Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Steadfast ❯ One-Shot
[ P - Pre-Teen ]
By: Niu Shiy-Ue 
3x4, based of the short story "Steadfast" by Nancy Kress. Deathfic
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Psychological / Supernatural | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 01.24.2004 | Pages: 4 | Words: 4.2K | Visits: 532 | Status: Completed
3x4, based of the short story "Steadfast" by Nancy Kress. Deathfic
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Psychological / Supernatural | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 01.24.2004 | Pages: 4 | Words: 4.2K | Visits: 532 | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: I don't own GW. The story is based off of the short story "Steadfast" by Nancy Kress. I really liked the format of her story so I have copied that too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maestro, maestro! Please wait, maestro!
Very well, mademoiselle, you have my attention.
Maestro, surely you must give time, before your performance, for the-
For the vampiric media?
. . .
Never mind. Very well child, if you have a few questions I shall answer them, but please be brief, otherwise we shall both be very late.
Thank you, Maestro. How does it feel, to be playing at the 40th anniversary of the death of the Princess Relena Peacecraft, the great pacifist?
How do you think it would feel to be commemorating the death of a good friend?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The blonde child set the violin down and loosened the strings. The first thing Nanashi noticed was the blood. The cuts were small, certainly nothing for a pilot of a MS. But against the pale skin, the sliding drops were as jarring as lighting on a clear day.
Nanashi had seen blood before, in such copious amounts as to be completely indifferent to it. Blood was more common than water to a mercenary; he no longer batted an eye at even the most gruesome of deaths. But this, somehow this was different.
"Is something wrong?" He turned to his companion. Rose shirt, formally pressed and tucked, pearly buttons flashed the light into Nanashi's eyes. Pale sunlit hair fell messily into a childlike face, but did not obscure the clear sky eyes. A delicate pink mouth shaped precisely discrete words. Nanashi reflected that the child couldn't be that young, he was a Gundam pilot, but he was certainly younger than Nanashi himself. The blonde cradled the injured left hand with his right.
"You're bleeding."
The other raised the bloody fingers. "Yes, yes I am. I do not play often enough to develope calluses on the tips, and MS calluses are across the palm. Then when I do play, I get so carried away that this happens." He dropped his hand. "If you will be so kind as to excuse me, I need to go and wash this."
Nanashi did not leave, nor did he place the flute he had borrowed back on it's stand. He reached out and touched the strings of the violin, then brought a drop of that blood up to his lips to taste it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A friend? But Maestro, all those rumors-
Were rumors.
So you never were romantically involved with the Princess Relena?
You are very rude, are you not?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trowa (not Triton) he reminded himself, peeked into the small lounge of the Peacemillion. The delicate, mournful strands of music had drawn him while he had been wandering around the corridors, unable to sleep. Standing there was the blonde boy who had brought him back from the circus. The face was calm, not emotionless, but meditative, yet the song being brought forth from the violin all but screamed to be comforted.
The brown-haired boy frowned. He had tried to comfort the other before, because Quatre was often subjected to theses fits of depression, but while receptive to his efforts, it didn't seem to be making them any less frequent or severe. The only person Quatre actually seemed to confide to was the solemn, frightening Hiiro Yuy. Trowa sometimes wondered if Quatre felt guilty for what he had done to him, but Quatre had assured him that since Trowa had forgiven him, he was working on forgiving himself.
He slipped into a small, bolted-down armchair. Quatre heard him and opened stormy-sea-colored eyes. This was very familiar. He closed his eyes, gave Trowa a bittersweet smile and continued to play. Trowa kept his eyes on Quatre's left hand, waiting for the inevitable red tears to begin to flow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Please forgive me. But you must admit, you're personal history is quite . . . fascinating.
You refer to my history as a Gundam pilot, I presume?
And your role as the phenomenon of the buisness world as well. The only thing that outstrips your accomplishments as a pilot, a CEO and a politician is your divine musical talent.
Your flattery is unappreciated. If you are looking to make a confectionery from my life, I am afraid I must disappoint you.
I assure you, Maestro, our readers are most interested in the facts.
Perhaps, perhaps . . .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The end of war. Or at least the end of this war. Trowa didn't have to have Wufei's knowledge of history to be cynical about humanity's future. But for now, people were too shell-shocked by their close encounter with Ultimate Destiny, and things were fairly calm. Maybe this would last five years. Maybe this would last ten.
Trowa calmly waited for Duo to leave the hospital room before entering himself. Quatre was sitting up, looking far healthier than he had when Trowa had brought him to the MO-II interim hospital. The bandages peaked out from the collar of his hospital gown, an IV was strapped to his elbow and the steady beep of the electrocardiogram indicated that some sensors were attached beneath the gown. "Trowa!"
He held up a small black case. "You wanted a duet after the war, but I couldn't sneak your violin here. I think you'd appreciate a little music though."
Quatre laughed. "Yes, yes I would. Something other than this incessant beeping. Duo tries, but he can't spend all his time here; after all, Hilde was injured as well. Besides-" He raised the arm with the IV in it, or at least tried to. It came back down almost as soon as it had left the sheets and he grimaced. "I'm not in any position to bend this arm anyway. They couldn't find any other good vein for the IV, but this is a real pain."
Trowa chuckled softly. He opened the case, withdrew the flute (the same one actually from that estate) and began to play softly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your debut in the buisness world is quite well known, n'est-ce pas? It was the end of an era, the end of the Alliance. But your role in that wasn't revealed in that till much later.
No
Did you ever think you ever imagine that your future would be anything like this?
Child, at the time, I was too shocked in realizing that I actually had a future to do any speculating on its nature.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It didn't last six months. The end of peace was as flamboyant as the death of a leader of a nation, as bloody as a battlefield massacre. But what struck Trowa as the stronger irony, was the one who had most of a future before him, had been the first to go. And Trowa would never forgive himself for that.
Starved features, too pale, too thin, branded themselves into his brain. Luminescent screens everywhere splashed scenes of the bombing all over the colony; bodies sprawled over steps like dummies, corpses jammed like sardines in rooms where the ceilings had collapsed. But it had been that brief flash of gold, a replay of the explosion itself that was paramount in his brain.
Duo slowed and stopped in a small alleyway. He paused, listening for a whisper, a sigh, a thready heartbeat. Trowa could almost see his ears prick and swivel, like the creatures in the circus. Satisfied that nothing was there, Duo opened the almost completely hidden door.
And nearly got his head shot off.
"Jesus, Joseph and Mary! What the hell was that about!"
"I don't have X-ray vision Duo; I can't see through walls. How was I supposed to know it was you?" A tired and exhausted Quatre recocked the safety of the gun, then placed it down on the table beside the bed he was sitting on. There was a large, swelling bruise across half his face.
His hands were shaking. Blood dripped from a torn fingernail. It didn't matter. He was alive.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To borrow the expression from L2, you wear many hats. Which is your favorite?
A buisness man.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And this was it. At least for him it was. He was not as familiar with the other two Gundams, but the other two had been a tad too careful when making sure he had no opportunities to examine these weapons of mass destruction. From here on, his future was unknown territory. "Looks like I'm back to being Nanashi again."
Quatre turned to him. "Trowa sounds like a perfectly fine name to me."
Duo chimed in. "Yeah, names are just what other people call you. They don't change who you are."
He nodded. "Thank you both."
There was a pause. Then Duo broke the silence. "So what are y'all gonna do? I'm heading back to L2. Hilde and I are starting a salvage buisness there. We're thinking of calling it OMU."
"OMU?" Quatre looked like he was trying not to laugh as he voiced both his and Trowa's question.
"Yup. Operation: Mop-Up. OMU for short."
A laugh. "I think you need to work on that one." Duo grinned and tugged on his braid. "As for me, I'm going to stay on Earth. I just got accepted to Brandeis in Nato."
Duo scrunched up his nose. "Brandeis? Never heard of it before. Where in Nato?"
"North. The Alliance took over many of the technical universities in the Nato continent when they gained power. Brandeis was more a liberal arts, multi-focal school, so they didn't bother turning it into a military institute, like Berkley. It's not well known anymore because of that."
"God you're gonna freeze Kitty-Cat."
"Duo! Not that far north. From what I understand, it was in the area that used to be America, and that was far more temperate than Canada."
"Sure it was. You don't see me moving there. I like my weather controlled, thank you very much." At this point Trowa broke in before it turned into a full-blown argument. "So what are you studying?"
Quatre turned towards the welcome interruption. "Buisness, of course. I inherit WEI after my 21st birthday, and I want to make sure I'm fully prepared."
"Buisness? I thought you might go into music." Trowa tried not to sound disappointed.
"Nope. As much as I enjoy the violin and the piano, with the resources of WEI, I can help a lot more people. Something to help all those I hurt. And, its my father's legacy. If I'm a complete disaster, I'll bow out, but I'll never know till I try."
Trowa couldn't help but wonder about the other side of that equation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Looking at you today, Maestro, it's hard to believe that 40 years ago you piloted those hulking MS. You look more like a phantom or a sylphide than a soldier.
Age, child, has that effect on all of us. Surely you do not imagine that you will have the same dark hair and smooth skin you have now in 40 years.
Ah, why is it that you have only recently begun to talk of your role in the two Christmas Wars? Is it out of a sense of loyalty?
. . .
Maestro?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Trowa?" He turned, the soft voice stirring sensations, emotions, memories. "Trowa! It is you!" He nodded. Quatre took his left hand with his right and began to lead him through Duo's labyrinthine house. "I'm so glad you came. We weren't sure if you were going to show up or not."
"My flight got in early." He looked over his friend. Quatre had dyed a blue streak through his hair. It matched his loose, silk shirt, but clashed with the holly that perched over his right ear. He looked over at Quatre's free hand and noticed that the fingers were cut and bleeding slightly. "Were you playing again?"
"Yes. It's a small gathering, just friends, so I agreed to play some Christmas carols on my violin. I was just going to wash up when you rang."
"I'm glad you're still playing. I brought my flute, maybe we could finally get around to that duet you wanted." Quatre smiled. "At the end of the week. My fingers still need time to heal. I could play the piano though."
"Sure. Just remember, you promised me that duet."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To go back to your earlier answer, you said the part you most enjoy about your life is the buisness aspect of it. What about your music? Surely that is more important than WEI to you as a person?
No. Music was never more than a hobby for me.
No? I find that hard to comprehend. Especially given the highly evocative nature of your compositions, to believe that it is a mere hobby, strikes me as false modesty.
I assure you, that at best of times it was only a hobby. I never intended to be more than a philanthropist.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Even the most cynical of pessimists rarely imagines the worst possible disasters. Thus, though the scientists on Mars were well prepared for an isolated blow-out of one of the sections of the domes, they hadn't predicted a massive terrorist attack. The bombs had gone off haphazardly, first one section, then the next, then another on the other side. The only mercy that Trowa could see was that had the explosives gone off a few hours earlier, more people would have been in the domes rather than out working on the terraformation. More people, asleep and unprepared. Even bearing that in mind, the death count was appallingly high.
They were also lucky that the carbon dioxide generators had been working the past few months. Even with the domes blown, there was no danger of explosive decompression (a constant danger on the moon), and the ambient temperature in the day would allow thirty minutes leeway before hypothermia became a problem. But the oxygen converters were still in the process of being built and the percentage of oxygen in the air was still a measly 15%. The same thing quality that prevented any fires igniting from the explosives, also made it that there would only be a few minutes before hypoxia settled in, and they needed to get people in fast.
Trowa had given his mask to the girl he carried. Although now safely inside an unbreached portion of the dome, she was on the edge of consciousness and needed all the help he could give her. Once she was at the infirmary, one of the few undamaged areas, he could go out and rejoin the rescue effort.
He was almost there, when another explosion rocked the dome. The girl flew out of his arms, and something massive came down on his back, crushing his oxygen tank. Weakly raising his head, he saw red dust pour in like blood from a hole in the wall.
He thought he saw an oddly shaped figure approach, and raised a feeble, shaking hand, as if he could ward off the hostile Martian with it. Just before he passed out, he thought it odd that a Martian would look like Quatre in a space suit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Even if we ignore your composing skills, your playing in and of itself, is extraordinary! The discipline and practice you must put in-
No
You must admit your talent is that of genius, not only with the violin, but the piano and almost any instrument you put your hand to.
Almost, I take it you remember the trumpet incident quite well.
Now you are being facetious. You have a voice like an angel. The critics agree that your performance, last Christmas; it was if you could to redeem the world.
Not the world.
Perdonnez moi?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trowa woke to swords and blood and music. The crystalline ceiling, interrupted by steel supports, of the dome stretched above his head. Above it a dust storm raged, not a severe one, but enough to soften and encrimson the sun into a floating rose of flame. The music came from somewhere just beyond his scope of vision.
He turned his head gingerly. Standing at the foot of his bed was Quatre, playing a soft aria on his violin. A small gold brooch in the shape of a bee was pinned to the white fabric of his turtleneck. He stopped playing when Trowa cleared his throat. He tried to say something but all that came out was a croak.
Quatre reached out, to the nightstand beside the bed. Trowa followed his hand, noting that the fingertips of his left hand were bloody again. Quatre picked up a clear glass and held it to Trowa to drink. When he was done, Quatre put the glass back on the nightstand. That's when Trowa noticed the vase of lilies on the stand. Violet and white.
He tried to speak again. His voice was rusty, but understandable. "What happened?"
Quatre grimaced. "It was a group of social agitators from L5, Return to Earth. Their policy is to spend money improving and increasing the number of colonies before heading outside the Earth-Moon system. They want the money to be spent on the colonies, or the moon base rather than on the terraform project. They were completely beneath the Preventor radar. Since their conception, the worst they have done is picketing an L5 representative at his home. This must have been in the works for months, possibly up to two years."
"What happened?"
"You were lucky. I decided to bring the L4 supply ship in early, and we saw the explosions as we were coming in to land. We did not bother to change out of our suits, we just opened the airlock and began dragging people in. We kept them all locked up just in case. Between us and the rescue parties, 75% of the victims will be absolutely fine in about a week."
"What happened?"
"I am not supposed to be jeapardizing your recovery here." Trowa's voice had given out on him again, so he settled on just glaring at Quatre. "Fine. We managed to save another 12%, but those people were out too long, they will all have residual neural damage of various severity. And Zechs is one of those we did not get to in time. He is dead." Trowa closed his eyes. "And the girl who was with me?" he rasped.
"I am sorry, Trowa. I am so sorry."
"If only I hadn't been under that beam, if I had moved a little faster. Then it wouldn't have crushed my tank-"
"It would not have helped, Trowa." Quatre's voice was very gentle, as if he was speaking to a child. "A piece of the shrapnel got her in the throat. She was already dead, by the time I found you. And if the beam had not caught the tanks you would be dead too, they deflected the beam just enough to prevent it from breaking your back. As is, you have a huge bruise over your kidneys, and will not be on duty for at least a month."
"Play" Fortunately Quatre understood him, and began to play his violin again, not even complaining about his already damaged fingers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I never thought music could redeem the world. Humanity cannot redeem itself, it can only seek to improve itself, though perhaps at a higher price than it can afford.
Some say that art is the expression of humanity's conscience.
Does that include the graffiti of L2, the propaganda of the Alliance, the Jack-the-Ripper serial killer who said that his carvings were 'art' that was so infamous when I started my career? Art may show the conscience of humanity, but it also shows the tawdry desires, the greeds, the lusts. It shows not just the good, but the bad, the hidden, the bestial.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trowa stayed with the Preventors. At every major political event he was there. It seemed peace really was going to last. There were still incidents, of course, but the Mars Bombing was the last major terrorist act for three years.
He watched his friends change in that time. Relena took the world to be her stage, Hiiro became her sober shadow. He watched Wufei plan missions, Une make speeches, Marimeia grow into a sulky, typical teenager. But he never got tired of watching Quatre: escorting Relena to a poltical ball, making press releases for WEI, helping the Preventors on the occasional mission. And he missed the music that once had flowed so gracefully from those bloody fingers.
Then in Geneva it happened. One bullet and the peace that had seemed so strong, teetered on a blade. The terrorists took the rest of the attendees of the conference hostage. The local police blocked the roads and negotiations started.
Trowa and Quatre were inside. Quatre's hair was streaked with Relena's blood, his grey suit was ripped and torn from crawling around the air ducts. His eyes were wide and hysteria caused them to snap and glow. He carried a Derringer, Trowa a larger Magnum Pistol. They moved silently through the corridors, trying to reach the hostages.
And walked right into a patrol.
"Get in, get in!" Trowa hissed to Quatre, propelling them both towards a small janitor's closet that was near by. A bullet lodged itself it Quatre's left shoulder and he stumbled.
"Don't move!" Fortunately back-up had arrived, in the form of a Preventor's squadron led by Duo. Unfortunately, the terrorists, figuring they had nothing to lose at this point, started firing at anything and everything.
"Quatre!" Trowa threw himself over his friend. Two bullets entered his lungs, and one clipped the aorta.
"Trowa! Trowa, hang on. Would someone get a medic!" Quatre tried to staunch the blood, but there was simply too much and it was rapidly filling his lungs.
"Quatre . . ." He coughed up more blood. The world was fading around him. "Looks like we never will get to do that duet. I'm sorry. I love you. I should have told you this before." All he saw now was Quatre's panicked eyes, the rest of his face was a pale halo around them. "Please Quatre, please keep playing for me."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In that case, what does your music reveal?
I do not know.
Maestro?
Do you now, I've played every day for the past 40 years?
Really. That's remarkable dedication. To play everyday for yourself-
I did not say that.
I don't understand . . .
It's not important. This will be my last performance.
You will be disappointing your fans.
I never played for them.
But . . .
I have not played for anyone in this world for a long time. And I think tonight will be the last time I will ever play the violin.
~~~FIN~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maestro, maestro! Please wait, maestro!
Very well, mademoiselle, you have my attention.
Maestro, surely you must give time, before your performance, for the-
For the vampiric media?
. . .
Never mind. Very well child, if you have a few questions I shall answer them, but please be brief, otherwise we shall both be very late.
Thank you, Maestro. How does it feel, to be playing at the 40th anniversary of the death of the Princess Relena Peacecraft, the great pacifist?
How do you think it would feel to be commemorating the death of a good friend?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The blonde child set the violin down and loosened the strings. The first thing Nanashi noticed was the blood. The cuts were small, certainly nothing for a pilot of a MS. But against the pale skin, the sliding drops were as jarring as lighting on a clear day.
Nanashi had seen blood before, in such copious amounts as to be completely indifferent to it. Blood was more common than water to a mercenary; he no longer batted an eye at even the most gruesome of deaths. But this, somehow this was different.
"Is something wrong?" He turned to his companion. Rose shirt, formally pressed and tucked, pearly buttons flashed the light into Nanashi's eyes. Pale sunlit hair fell messily into a childlike face, but did not obscure the clear sky eyes. A delicate pink mouth shaped precisely discrete words. Nanashi reflected that the child couldn't be that young, he was a Gundam pilot, but he was certainly younger than Nanashi himself. The blonde cradled the injured left hand with his right.
"You're bleeding."
The other raised the bloody fingers. "Yes, yes I am. I do not play often enough to develope calluses on the tips, and MS calluses are across the palm. Then when I do play, I get so carried away that this happens." He dropped his hand. "If you will be so kind as to excuse me, I need to go and wash this."
Nanashi did not leave, nor did he place the flute he had borrowed back on it's stand. He reached out and touched the strings of the violin, then brought a drop of that blood up to his lips to taste it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A friend? But Maestro, all those rumors-
Were rumors.
So you never were romantically involved with the Princess Relena?
You are very rude, are you not?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trowa (not Triton) he reminded himself, peeked into the small lounge of the Peacemillion. The delicate, mournful strands of music had drawn him while he had been wandering around the corridors, unable to sleep. Standing there was the blonde boy who had brought him back from the circus. The face was calm, not emotionless, but meditative, yet the song being brought forth from the violin all but screamed to be comforted.
The brown-haired boy frowned. He had tried to comfort the other before, because Quatre was often subjected to theses fits of depression, but while receptive to his efforts, it didn't seem to be making them any less frequent or severe. The only person Quatre actually seemed to confide to was the solemn, frightening Hiiro Yuy. Trowa sometimes wondered if Quatre felt guilty for what he had done to him, but Quatre had assured him that since Trowa had forgiven him, he was working on forgiving himself.
He slipped into a small, bolted-down armchair. Quatre heard him and opened stormy-sea-colored eyes. This was very familiar. He closed his eyes, gave Trowa a bittersweet smile and continued to play. Trowa kept his eyes on Quatre's left hand, waiting for the inevitable red tears to begin to flow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Please forgive me. But you must admit, you're personal history is quite . . . fascinating.
You refer to my history as a Gundam pilot, I presume?
And your role as the phenomenon of the buisness world as well. The only thing that outstrips your accomplishments as a pilot, a CEO and a politician is your divine musical talent.
Your flattery is unappreciated. If you are looking to make a confectionery from my life, I am afraid I must disappoint you.
I assure you, Maestro, our readers are most interested in the facts.
Perhaps, perhaps . . .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The end of war. Or at least the end of this war. Trowa didn't have to have Wufei's knowledge of history to be cynical about humanity's future. But for now, people were too shell-shocked by their close encounter with Ultimate Destiny, and things were fairly calm. Maybe this would last five years. Maybe this would last ten.
Trowa calmly waited for Duo to leave the hospital room before entering himself. Quatre was sitting up, looking far healthier than he had when Trowa had brought him to the MO-II interim hospital. The bandages peaked out from the collar of his hospital gown, an IV was strapped to his elbow and the steady beep of the electrocardiogram indicated that some sensors were attached beneath the gown. "Trowa!"
He held up a small black case. "You wanted a duet after the war, but I couldn't sneak your violin here. I think you'd appreciate a little music though."
Quatre laughed. "Yes, yes I would. Something other than this incessant beeping. Duo tries, but he can't spend all his time here; after all, Hilde was injured as well. Besides-" He raised the arm with the IV in it, or at least tried to. It came back down almost as soon as it had left the sheets and he grimaced. "I'm not in any position to bend this arm anyway. They couldn't find any other good vein for the IV, but this is a real pain."
Trowa chuckled softly. He opened the case, withdrew the flute (the same one actually from that estate) and began to play softly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your debut in the buisness world is quite well known, n'est-ce pas? It was the end of an era, the end of the Alliance. But your role in that wasn't revealed in that till much later.
No
Did you ever think you ever imagine that your future would be anything like this?
Child, at the time, I was too shocked in realizing that I actually had a future to do any speculating on its nature.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It didn't last six months. The end of peace was as flamboyant as the death of a leader of a nation, as bloody as a battlefield massacre. But what struck Trowa as the stronger irony, was the one who had most of a future before him, had been the first to go. And Trowa would never forgive himself for that.
Starved features, too pale, too thin, branded themselves into his brain. Luminescent screens everywhere splashed scenes of the bombing all over the colony; bodies sprawled over steps like dummies, corpses jammed like sardines in rooms where the ceilings had collapsed. But it had been that brief flash of gold, a replay of the explosion itself that was paramount in his brain.
Duo slowed and stopped in a small alleyway. He paused, listening for a whisper, a sigh, a thready heartbeat. Trowa could almost see his ears prick and swivel, like the creatures in the circus. Satisfied that nothing was there, Duo opened the almost completely hidden door.
And nearly got his head shot off.
"Jesus, Joseph and Mary! What the hell was that about!"
"I don't have X-ray vision Duo; I can't see through walls. How was I supposed to know it was you?" A tired and exhausted Quatre recocked the safety of the gun, then placed it down on the table beside the bed he was sitting on. There was a large, swelling bruise across half his face.
His hands were shaking. Blood dripped from a torn fingernail. It didn't matter. He was alive.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To borrow the expression from L2, you wear many hats. Which is your favorite?
A buisness man.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And this was it. At least for him it was. He was not as familiar with the other two Gundams, but the other two had been a tad too careful when making sure he had no opportunities to examine these weapons of mass destruction. From here on, his future was unknown territory. "Looks like I'm back to being Nanashi again."
Quatre turned to him. "Trowa sounds like a perfectly fine name to me."
Duo chimed in. "Yeah, names are just what other people call you. They don't change who you are."
He nodded. "Thank you both."
There was a pause. Then Duo broke the silence. "So what are y'all gonna do? I'm heading back to L2. Hilde and I are starting a salvage buisness there. We're thinking of calling it OMU."
"OMU?" Quatre looked like he was trying not to laugh as he voiced both his and Trowa's question.
"Yup. Operation: Mop-Up. OMU for short."
A laugh. "I think you need to work on that one." Duo grinned and tugged on his braid. "As for me, I'm going to stay on Earth. I just got accepted to Brandeis in Nato."
Duo scrunched up his nose. "Brandeis? Never heard of it before. Where in Nato?"
"North. The Alliance took over many of the technical universities in the Nato continent when they gained power. Brandeis was more a liberal arts, multi-focal school, so they didn't bother turning it into a military institute, like Berkley. It's not well known anymore because of that."
"God you're gonna freeze Kitty-Cat."
"Duo! Not that far north. From what I understand, it was in the area that used to be America, and that was far more temperate than Canada."
"Sure it was. You don't see me moving there. I like my weather controlled, thank you very much." At this point Trowa broke in before it turned into a full-blown argument. "So what are you studying?"
Quatre turned towards the welcome interruption. "Buisness, of course. I inherit WEI after my 21st birthday, and I want to make sure I'm fully prepared."
"Buisness? I thought you might go into music." Trowa tried not to sound disappointed.
"Nope. As much as I enjoy the violin and the piano, with the resources of WEI, I can help a lot more people. Something to help all those I hurt. And, its my father's legacy. If I'm a complete disaster, I'll bow out, but I'll never know till I try."
Trowa couldn't help but wonder about the other side of that equation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Looking at you today, Maestro, it's hard to believe that 40 years ago you piloted those hulking MS. You look more like a phantom or a sylphide than a soldier.
Age, child, has that effect on all of us. Surely you do not imagine that you will have the same dark hair and smooth skin you have now in 40 years.
Ah, why is it that you have only recently begun to talk of your role in the two Christmas Wars? Is it out of a sense of loyalty?
. . .
Maestro?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Trowa?" He turned, the soft voice stirring sensations, emotions, memories. "Trowa! It is you!" He nodded. Quatre took his left hand with his right and began to lead him through Duo's labyrinthine house. "I'm so glad you came. We weren't sure if you were going to show up or not."
"My flight got in early." He looked over his friend. Quatre had dyed a blue streak through his hair. It matched his loose, silk shirt, but clashed with the holly that perched over his right ear. He looked over at Quatre's free hand and noticed that the fingers were cut and bleeding slightly. "Were you playing again?"
"Yes. It's a small gathering, just friends, so I agreed to play some Christmas carols on my violin. I was just going to wash up when you rang."
"I'm glad you're still playing. I brought my flute, maybe we could finally get around to that duet you wanted." Quatre smiled. "At the end of the week. My fingers still need time to heal. I could play the piano though."
"Sure. Just remember, you promised me that duet."
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To go back to your earlier answer, you said the part you most enjoy about your life is the buisness aspect of it. What about your music? Surely that is more important than WEI to you as a person?
No. Music was never more than a hobby for me.
No? I find that hard to comprehend. Especially given the highly evocative nature of your compositions, to believe that it is a mere hobby, strikes me as false modesty.
I assure you, that at best of times it was only a hobby. I never intended to be more than a philanthropist.
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Even the most cynical of pessimists rarely imagines the worst possible disasters. Thus, though the scientists on Mars were well prepared for an isolated blow-out of one of the sections of the domes, they hadn't predicted a massive terrorist attack. The bombs had gone off haphazardly, first one section, then the next, then another on the other side. The only mercy that Trowa could see was that had the explosives gone off a few hours earlier, more people would have been in the domes rather than out working on the terraformation. More people, asleep and unprepared. Even bearing that in mind, the death count was appallingly high.
They were also lucky that the carbon dioxide generators had been working the past few months. Even with the domes blown, there was no danger of explosive decompression (a constant danger on the moon), and the ambient temperature in the day would allow thirty minutes leeway before hypothermia became a problem. But the oxygen converters were still in the process of being built and the percentage of oxygen in the air was still a measly 15%. The same thing quality that prevented any fires igniting from the explosives, also made it that there would only be a few minutes before hypoxia settled in, and they needed to get people in fast.
Trowa had given his mask to the girl he carried. Although now safely inside an unbreached portion of the dome, she was on the edge of consciousness and needed all the help he could give her. Once she was at the infirmary, one of the few undamaged areas, he could go out and rejoin the rescue effort.
He was almost there, when another explosion rocked the dome. The girl flew out of his arms, and something massive came down on his back, crushing his oxygen tank. Weakly raising his head, he saw red dust pour in like blood from a hole in the wall.
He thought he saw an oddly shaped figure approach, and raised a feeble, shaking hand, as if he could ward off the hostile Martian with it. Just before he passed out, he thought it odd that a Martian would look like Quatre in a space suit.
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Even if we ignore your composing skills, your playing in and of itself, is extraordinary! The discipline and practice you must put in-
No
You must admit your talent is that of genius, not only with the violin, but the piano and almost any instrument you put your hand to.
Almost, I take it you remember the trumpet incident quite well.
Now you are being facetious. You have a voice like an angel. The critics agree that your performance, last Christmas; it was if you could to redeem the world.
Not the world.
Perdonnez moi?
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Trowa woke to swords and blood and music. The crystalline ceiling, interrupted by steel supports, of the dome stretched above his head. Above it a dust storm raged, not a severe one, but enough to soften and encrimson the sun into a floating rose of flame. The music came from somewhere just beyond his scope of vision.
He turned his head gingerly. Standing at the foot of his bed was Quatre, playing a soft aria on his violin. A small gold brooch in the shape of a bee was pinned to the white fabric of his turtleneck. He stopped playing when Trowa cleared his throat. He tried to say something but all that came out was a croak.
Quatre reached out, to the nightstand beside the bed. Trowa followed his hand, noting that the fingertips of his left hand were bloody again. Quatre picked up a clear glass and held it to Trowa to drink. When he was done, Quatre put the glass back on the nightstand. That's when Trowa noticed the vase of lilies on the stand. Violet and white.
He tried to speak again. His voice was rusty, but understandable. "What happened?"
Quatre grimaced. "It was a group of social agitators from L5, Return to Earth. Their policy is to spend money improving and increasing the number of colonies before heading outside the Earth-Moon system. They want the money to be spent on the colonies, or the moon base rather than on the terraform project. They were completely beneath the Preventor radar. Since their conception, the worst they have done is picketing an L5 representative at his home. This must have been in the works for months, possibly up to two years."
"What happened?"
"You were lucky. I decided to bring the L4 supply ship in early, and we saw the explosions as we were coming in to land. We did not bother to change out of our suits, we just opened the airlock and began dragging people in. We kept them all locked up just in case. Between us and the rescue parties, 75% of the victims will be absolutely fine in about a week."
"What happened?"
"I am not supposed to be jeapardizing your recovery here." Trowa's voice had given out on him again, so he settled on just glaring at Quatre. "Fine. We managed to save another 12%, but those people were out too long, they will all have residual neural damage of various severity. And Zechs is one of those we did not get to in time. He is dead." Trowa closed his eyes. "And the girl who was with me?" he rasped.
"I am sorry, Trowa. I am so sorry."
"If only I hadn't been under that beam, if I had moved a little faster. Then it wouldn't have crushed my tank-"
"It would not have helped, Trowa." Quatre's voice was very gentle, as if he was speaking to a child. "A piece of the shrapnel got her in the throat. She was already dead, by the time I found you. And if the beam had not caught the tanks you would be dead too, they deflected the beam just enough to prevent it from breaking your back. As is, you have a huge bruise over your kidneys, and will not be on duty for at least a month."
"Play" Fortunately Quatre understood him, and began to play his violin again, not even complaining about his already damaged fingers.
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I never thought music could redeem the world. Humanity cannot redeem itself, it can only seek to improve itself, though perhaps at a higher price than it can afford.
Some say that art is the expression of humanity's conscience.
Does that include the graffiti of L2, the propaganda of the Alliance, the Jack-the-Ripper serial killer who said that his carvings were 'art' that was so infamous when I started my career? Art may show the conscience of humanity, but it also shows the tawdry desires, the greeds, the lusts. It shows not just the good, but the bad, the hidden, the bestial.
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Trowa stayed with the Preventors. At every major political event he was there. It seemed peace really was going to last. There were still incidents, of course, but the Mars Bombing was the last major terrorist act for three years.
He watched his friends change in that time. Relena took the world to be her stage, Hiiro became her sober shadow. He watched Wufei plan missions, Une make speeches, Marimeia grow into a sulky, typical teenager. But he never got tired of watching Quatre: escorting Relena to a poltical ball, making press releases for WEI, helping the Preventors on the occasional mission. And he missed the music that once had flowed so gracefully from those bloody fingers.
Then in Geneva it happened. One bullet and the peace that had seemed so strong, teetered on a blade. The terrorists took the rest of the attendees of the conference hostage. The local police blocked the roads and negotiations started.
Trowa and Quatre were inside. Quatre's hair was streaked with Relena's blood, his grey suit was ripped and torn from crawling around the air ducts. His eyes were wide and hysteria caused them to snap and glow. He carried a Derringer, Trowa a larger Magnum Pistol. They moved silently through the corridors, trying to reach the hostages.
And walked right into a patrol.
"Get in, get in!" Trowa hissed to Quatre, propelling them both towards a small janitor's closet that was near by. A bullet lodged itself it Quatre's left shoulder and he stumbled.
"Don't move!" Fortunately back-up had arrived, in the form of a Preventor's squadron led by Duo. Unfortunately, the terrorists, figuring they had nothing to lose at this point, started firing at anything and everything.
"Quatre!" Trowa threw himself over his friend. Two bullets entered his lungs, and one clipped the aorta.
"Trowa! Trowa, hang on. Would someone get a medic!" Quatre tried to staunch the blood, but there was simply too much and it was rapidly filling his lungs.
"Quatre . . ." He coughed up more blood. The world was fading around him. "Looks like we never will get to do that duet. I'm sorry. I love you. I should have told you this before." All he saw now was Quatre's panicked eyes, the rest of his face was a pale halo around them. "Please Quatre, please keep playing for me."
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In that case, what does your music reveal?
I do not know.
Maestro?
Do you now, I've played every day for the past 40 years?
Really. That's remarkable dedication. To play everyday for yourself-
I did not say that.
I don't understand . . .
It's not important. This will be my last performance.
You will be disappointing your fans.
I never played for them.
But . . .
I have not played for anyone in this world for a long time. And I think tonight will be the last time I will ever play the violin.
~~~FIN~~~