for
Kushrenada!"
He hoped it wasn't, and she'd send him another message. This was
probably the last time he'd see Charlotte for months. He would have
to think up some business matter to if he especially needed her
conversation. He vaguely recalled speaking to her six months ago, but
couldn't remember the last time she'd called him `Father'. It was as
though Agent Raven was more than just his codename to her- it was her
way of insulting him, reinforcing that they were nothing but
colleagues. Or perhaps he was simply being paranoid- everybody knew
Mariemaia was a stickler for professionalism, just like her adoptive
mother at the Brussels base.
He and Charlotte had never been close. Her conception had been a
catastrophic accident. Even during her babyhood their relationship
was a struggle, as he had been too proud to request help. Alone in
his one-bedroom apartment, barely nineteen years of age and sick with
fatigue, he would blink his sore eyes behind his spectacles, as he
typed his reports for Chief Marquise at the Martian Outpost, while
Charlotte wailed in the background. He realised as she got older,
that his daughter's life was gradually disconnecting from his. She
was a grown woman now- almost overnight- and he found he had little
to say to her.
He traced the growing estrangement back to the day he took her to an
elite all-girls boarding school on L-1 when she turned six. Charlotte
has passed the entrance exam without even trying. That morning he had
fashioned her long hair into a neat French plait with a black ribbon,
because all the girls wore this smart, austere style at the academy.
He had consulted an image in some women's magazine on how to do it.
The hairstyle was mandatory, just as it was to be dressed in a sailor
suit and skirt with long socks and patent black shoes.
There was someone from almost every ethnicity present at the school,
he had noted, including a few Chinese girls, darker skinned than
Charlotte. Most were Caucasian and Colony-born, so it was impossible
to know their Earthly origins exactly. He couldn't help but notice
all the other girls had both their mother and father present and they
looked at him sympathetically, assuming he was a widower. Their pity
embarrassed him. At twenty-five, he had been the youngest man there.
They entered the building and he filled out all the necessary forms,
all the while trying to stop his daughter from clutching his hand. He
had needed to hold no-one's hand on his first day of boarding school
on the old L-5 colony. Not that there had been one to tempt him. The
girl stared suspiciously at the building's badly disguised metallic
interior, its plain colony architecture.
"Father, I'm not going," she announced.
"Yes, you are."
"I don't want to." She turned around to leave, tugging his
hand. "Come on, let's go home."
"You're staying here."
"But I don't want to."
"It doesn't matter if you want to or not, I make the choices because
I am the adult. Don't you want to study and get smart? Women who
aren't smart don't count for anything in this world."
She frowned. "I am smart. Already. I want to go home."
"No. This is where your life will be now."
Her face crumpled; she stuck out her bottom lip and started to
cry. "But it's my life, not yours!"
He stiffened, mortified by the childish display, unsure what action
to take, if any. "Until you are an adult your life is my life and you
will do what I say."
"No, it's mine!" she yelled. "It's MINE!"
He recalled the other parents' disapproving stares, as Charlotte
continued to sob frustrated, fearful tears. He did not attempt to
comfort her, trying not to sympathise with her unfilial behaviour.
She reached up to clinch her arms around his waist, silently pleading
with him to hug her, to protect her, but he pushed her back. "You are
here so you can be strong and smart."
"I don't want to be!" she cried, and he knew this time she was just
trying to be contrary. "I want to be weak! I don't want to go to this
stupid school. I don't want to be smart!" Then she kicked his shin
with her shiny shoe. "You are the horriblest father in the world and
I don't love you."
She hadn't said "I hate you". She had said "I don't love you." That
was worse, in his opinion. It seemed she had put more thought into
the phrase. He remembered her belligerent glare, her grey eyes
narrowing as she tugged out the drooping ribbon and forked her small
fingers savagely through the neatly styled locks.
`That's it', he thought, `the teachers are going to dispense of her.'
A pretty schoolmistress had approached at the moment. Seeing the
commotion, she crouched to the girl's level. "Why don't you give it a
try?" she said. "This school is really not so bad."
His daughter didn't look convinced. Her cheeks were blotched from
crying.
"I think you'll really like it here, Miss Chang."
"You know my name?"
"Yes, because it says it on your name badge right there." She pointed
to the plastic tag that had been pinned to her sailor suit on her way
in. "You can decorate it if you like. Some of the other girls are
colouring there's in."
"Can I draw a Gundam on it?"
Wufei's spine went rigid and his daughter chanced a peek at his
reaction. She knew that particular word made him tense. She had first
heard it on television and asked why he looked upset. He had told he
was not upset and Gundams were bad machines that children shouldn't
talk about.
"A Gundam? If you like," said the teacher, rather indulgently. "But
fighting isn't really a little girl's interest, is it?"
Charlotte's face became earnest. "I think, Lady, that little girls
can draw what they want."
"Well." An awkward smile. "You do sound quite the artist." She held
out her hand, and after a tentative moment, the child took it,
clearly marvelling at a woman's care, an experience she had never
known. The teacher carried her bag and Charlotte allowed herself to
be led away. She had not looked back, hadn't said goodbye. Wufei had
known at once that something had been severed. In some small way, he
felt that his daughter had betrayed him. Now whenever she said to him
the words `Agent Raven', he also heard those words again and
again; `I don't love you'.
****
Trowa arrived at his destination late- 8pm L-3 Colony-Time. Some
floating piece of debris had invaded the shuttle's course forcing it
to decelerate to slip past it and avoid a collision. Obviously the
Sweepers weren't doing their jobs properly. The taxi dropped him on
the wrong block but he wasn't inclined to call it back, choosing to
walk the remainder of the way with his leather suitcase.
The streets of X18999 were virtually deserted. It was understandable.
The colony's factory workers were probably all enjoying their wives'
cooking after clocking off for the evening. He rounded the corner and
passed the Hotel Midas. He knew his apartment block was near. Through
its hideous gilded windows, he saw people chatting in the lounge,
imagined the sound of glasses clinking. He passed a vid-phone box and
collided with a nondescript teenage girl who was backing out of it.
She had been making a surreptitious call to a boyfriend, no doubt.
She apologised in French and he nodded, carrying on his way.
A short while later, he found his destination. He deposited his
luggage in his new Preventer issue apartment, thinking how it smelled
clinically of fresh paint new wooden furniture, like a showroom. He
was pleased to find someone had already been in there before him and
left some foodstuffs in the cupboard. He knew who it was when he
turned to the refrigerator and saw on it an obscene-looking magnet in
the shape of a bare rear-end, holding a scrawled note in place. On it
were the words "Bon Apetit, buddy, (I made this with Hilde's cheese
pie recipe) with a grinning face adorning the signature. Good old Duo
Maxwell.
The thought that Maxwell had accessed his apartment before him struck
him with a vague sense of suspicion. He checked the rooms for any
sign of a prank. Even at his age, Duo would probably like to leave a
nugget of his humour behind. After a thorough poke around, Trowa
found he had been wrong. Obviously this new Duo was more reserved,
and had gone no further than the butt-cheeks magnet on this occasion.
He microwaved the pie, thinking how his sister always chided him for
not cooking properly. Her children weren't allowed anything that had
seen the interior of a microwave. Soon the paint smell was replaced
by the culinary odours of sizzling cheese and mashed potatoes. He
wasn't too keen on the food-it was rather stodgy in texture, but he
was so hungry it wasn't important. Swallowing it down with a glass of
water, he dumped the plate in the sink to wash up later, glad that
Catherine wasn't around to demand he cleaned up after himself.
She still treated him like a kid even though he was approaching
forty. It wasn't so bad to be mothered- in fact, he had rather liked
it- but since her husband died after being struck by a tent pole six
years ago, she had become too over-protective of her four offspring,
and seemed to include her brother as the fifth, as though he was also
an overgrown member of her brood, a freakish child.
It had been this very suffocation that had led him to desert the
circus five years ago to work as Lady Une's bodyguard. As expected,
his sister hadn't been happy to see him go; too old to be acrobats
any more, the siblings had taken on the role of joint circus managers.
"What am I going to do without you?" Catherine had said, struggling
to keep her disappointment in check. "Who's going to help me with
this?"
"Cathy, there are other guys at the circus."
"But those other guys aren't you, Trowa."
"I'll visit a lot."
"No you won't."
Her estimation was correct. Though he frequently called, he sometimes
felt a dull remorse for leaving his sister to deal with her loss
alone, if he allowed himself to dwell on it. But he hadn't known what
help he could be to her, other than a handyman. And besides, he had
been working through a loss of his own. Never one for articulating
his feelings, he hadn't shared at length with Catherine why he must
go back to those comrades of his past, and once again, assist the
Earth Sphere in whatever small measure. Though she had tried to be
gracious about it, he knew she felt he had abandoned her.
****
He reported to Chief Mariemaia the next day, two hours late. After
last night's dinner, the exhaustion of his journey had crept up on
him swiftly, tempting his lids to droop and sending him to bed when
he gave in to the temptation. He never did wash that plate of crusted
cheese. When his alarm sounded at 0900 hours, he had switched it off
and turned over. Even seasoned Preventers had their off-days, he
reasoned, and he was much too tired to bother. Now in a fully
conscious state, a faint guilt set in- but only a faint one, for that
was the best sleep he'd experienced in a long time. He hoped his
superior would not be too enraged.
Kushrenada's office was much the same as Une's; large, neat and
ordered, only this one had the addition of an oversized oil painting
of Treize Kushrenada on the wall opposite the door, so upon entering,
he had come face to face with the past. Treize's daughter did not
look in the best of health but her rumoured attractiveness had
subsisted the limp hair, chafed nose and pasty complexion.
"Trowa Barton," she said, her voice thick with mucus, "Wonderful to
meet you. Though you are frightfully late. I was just about to get
someone to follow you up."
"Sorry Ma'am. My alarm didn't sound and I later realised the
batteries had flattened overnight."
"How unfortunate. Well, I suggest you get a new alarm clock. Or at
least some new batteries." Mariemaia smiled politely. "My mother
seems to think the two of us will get along famously." A cough racked
her body. "Excuse me." She extricated a patterned handkerchief from
her pocket and coughed delicately into it. It seemed to him that what
she really needed was a good hawk to dislodge the irritation, but
wasn't about to appear unladylike in his presence. It was difficult
to relate the image of the child he had once fought against as a
teenage boy with this tall, graceful woman of twenty-nine.
"I would like to know why I was drafted here," he said.
"My mother felt you needed a change."
"So she told me."
It felt odd to hear Chief Une being described as a `mother'. She was
probably the least maternal woman he had ever met.
"Have you any further news on the criminals recently caught?" he
asked, just for something to say.
"No. We are awaiting further information from either the Martian
Outpost or the Blue Team at the St. Petersburg precinct. Apparently
the woman apprehended is proving quite a handful."
"I see."
He forced his gaze away from the swell of her bosoms beneath her thin
uniform shirt. Before he could think up another half-assed inquiry to
put to his superior, an auburn haired teenager entered the room.
"Ma'am, would you permit me a lunch break?" Her voice sounded meek
and controlled.
She was comely looking with a long wavy hair and a uniform jacket
that seemed too big for her thin frame. She looked familiar somehow
but he couldn't think where he'd seen her before.
"This is my new secretary, Am?lie Gautier," said Mariemaia, gesturing
to the stranger who obediently stopped to be inspected. "I'm showing
her the ropes today. Am?lie, this is Trowa Barton, my latest
bodyguard."
The girl reached out her hand and he shook it instinctively,
scrutinising her more than he expected to. There was something
curious about her but the Chief didn't seem fazed. He chastised
himself inwardly. She was a teenage girl, skinny, Mariemaia's lackey,
nothing more.
"Yes, Miss Gautier. Please take your leave," the Chief said. "We'll
reconvene here at half past one."
"Where did she come from?" he asked casually, once Am?lie had
sashayed from the room.
"She was interviewed yesterday. She's French. Parisian. Nice girl-
very quick learner." Mariemaia coughed again into her hanky, sniffled
a little. "Why do you ask?" Another cough.
"She's young, that's all."
It was a lie. Trowa could not dislodge the uneasiness he felt as he
watched the Chief straighten up and give him an apologetic, watery-
eyed smile. It was almost as though Kushrenada knew something he
didn't. He glanced back at Treize's smug expression, as though that
charlatan might give him some answers, but none were forthcoming.
****
That evening, as he had distractedly promised, Trowa met up with Duo
Maxwell for a social drink. His friend chose a grotty tavern situated
beneath the temporary residence he shared with his eldest son, Bucky.
Their permanent home was on L-2 where Duo's wife- Hilde Schbeiker,
apparently- and his younger son and daughter remained, taking care of
the family recycling business.
"I get freebies here if my boy takes out their trash," said Duo with
a chuckle, parking his ass on the rickety barstool."Oh, hey. Did you
like that pie?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
Maxwell grinned proudly, obviously believing himself to be some sort
of masterchef. "What you having?"
"Just a beer."
The bar smelled of stale cigarettes and sour alcohol. Half-dressed
women lined the stained walls, leering at no-one in particular.
"Two pints of beer, mate," Duo ordered, and moments later, the burly
barman pushed two overflowing pint glasses towards them.
"On the house," grunted the landlord. "But you'd better send your
Bucky round tomorrow."
"Yeah, yeah, he'll be round." Duo sucked the froth from the rim,
leaving white flecks on his beard and upper lip. Turning to Trowa, he
said: "So; you're Mariemaia's bodyguard." He smirked. "You're lucky.
She's hot."
"Don't let Hilde hear you say that," Trowa replied, taking sip of his
own white froth. There was no doubt Mariemaia was more alluring than
Duo's boyish wife. "Besides, you're too old for her."
"Hilde isn't here, is she? And I mean for you."
"I'm older than you are so I fail to see your logic."
"You're single. Reaching a mid-life crisis some time soon, I'll bet.
You never know, she might like older men." Reaching the liquid, Duo
chugged it noisily. "Be one helluva boost to the ole' ego, wouldn't
it?"
"And there's the small issue of me being her bodyguard."
"So; Heero was Relena's bodyguard, didn't stop him, did it? I know
she was married to that John Doo-dah- can't remember his name- but
have you seen her teenage son?" He laughed. "If that's John-Doo-dah's
then I'm a saint."
Duo took a packet out of his pocket and arranged the dried leaves
inside into a roll of paper, which he promptly lit and began to
smoke. He took long brazen drags like a careless old hippie.
Trowa sighed. He had hoped his conversation with Duo wouldn't revolve
around who was hot and Relena's Darlian's private life. He knew
Maxwell had more depth to him than that, he just needed to get better
acquainted with him again to tap into it.
Duo's face became grim. "But we don't know where good old Heero is
anymore."
Trowa wanted to ask why it even mattered. "You want some?"
"What?"
"Dope."
"No thanks."
Duo puffed for a few more seconds, then his face became
animated. "Hey. Remember Howard?"
"Who??"
"That mechanic on Peacemillion. You know, big floaty ship in space?"-
he gesticulated- "oh- and there might have been a war on at the same
time."
"I remember the war," Trowa said acidly. "And Peacemillion. What
about the mechanic?"
"Nothing. I was just going to say he smoked this stuff. He gave me
some once; I was high as a kite thanks to that dude."
"Right?"
They sat in companionable silence for a while, before Duo
chuckled. "Ah?good old Howard with his funny shirts. He's dead now.
Had an aneurysm- I found out last week."
Barton searched for a response. He settled on "That's sad."
"Yeah, you look bereft," laughed Duo. "You don't even remember him,
do you?"
Trowa finished the dregs of his beer, gulping it down
dispassionately. "Why do you keep talking about the past?" he asked.
"Dunno. Cos I want to. It feels like one big dream that didn't really
happen. Do you ever think that sometimes?"
"Yeah. I guess." Trowa eyed the dried leaves. "Can I have a roll, on
second thoughts?"
The other man passed him the paraphernalia. With nimble fingers,
Trowa deftly rolled the joint and slid it between his lips. This was
better stuff than what he'd smoked at the circus.
Duo began to giggle and his head fell forward. "We're old, Barton,
aren't we?" His laugh rumbled. "We're freakin' oldies."
"We're not that old."
"Yeah, but it seems it." Duo wiped his eyes. "It's weird, man. Having
normal responsibilities- living when you thought you weren't gonna
see past sixteen. It's just bizarre how Mr Future catches up with you
and gives you a life you never planned for. Makes you wonder what you
were supposed to do with it." He slumped forward against the bar. "I
mean?I married young, started churning out kids and recycled scrap.
You know; I love Hil and everything but?" He shook his head. "What
about you? Have regrets?"
"About the war?"
"No after. I mean what you did with yourself."
Trowa allowed himself a moment of reflection. Yes. He had many
regrets. They took the form of various people; Quatre, Catherine?and
others. But it wasn't the time for sharing ones soul, even if he had
been inclined to do so. The grass had made him light-headed, and he
felt himself drifting upwards on a wave of false wellbeing.
"No," he said. "I don't."
Duo swigged the last of his own beer. "Liar." He cackled and his
shoulders trembled. One of his fingers curled into a hook. He pointed
it and it wavered in front of Trowa's nose. "Liar! Just tell me. Tell
me if it's the same for you."
"Ok." Trowa stubbed out his joint. "It's the same for me. Are you
happy?"
"No," said Duo, and he uttered a choked, gravelly noise. "No?I'm as
miserable as hell." He stood up and pulled his vintage leather jacket
on, slinging that mangy braid of his over his shoulder. "I'm off,
man. Going upstairs. To my apartment, I mean. Not Heaven. If you see
Heero, let me know."
"Why would I see Heero?"
"I dunno. If you do. If you ever do."
Trowa bid him goodbye and ordered himself another beer, glad to be
alone. Him seeing Heero Yuy was unlikely. He sensed Yuy was one of
Duo's regrets. He did not recall them to have had a comfortable
friendship, but he knew that long absences often softened negative
memories. Because he knew this, he took extra care not to allow his
own memories to succumb to any softening. There were some people he
preferred to dislike and if he remembered hard enough, even to hate.
Of the former few, Deputy Nichol sprang to mind. The latter; he
refused to summon her name.
TBC...
I guess these chapters were kind of setting the in-the-future scene,
but from now on the plot will pick up! I would welcome any comments
and/or advice. It's kind of difficult imagining what that cast would
be like so far into the future, and even harder to write about
them!!
The next chapter will have more Midii Une, Quatre, Dorothy, Noin and Relena...