Bless the Beasts and Little Children
A Gundam Wing/Lycanthrope Leo Crossover
Standard Disclaimers apply
Prologue and Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Parts 12 and Beyond
TITLE: Bless the Beasts and Little Children
Gundam Wing/Lycanthrope Leo XO
WARNINGS: Ummm. Violence. Language. Maybe Yaoi, maybe lemon. Maybe not? AU for both series. As In-Character as possible.
RATING: Let's make it R, for safety's sake.
* * * * *
PROLOGUE
In a clean, white lab carefully swept for monitoring devices, five middle-aged men gathered. Their white lab coats whispered about them as they sat at a lab-counter-turned-conference-table. Their gazes (or those that could be seen, anyway) shifted uneasily across each other, guilty but defiant. One by one, they placed large, wooden cases on the tabletop.
For a moment, there was an uneasy silence. Then one of them, his odd grey bowl-cut flopping over his eyes, spoke, "Do you think we made a mistake?"
"Of course not." An angry metallic click accompanied the denial.
"But the sacred duty..."
"I know the duty! But we have other duties, as well. To the Colonies... if OZ was allowed to triumph, everything we fought so hard for would have ceased to exist. We did all that we could."
"I know, Doctor J, I know... we needed the young ones. None of us disputes that. But now that the war is over, have we not unleashed a greater fury on an unsuspecting humanity?"
Doctor J smiled, unpleasantly. "We taught them everything they know. We have mapped out their capabilities, tested their limits, damn near engineered those sorry shells that pass as their souls. We know their weaknesses. What we have done *can* be undone. We will... fufill the duty."
"But... what about Quatre?"
"What about him, Doctor?"
"He hasn't shown any of the signs. He is a kind and gentle boy... a *human* boy. Surely we can..."
"Absolutely not. The bloodwork does not lie. He is one of them, and now that they are at the age of majority and their purpose is ended, he will die same as the others. Is that clear?"
"Yes. I... will fufill the duty." One after another, the other Doctors nodded their assent. This was their purpose, after all, to hunt. To kill before they were killed themselves. They gathered their things and left the table then without speaking another word, all but one secure in his purpose.
PART ONE
The crowd rose to its feet, roaring its approval. The slight figure in the center of the ring bowed low, and the two lions at his side echoed the gesture perfectly. From the sidelines, the ringmistress shouted, "Trowa Barton, ladies and gentlemen, the star of the New Colony Bloom Circus Company!" As the audience's adulation waned, the light shifted to the second ring, where a small group of clowns began their routine.
As soon as the spotlight faded, Trowa led the two big cats from the ring, back to the comfortable and well-appointed area he'd designed for their stay between acts. They flopped down into the enclosure, yawning lazily at him. His expression softened, and he said quietly, "I know." He leaned against the bars and closed his eyes wearily. 'Only one more month left in this tour. Then we can go visit Quatre. You'll like where he lives, next best thing to home.' His friend had regularly written since the end of the war, one letter every three days hand-delivered by a Winner representative. Finally, after two months, Trowa had agreed to visit... providing that Quatre would arrange transport and lodging for his two rather unusual companions. So was it written, so was it done. The tickets and other arrangements had arrived yesterday. Quatre wasn't giving him any excuse to back out of the 'five month anniversary' the sentimental ex-Gundam pilot had prepared.
Quite frankly, Trowa wasn't sure if he should feel flattered or crowded.
"Trowa! You were wonderful tonight! Although I wish you has warned me about that new trick... it could have been very dangerous."
He raised his eyes to meet Catherine's, "I wasn't in danger. They won't hurt me."
The ringmistress sighed, "I know you believe that, Trowa, just as you know that I'll always worry." She grinned, "After all, that's what big sisters *do*. It's in the rulebook. Now, let's change out of these costumes and celebrate. We sold out!" Her face practically glowed with happiness. She and others from the old circus had sunk their entire savings to purchase the circus. The previous owner had finally decided to retire; a decision perhaps aided by the confusion and danger of having a Gundam pilot on staff. At any rate, the circus was Catherine's heart, now, and luckily business had been good. After the war, the Colonies felt like celebrating. And for the first time in years (maybe his entire life) Trowa was letting his guard down just a little.
Catherine swooped in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Trowa sucked in a startled breath. His forest green eyes were wide and startled. "Why... why did you do that?"
A sigh. "Because I care about you, Trowa, and I was happy. When people are happy, they show affection to those they care about." He looked blankly at her. "Never mind. Just change, okay?"
Unfortunately, Trowa had more guards than the entire Alliance military. Catherine sailed off, muttering to herself. He stared after her a moment, then one hand curiously touched the place where she'd kissed him.
"Hey, mister? Mister Barton?"
He glanced at the young usher, and nodded. The kid blushed, and handed him a note. "A mister told me to give this to you. Said it was important. *Really* important."
"Thank you." The kid scurried off. Trowa opened the note slowly, and felt his heart sink.
Trowa,
Doctor's orders: Tannebaum's Machine Shop in Sector D4. Urgent.
'I don't have to go.' The war was over. He'd done his share, damn it. He deserved his part in the peace he'd helped to win. But the need to obey was strong within him. After all, the Doctor would not have contacted him if it wasn't important. Right?
He crumpled the note into a tight, hard little ball, and hurled it into the lion enclosure. One of the cats growled at it idly, and batted delicately. By the time it lost interest and turned an inquisitive muzzle to its trainer, the room was empty.
The machine shop was a broken down hulk. Irrevocably broken parts and the leering corpses of vehicles sprawled across the shattered concrete of the 'yard'. Only the sign had any semblance of recent use. In fact... Trowa leaned forward and sniffed. The sharp smell of fresh paint made his nostrils flare slightly. 'Why put fresh paint on a place this decrepit?' His eyes narrowed, and he stalked towards the corroded steel door, his normally smooth stride gone wary and silent.
Something was not right. The feeling tugged at him, and he'd been a soldier too long to shrug it off. Unfortunately, he'd also been a soldier too long to simply walk away from a command, direct or otherwise. After a moment's hesitation, he pushed open the door.
The interior was shadowed, but Trowa's night vision had always been good. He stepped inside and to the left as his eyes made the minute adjustment. The shop was empty but for a single table and chair, currently occupied by his Doctor.
"Come in, young Trowa." The Doctor smiled, "I don't bite."
"What is this about? The war is over." That little feeling had grown teeth, and gnawed insistently at Trowa's midsection.
The other's smile widened, and he patted a black wooden case that rested in his lap. "That depends on which war you mean, boy. The war with OZ is over, yes. But we are still in danger."
The boy racked his brain for possible threats to the Colonies. The Zero-System? Destroyed. Earth? Too fractured, and what little order there was was presided over by the Sank Kingdom, and Relena Peacecraft would never initiate a war. What else could there be? "From what?"
"So, you're working at the Circus now?"
"Yes." What the hell was going on?
"An animal trainer, I hear. Animals always liked you. Especially the cats. Did you ever wonder why that was, Trowa?"
"No."
The Doctor frowned. He'd almost forgotten how difficult it was to get a rise out of the child. Probably why the first metamorphosis hadn't occurred yet. But that would have to change. Otherwise, the hunt would be no fun.
"Would it surprise you if I said that *I* knew why animals liked you?"
This time there was no response at all. Trowa simply stared at the Doctor, his face and eyes blank. This was not what he'd come to expect from his trainer, and the change frightened him? Why would anyone even care why animals liked him? It was just a feature, like the color of his eyes. The Doctor stood, and every muscle in Trowa's body tensed.
The Doctor placed his case on the table, and opened it, laying the cover back so that Trowa could see what lay within. It was an ornate, antique crossbow, and six bolts the color of old ivory. The Doctor looked up from the box to meet Trowa's eyes.
"Animals like you because they recognize their own."
Trowa blinked. His Doctor was obviously insane. "I don't understand."
"I know. I suppose I shouldn't expect such a poor, dumb beast to understand, but I shall endeavor to explain anyway." He took the crossbow out of the case, and began to polish it with an old rag. "You are not, and never were, human. That is why you were chosen to be a Gundam pilot, because your kind's abilities exceed humanity's. And, now that the war is over, you have become an unacceptable danger to humankind.
"Moreover, I am a member of an ancient society, dedicated to wiping your kind from the face of the Earth... and now, from Outer Space as well." He finished wiping the crossbow, and loaded it with one of the yellowed bolts. Trowa knew that he should move, seek cover, or just run like hell. But he was frozen in place. The man must be insane. Trowa was human. This was wrong.
The crossbow leveled at his chest. The Doctor smiled, a bit sadly this time. "If it's any consolation, Trowa Barton, I had grown fond of you. But you are an abomination unto Man and unto God, and it is your time to die.
"Good-bye." He pulled the trigger.
Before the sharp twang of the bowstring reached his ears, Trowa crouched, tensed, and leapt in a blur of speed and grace... directly into the electrical field that hovered a foot and a half above his head. The boy screamed, a heartbreaking sound, as the current took him in its teeth and shook his body like a dog with a ragdoll. Gravity tore him loose from the field's grip, and he fell to the oily concrete with a moan. Quiet, deliberate footsteps filled Trowa's ears as he lay there, panting and trying regain control of his spasming body. The footsteps stopped, and he heard the slow clicking of the crossbow being reloaded from somewhere above him.
"Consider it a fair handicap, Trowa. I modified one of the Mobile Doll shield systems. Gave it a little more 'kick', so to speak. I must say, it was a masterful job." A hand came down and turned the shuddering ex-pilot's head towards the light. For the moment, Trowa was helpless to resist.
The Doctor loomed over him, the crossbow held one-handed, but at the ready. With difficulty, Trowa focused his eyes on the sharp, smooth point of the bolt. His hands clenched spasmodically, and he averted his gaze. "G--go ahead. Kill... me."
A low chuckle, then retreating footsteps. "No, my boy. I won't kill you while you still believe me to be no more than a crazy old man." The Doctor's voice hardened. "You must know why. Then... well, I'm sure you won't welcome your death, but at least you will understand it." The crossbow raised and fired in one smooth motion. Still struggling through the effects of the electricity, Trowa could do nothing to dodge.
The bolt tore into the meat of his right shoulder, penetrating deep and burying itself into bone. He screamed again as the point burst through the other side. He'd been shot before, but this was different. The pain radiated through his body like a wave of heat, intensifying instead of drifting into the blessed cold of shock. 'The bolt... poisoned?'
What had he done to deserve this? Trowa had followed every order the Doctors had given, risked his life, and killed over and over at their command. He'd won their damned war, and this was how they repaid him? The heat became a fire within him, and where it burned pain and betrayal became killing rage. His left hand groped, then ripped the bolt from the wound. It hurt, but the pain was welcome fuel for the inferno within. He rolled until he faced the Doctor, sweat plastering his long bangs to one side of his head.
Catherine had once compared his dark-green eyes to those of a wild beast. If only she could see them now. As Trowa stared at his enemy, those eyes bloomed gold, the pupil lengthening and contracting to a narrow vertical strip. Trowa snarled, and there was nothing human left in the sound.
The Doctor's breath caught in his throat, the bow lowering slightly as he watched, mesmerized. This was what he'd wanted to happen, of course, but what was sound in theory had become perilous in execution. All over his prey's body, fascinating, terrifying changes were taking place. He could hear the sickening snap of joints and tendons giving way to new configurations. Muscle mass appeared, seemingly from nowhere, accompanied by a veritable forest of thick, black hair. Clothes shredded under the assault, and fell to the floor in patches.
Finally, it crouched on the floor before him: a misshapen amalgam of man and beast, inhuman, huge, naked... and very, very angry. The Doctor shouted in triumph, "Now do you see, Trowa? Now do you see why you must die?"
Trowa Barton was beyond listening. He lunged forward, his new muscles obeying his will with more power than he'd ever felt... even when piloting Heavyarms. The target raised the bow, but he would be much too late. After all, he was only human. He struck out with his foreclaw, then sheared away at the last second, warned by the acrid scent of electricity that surrounded the Doctor. As the crossbow came up, he dodged away, faster than human eye could follow. But all cover had been removed, forcing him to lope in a circle around his prey's shield, just a fraction faster than the bow could be aimed. And he struggled to think beyond the anger and frustration that laid his ears back against his head and tore tiny, rhythmic growls from his chest.
The shield would hurt, that much was obvious from recent experience. It would also stop the momentum of his strike, leaving him as a sitting duck for a well-placed bolt. So... as satisfying as it would be, the direct approach was out. For now. He could keep moving, tire the prey out until it dropped from exhaustion-- but the Doctor wasn't exactly a leaping gazelle. When all you were doing was pivoting in a circle, you could probably keep doing it for quite a while. And Trowa had no illusions on how the situation would look to outsiders, should they stumble upon it. So time, terrain, and reinforcements were all on the enemy's side.
'What would Heero do?' That was easy. He'd hit the shield full tilt, ignore the pain and threat of death, and eliminate the target. Simple. And mostly likely fatal. And with a sudden flash of insight, Trowa realized that he didn't intend to die here. He would not self-detonate, but rather, he would triumph. *His* way.
Even if he wasn't really sure what that was, yet.
Trowa widened the circle, ears pricked forward with new purpose. That shield couldn't be coming from thin air, could it? If it really had been modeled from the Mobile Dolls, then the perimeter *should* have... 'There they are.' His enhanced eyes picked out one, then another, and finally all of the small disks that generated the shield. Now to test his theory.
He sprang into the air again, rolling his body just beneath the edge of the field, close enough to singe his thick black coat of hair. As he reached the hovering disk, Trowa uncoiled with a snap, and thrust both feet into the field. He endured the pain, and pushed his hindclaws into contact with the disk. They caught, and penetrated, and with a roar of triumph, he rent it asunder. The other disks immediately rerouted, but there were gaps now, and the strength of the whole was lessened. Trowa spun as he fell back to earth, landing on his feet, enfolded by the smell of burning hair. But the muscle cramps and pain were already fading, overpowered by the raw animal strength of his form. He stared at the ashen-faced Doctor, and slowly, one corner of the manbeast's curved into a hard smile.
"Gotcha."
Trowa dodged the Doctor's hasty return fire with contemptuous ease, making his way to the next disk. He took it out and was halfway to the third before the crossbow could be reloaded. This one, Trowa simply battered out of the air one-handed, so weak had the field grown. With fully one half of its support gone, the shield finally sputtered and died. That done, he resumed his loping around his prey, relishing the scent of fear, the feeling of helpless rage that radiated from the center of his circle. Something told him the kill would be that much sweeter for the wait.
In quick succession, the Doctor shot the rest of his bolts, but now that there was nothing caging Trowa in, it was like trying to pin a shadow to the ground. There was only one thing left to do, in the face of such failure. He dropped the crossbow to the ground, and pulled a loaded pistol from beneath his white coat. Quickly he pointed at his head, whispering, "I'm sorry..." as his hand tightened on the trigger.
Hand and gun exploded into fragments as they were swept aside by a massive, clawed hand. The Doctor fell to his knees, his eyes and mouth bulging open in a soundless keen of pain. The shattered stump of his wrist waved before the great beast like an offering. Trowa stared downward at the pathetic thing, and hungered. So weak, helpless... it would be so easy...
//A young boy stares at himself in a mirror, bruises cover his painfully thin body. He shivers, and pulls on what's left of his clothes. Next to the door of the compartment is a bed, filled with a man who is much larger than the boy. As he tries to sneak by, a hand (large and monstrous in the gloom) fastens itself around his slight arm and hauls him into the blackness of the blankets. "Where you going, little green eyes? I ain't finished yet." The child screams...//
... and the young man screamed with him; he threw himself away from the Doctor, and ran blindly from the building. 'I'm not like that! I'm not like them...' His form dwindled back to human as the denial penetrated and chased away the blood lust. With it went his strength, and before long he was stumbling from building to building like a drunkard.
The Doctor stared after him for a moment, his thoughts fuzzy with shock and blood loss. Finally it sunk in. He was alive, and would remain so if he could get his wound stanched. And then, then the sacred hunt would begin again. And this time... "I will not fail again." He struggled to his feet, and left by the back entrance, where his vehicle had been stored.
"Trowa!" Catherine ran forward to take her 'little brother' from the men who held him, disregarding the blood that smeared across her blouse and the curious crowd of circus people who quickly gathered. "What happened to him?" She demanded.
"I wish we knew ma'am. Found him like that, before he passed out he gave your name."
"Oh, Trowa..." She held him close with one hand, and grabbed a cape from one of the other performers with the other to cover him. She wrapped his trembling body in the cape, and murmured, "Why can't you have a little peace?" She looked up at the concerned crowd, "We need to get him to his trailer. Mark, would you carry him?"
The large man nodded, and she transferred Trowa to him with reluctance. As Mark carried him away, she turned to the two men who still hovered, a bit nervously, near the door flap of the tent. She tried to smile, and knew from their change in expression that it rested oddly on her face. "Thank you for finding him, and bringing him home. Here, for your kindness..." She fished out a few bills from her purse and passed them over without looking. Their gratified smiles and hasty departure warned Catherine that they thought she'd overpaid. What they couldn't understand is that she'd have handed over the entire Circus to keep Trowa safe, and gladly. Why did such a kind and gentle boy always end up with such pain?
"Catherine? Ma'am?" She turned to face Mark.
"Yes?"
"He's asking for you."
----
"You want to *what*?" Trowa winced at the anger in Catherine's voice. He hated to cause her more pain, but he had to contact the others. And the only one who'd kept their contact info was Quatre. So...
"Cathy, I have to go back to Earth. I have to see Quatre."
She leapt from her position by his bedside, hands clenched into fists at her sides. "You're injured! Why can't you just contact him through the vid-phones?" He could see tears shimmering unshed in her eyes.
"It's too important... it has to be in person."
"What's too important? Won't you tell me? I... I thought we were done with secrets, Trowa."
He looked away. He wanted to tell her... but what if she looked at him with the same disgust and horror that had been on the Doctor's face? And what if he couldn't control himself next time it happened? As long as he was here, she and the Circus were in danger.
"I can't. Please trust me, Cathy... I'll come back when I can, I promise."
She was crying now, tears running silently down her expressive face. He couldn't see them, but he could *smell* them. "You're going to fight, again, aren't you?"
'I don't know what I'm going to do.' Out loud, though, he said nothing, just stared at the trailer walls. After a few moments, she sighed in defeat, like he'd known she would.
Quietly, she said, "I'll make the arrangements. You get some rest, okay?" He turned back to face her.
"Thank you, Cathy."
She just wiped her eyes with one balled fist, and left. In the breeze of her hasty exit, he caught the scent of her blood where her fingernails must have penetrated her palms. And it was sweet.
*******
~~*Welcome to the jungle, it gets worse here every day
Ya learn to live like an animal, in the jungle where we play
If you got a hunger for what you see, you'll take it eventually
You can have anything you want, but you better not take it from me~~*
The music screamed through the halls, muffled not at all by the paper thin walls of the apartment. Within the one-room tenement, a group of young men and women, dressed in leather and studs threw themselves against each other in an energetic frenzy that more closely resembled rioting than dancing. And, struggling vainly to be heard in the din, the front door vibrated under the force of someone's pounding.
Finally, a young blond boy, no older than 14 but with fine wrinkles already showing around his bloodshot eyes, disengaged himself from the melee, and made his way to the door. After a bit of fumbling with the lock, he threw it open. "Not you again? Man, I already told you to bugger off. We ain't gonna turn it down. This here's a *party*!"
"Yeah, I figured." The young man on the other side of the door wore a disgruntled expression beneath the shade of his baseball cap, and his hands were held loosely behind his back. The only thing that made him stand out from the rest of the juvenile delinquents in view was the Catholic priest's outfit that he wore.
The 'host' blinked at him. "So... you wanna join the party? Or what?"
Duo grinned at him. "Or what. Can I come in? This won't take long." Not waiting for an answer, he slipped into the room.
"Hey... I didn't say..." The words died as he took in the length of the braid that followed the kid through the crowd. It slapped against the legs of the closest people like a thick, furry whip.
"No words are needed, my man. That your stereo? Nice. I'm impressed." Duo pulled the pistol out from the waistband of his pants and fired twice. The music died a sudden and impressively pyrotechnic death. "Too bad."
The partygoers, most of whom had been indulging in a variety of recreational pharmaceuticals all night and thus weren't the quickest horses out of the gate, gawked. A few managed mostly incoherent protests, but by and large they just stood and stared. Duo looked around with satisfaction, tucked the pistol back into its place at the small of his back, and waved to the crowd. "Enjoy your evening, folks."
A few sluggish brain cells began to fire deep within the blond's brain. Foremost among them was the knowledge that if he let this braided freak just waltz in and blow up his stuff, he'd be laughed out of every underage club in the Colony. Another brain cell piped up with the cost of that system. Together, they neatly drowned out the little voice that suggested that no one would do what that guy just did unless he were really confident or on some *serious* drugs. But then, that voice was used to being ignored, and after a second it went quietly on to calculating the distance to the nearest hospital.
"Hey... that was my stereo, man. You gonna have to pay for it, unless you want me to bust you up."
"Sorry, but you should have listened the first time. Or the fourth, for that matter. But, no hard feelings, eh?"
Duo tried to slip past the fellow again, only to stop when he felt the abrupt tug on the back of his skull that could only mean one thing. He *hated* it when people grabbed the braid. "Okay, so maybe a few hard feelings..."
Three minutes, and a great deal of noise later, Duo stood in a circle of bodies, chuckling softly as he rubbed his knuckles. "Not bad, guys. If you'd been sober, it might have been more of a challenge, though. Anytime you wanna do it again, you know where I live." He stepped over the prone form of the blond. "Don't stir yourself, my man, I can find the door on my own." His only answer was a groan.
Still feeling the adrenaline from the fight, one-sided though it might have been, tripping through his system, he let himself into the apartment across the hall. He frowned and stared at the partially open door. "I thought I left that door unlocked." 'Good thing I never leave without my keys or my gun...'
"You did. Careless of you, kid. Never know who could walk in."
Duo jumped at the rough sound of the voice, then sun around and grinned with delight, "Howard! How the hell have you been? How'd you find me?" He hurried inside, clasped the older man's hand with affection.
He got a genuine, if small, smile in return. "Pretty good. Hirde gave me your address, and says that the last 'anonymous' donation did a world of good for the kids."
Duo felt his cheeks grow a bit red, and was grateful for the poor lighting in the apartment. "Yeah, well... Hirde's doing well with the home. I just help out a little, when I can."
"You're a good kid, Duo. Which," Howard rubbed his forehead tiredly, "is, I suppose, why I'm here." He indicated the small, wobbly table that graced the center of the room. "Sit down, we need to talk."
Duo shrugged, "Sure, Howard, whatever you say," and flung himself into one of the chairs. The old wood creaked and moaned beneath his weight. Duo winced. "Gotta remember not to do that. So, what's up?"
"First, I need you to promise me something." Howard slid a folded bundle of papers across the table, as he took a seat. Duo unfolded, and read curiously. His eyes widened.
"You want me to go to Earth? Why?" Duo asked, refolding the shuttle ticket and pushing it away to arm's length.
"Once you get there, I want you to go to ground, somewhere safe. Catch my drift, kid?" Howard pushed the ticket back with a frown. "Your flight leaves tonight."
Duo scowled, and waggled a playful finger, "Ah ah ah! I haven't promised yet. And you haven't told me why, either. If you just want me to lay low, the best place for that is the Colony. I know this place like Deathscythe's cockpit. No reason to go planetside."
"Once you promise, I'll tell you."
"Once you tell me, I'll promise."
"You promise?"
Duo was grinning, now. "Promise. My word of honor as the down-but-not-out God of Death." He made a sketchy (and completely wrong) Boy Scout salute.
Howard grumbled, "I suppose it'll have to do." He adjusted his shades, and slumped in the uncomfortable chair. "All right, no interruptions 'till I'm done. Got it?" Duo made a cheerful zipper-over-the-mouth motion.
"Right. You know I was one of the engineers on the Tallgeese project. Well, we did a damn good job... too good, in fact. It was perfect... unfortunately, no human being could pilot it. Not without severe physical trauma. All of our test pilots died.
"That's the reason the design was downgraded for the OZ suits. But when the Alliance began to take over the Colonies, we knew we would need suits of Tallgeese and beyond caliber to give it to the bastards. So the Doctors let us in on a little secret..."
Duo's mouth twitched frantically. There were about a million smart ass quips to be made at this point, and it was only by superhuman strength of will that he kept them to himself. 'I hope Howard appreciates this...'
Howard must have, for he paused long enough for Duo to regain control over his facial muscles. At the boy's wave, he continued, "As I was saying, the Doctors revealed a secret that they and theirs had been keeping for centuries. According to them, humanity was not the *only* sentient species on the planet or in Outer Space." His voice speeded up, to forstall any interruption from the gaping Duo, "Among us walked members of something called the 'Blood Tribe of the Beast', animals that could assume human form at will. Animals who, in *any* form, were stronger, faster, and more deadly than humanity could ever hope to be. The Doctors claimed that this 'Blood Tribe' could withstand the punishment that a Gundam suit would put its pilot through, and more, would excel in battle beyond the dreams of any human pilot.
"They were right, Duo." Howard looked away, and said softly but savagely "Damn them, they were right. You all exceeded our every expectation. And now," He laughed bitterly, "For your reward, those damn Doctors are going to hunt you down and destroy you." He heard a strange, strangled sound from across the table, and looked up.
Duo Maxwell was bent over at the table, hugging his ribs and wheezing with the sheer effort of holding in the billows of laughter that struggled within him. He glanced up at Howard's shocked, glowering face and lost it.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA.... Howard, man, what have *you* been *smoking*?! Can I have some, whatever it is, because it's *good*..." His voice trailed off into another gale of laughter. Howard let out a long suffering sigh, and waited with visible impatience for the boy's outburst to trail off to the occassional winded chuckle.
"Jeez, Duo, a guy tries to save your miserable life, and this is the thanks he gets? Look, it doesn't matter if you believe me or not. You *still* promised to be on that shuttle," He tapped the ticket for emphasis.
"But... Howard... you're saying I'm a *WEREWOLF*! C'mon, man, you can't expect me to..."
The older man stood up abruptly, and cut off Duo's words with a sharp gesture of his hand. "I can, and I do. Look, Duo, I know you don't believe me. I don't care, as long as you do what I say. Now, have you got anywhere safe on Earth to stay for a while? If not, I'll call my cousin and you can stay there again."
Duo looked up at him, expecting at any moment that Howard would grin and fess up. But he remained grim, apparently expecting an actual answer. Duo could actually feel the waves of disapproval and hurt that emanated from across the table. 'Well, shit, what now? You can either go on a totally unneccessary jaunt back to Earth or... you can tell one of your oldest war-time buds that he's well and truely lost his mind.' He shook his head. There was only one real choice. 'What's a little insanity between friends, anyway, right?' He scooped up the ticket, and stood. As he did, another small bundle of paper on the kitchen counter caught his eye.
"What the hell. Quatre's been bugging me to visit, anyway. That private oasis of his is damn near impenatrable, and a lot more comfortable than this dump." He glanced at Howard, "Will that be okay?"
"It'll do. Might even be the best thing for you, come to think about it. Safety in numbers. And hey, Duo..."
"Yeah?"
Howard smiled thinly. "Thanks for listening to this crazy old man, huh?" Duo felt the warmth flood his cheeks again, and he muttered something noncommital in response.
"Now, throw some things in a bag and let's go. You don't want to be late."
With a sigh, Duo hurried to comply.
In a few moments, Duo had canvassed the small apartment, dumping into his duffle bag anything that looked even remotely wearable, sellable, or eatable... provided that it hadn't already sprouted lifeforms of its own. Duo was somewhat of a conservationist, so that cut out fully half of the food in the fridge, and one shirt that humped menacingly in a dark corner.
Finally, he turned to Howard, and said, "It's Thursday, right?"
"Yeah, why?"
Duo pulled an umbrella out of the closet with a smug grin. "Climate control always kicks in about midnight on Thursdays. We get a hell of a rainstorm for about an hour," He regarded the umbrella dubiously. "It's not big enough for the two of us."
"Whatever, kid. Let's just get going, huh? A little rain won't kill me."
Duo nodded, and they left the apartment. He turned back to lock the door then shrugged, and stuck the keys into the door and left them there. 'Who knows, somebody might need the place to crash, and its not like there's anything left to steal.'
----
They stepped out of the run-down old apartment complex about the same time as the first drops of "rain" began to fall. Duo tossed the umbrella to Howard, then shoved his hands behind his back as the older man tried to return it. "A little rain won't kill me, Howard," he said with a smirk.
They both chuckled, Howard reluctantly, as he opened the umbrella and sheltered gratefully underneath. Duo walked a few steps ahead, hands laced casually at the nape of his neck, for all intents oblivious to the lukewarm water soaking his skin. The street they walked down was nearly deserted, and the few late night predators that stalked the moist darkness gave them a wide berth. Duo had made a rather... permanent impression on the few muggers foolish enough to accost him in his month long residence.
Beneath his nonchalant exterior, though, the ex-Gundam pilot was thinking furiously. Just because he was prepared to humor his friend and jet off to Earth for an extended stay, didn't mean he would go without a fight. There had to be *something* he could say that could break Howard out of whatever delusion he'd slipped into. He turned onto a side street on autopilot, still running data through his mind, trying to come up with an example to show that a 'human' could pilot one of the Gundams with no adverse consequences.
It was as the two passed beneath a street lamp that the perfect one hit him, and he whirled to face Howard, braid slicing ecstatically through the downpour, one finger raised in triumph, "Aha!"
"Aha? Aha what?" Howard stopped. "We don't have time for this Duo... the shuttle..."
"Zechs!"
"What about him?"
Duo made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, and raised his eyes in melodramatic appeal to the heavens. "Zechs piloted the Tallgeese, the Wing Zero, *and* the Epyon," He ticked them off on his fingers, "That's *three* Gundams, right? Does that make him a werewolf, too?"
Howard shook his head, and sighed. "Look, kid, I don't know for sure. But!" He said to forestall Duo's victorious shout, "I don't think he was. Zechs, Milliardo, whatever he wants to call himself, was one of the most extraordinary pilots-- with the exception of you kids-- I ever met. And he damn near died the first times he attempted to pilot the Tallgeese. When we worked together during the war... every time he took out a Gundam, he came back with a broken bone or two. He was just too damn stubborn to quit, and too stubborn to let it get in his way."
"But he proves that it's *possible*, right?"
Howard slumped, for the first time ever looking his age. Even his obscenely bright shirt looked faded. "Yeah, it's just barely possible, I guess. But Duo..." He trailed off, looking up with the most peculiar expression on his face.
"I know, I know. I promised. But Howard... Hey, man, are you okay?" Duo reached out towards him.
Howard coughed once, as if experimentally, and his eyes widened behind the ever-present shades. He coughed again, a harsh ragged sound, and droplets of something too fine and dark to be rain misted Duo's outstretched hand. In a second, rainwater and blood had given the hand a light pink tint.
"Howard!" Duo yelled, as the engineer folded at the knees, the umbrella falling from one suddenly lax hand. Duo wrapped his slender arms about the other man in a futile attempt to support him, and one hand brushed an odd, stick-like object that sprouted from Howard's upper back. "Oh, shit, Howard..." Water too scalding hot to be rain ran freely but almost unnoticed down his face as he laid the body tenderly onto its side on the wet concrete. One cold part of himself was quickly calculating firing angles and degrees, and, oh God, how he hated it. Even if it was useful, it felt like sacrilege.
He channeled the hate into a furious shout as leaped to his feet and snatched the pistol from its place. "Come out, you bastard! Whoever you are, come out and face the God of Death!" He didn't wait for an answer, instead firing into the darkness at the point most likely to have been the source of the attack. There was a yelp and a curse, and he couldn't help the hideous laughter that spilled its way out into the night. 'I should seek cover... too damn exposed under this light. But I can't leave Howard here alone...'
In the scant seconds Duo was torn between base instinct and human conscience, a bolt flew out of the night and buried itself deep into his gut. It didn't hurt at first, at least, no more than a good hard punch in the same place. He stumbled backwards, bent double and trying without success to catch his breath. Against his conscious will, the gun tumbled to the ground, and both hands cupped themselves against his middle, trying to catch the blood that poured out and mingled with the rain to form a pink shadow around him.
Another faltering step, and another. At every moment, he expected another shot to come, to strike him down while he was helpless. 'But why bother... gut shot'll do me as well as anything else. And it hurts a hell of lot more, if you enjoy that kind of thing.' He added as the pain awoke inside him and roared. A final step took him into shadows, although what use the cover was *now*, eluded him.
For some reason, Duo felt like sitting. Through the haze that was enveloping him, he couldn't even think of the reason why he shouldn't. So down he went, collapsing into an unpleasantly soft pile of garbage. From beneath him, there was an outraged squeak, and Duo felt the ghost of a smile flicker across his face. 'Sorry, rat, to just drop in like this...'
It was less funny when he noticed that the rat hadn't run, but was instead perched between his sprawled legs, studying him with tiny black eyes. 'Not exactly the audience I'd hoped for my last moments...' He hoped it would wait till he was dead until it started to eat.
When it began to talk, Duo was beyond surprise.
The rat's mouth didn't move, of course, and the voice that drilled its way into Duo's foggy brain was not of the friendly Disney critter variety. It was powerful, androgynous, and somehow removed, as if it came from a long, long way away.
//Clever Coyote, awaken! Trickster of the gods, unsheathe your claws. It is not your time to die...//
And deep within Duo's soul, something stirred. It uncoiled within him, unfolding from the dark part of his heart where the God of Death made its home. He could feel its anger and hunger as it clawed within him, leaving marks that scarred his human self even more deeply than the bolt in his gut. But, angry and powerful as it was, the beast could not rise. It was pinned to his human flesh at the belly, and although Duo groaned with agony as it fought to shred him from within, the bolt held them both to their present forms. And Duo was far too weak from blood loss and shock to pull it out.
The rat watched the boy strain against the force within him with its head cocked slightly to one side. Soon he would be food, all it had to do was wait. And yet... something prodded it forward, the same force that had held it from running when the large human had landed on its nest. As before, it was helpless to resist, and it darted forward onto the bloody, trembling stomach, teeth bared. Contrary to every instinct it had, it ignored the warm and quivering flesh; instead fastening its sharp little teeth on the hard little stick at the center of the blood source. The stick smelled like death too old to provide sustenance, and even as the rat pulled with all its might, the tiny-brained creature could not figure out why.
The stick came forth with remarkable ease, followed by another gout of dark blood that soaked the rat's fur. Two things happened as the stick cleared the boy's flesh: the compulsion that had been guiding the rat's actions lifted, and its potential meal convulsed strongly enough to throw its reluctant benefactor's body to the wet pavement. The dazed rat scrambled to its feet, chattering in anger and fear, then it's nose flared. The human's scent had changed, blooming into a spicy, rangy odor that the little creature associated with the few stray dogs that managed to escape human capture and roam the Colony. Dogs were dangerous... the rat would find another dinner tonight. It turned and fled down the dark alleyway.
FREE! Coyote leapt, exploding through the mind and body of its weak human prison, fueled by rage and an incredible, aching hunger. The metamorphosis happened in an instant, muscle and bone splitting with explosive cracks, then resettling into a long muzzled, humanoid shape with blazing violet eyes and thick, dark brown fur. A snug circle of white clung to Coyote's neck, the only remains of the priest's outfit. A slender, sharply clawed hand rose and tore it away.
The beast's nostrils flared with the blood scent that hung thick and heavy on the air. The wound in its belly was healed now, but not forgotten. Something had killed the pack mate. Then it had tried to kill him, as well. That something would pay dearly for its transgressions against him. He crouched low, watching the nearby pool of light and the bloodstained body in the center intently. The light filled an entire section of alleyway, nothing could pass without being illuminated by it. He could wait. Eventually, the would-be hunter would have to check to see if the kill was complete. All Coyote had to do was...
He stepped into the light, ears pricked forward, nose twitching to sense beyond the addictive scent of fresh human blood. Waiting had never been his strong suit, anyway. He let his mouth fall open slightly, knowing that his teeth would be shown to advantage. Somewhere ahead of him, a bowstring twanged. Coyote reached out and batted the incoming bolt to the side. His body carried him effortlessly forward along the bolt's path, to the man who stood clutching the antique crossbow, and swearing bitterly. Delicately, Coyote reached out and plucked the bow from the human's trembling hands, and tossed it negligently behind him. With one clawed hand, he reached out, and gently cupped the man's rain and sweat coated face.
"D--Duo... please, Duo..." The beast cocked its head curiously, violet eyes thoughtful. This one was a pack member. This one had a name. He struggled to find human words.
"Dr. G?" Coyote rumbled, his voice inhumanly deep and terribly fractured by the change in vocal equipment. The man's eyes lit up, and his mouth opened. Coyote grinned ferally, and *squeezed*. Blood, pieces of bone, and brain pulp oozed from his clenched fist, as the remaining portions of the body convulsed in their death-dance at his feet. He needed no pack. He was Death. And he was *hungry*. He raised his blood-soaked paw to his nose. It smelled sweet. He took an experimental lick. And it was good.
------
The body of the hunter was barely enough to quiet the nagging hunger within. There was another, of course, but for some reason that Coyote could not quite recall, that food was not food. Even looking at it made him vaguely disturbed. He dismissed it easily from his mind. The Colony teemed with soft, human life. He would be well fed indeed. Again, contemplating this he felt a small twinge of something being not quite right. But, he was Death. It was his right to walk where he would and take what he wished. He growled with satisfaction... Death answered to no one.
Without a backward glance, he stalked away, the curtains of rain soon hiding his huge form from view.
"Hey, kid." Taggert Bainbridge scowled at the boy's unresponsive back. The kid was about 16, maybe, dressed in an oily green tanktop and some kind of biker-shorts type thing. He was working on the small jet's engine, apparently oblivious to Taggert, who had been standing there for ten minutes before he finally spoke up. The man wiped his heavily perspiring face with a white handkerchief, and tried again. "Hey kid... who's the pilot of this plane?"
"I am."
Taggert laughed. "Yeah, right. A little boy is the pilot of the Wing? You expect me to believe that?"
The boy shrugged one thin shoulder, and reached for another tool. "Believe it or not, I don't care."
Taggert flushed. "Now look here, kid..."
"No. If you've got a cargo for me, say so. Otherwise, leave." The boy's voice was cold as ice, and for the first time, Taggert noticed the pistol that snuggled within arm's length on the table. The way the kid's hand had drifted purposely in that direction made his heart double-beat. 'Shit. This... this child is the hottest smuggler in South America? Why didn't those bastards at the bar warn me?'
"Uh... yeah, sorry. I've got a cargo for you. Now it's..."
"These are the rules: no guns, no drugs, no unwilling people. I inspect every cargo before I leave, to *my* satisfaction. You pay me ten percent of the haul's worth up front, I send you the fuel and expense bill on arrival. If I have to dump the cargo, I forfeit the final payment. You stiff me, or I find something in the cargo I don't like, and I'll kill you."
Taggert gaped. He'd been told that the pilot of the Wing was a little... hard to deal with, but good God, the cheek! 'He wouldn't really...' his eyes slid between the pistol and the slender youth. He swallowed, hard. 'Maybe he would...'
"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say." He chuckled nervously, "After all, they say you're the best. And if you're going to pay expert prices, you should listen to them, is what I always say..." He trailed off when he realized the kid had stopped listening after the second sentence. Taggert wiped his face again. Damn, it was hot. "Uhhhh... the stuff's in the hanger. When would you like to inspect it?" He fought the impulse to add 'sir'. It was a very close win.
"Later. If you want this plane to fly, anyway."
"Yeah, that would help." He chuckled again, just to show that he wasn't making fun of the pilot or anything. There was absolutely no effect, either way. The could have been a robot for all the emotion he showed. With a hefty sigh, Taggert gave up.
"Look, I'll be in the hanger when you're ready to inspect the cargo." He could have been talking to the air. One more wipe with the now thoroughly damp rag, and he shuffled off to the cool air of the small airstrip's air-conditioned office. What a weird kid. 'I don't think he was even sweating, and it's got to be 110 degrees out here...'
-----------
"So... will you take the job, Heero?" Taggert said, as the boy finally looked up from his extraordinarily thorough inspection of the six crates. The pilot brushed his tangled brown bangs out of his eyes, and resealed the last box.
"Yeah." He held one hand out. Wordlessly, Taggert filled it with cash. He couldn't help the wince, as the boy counted it silently. Ten percent of the worth of the amethysts in the crates came to roughly twenty-five thousand British pounds, a hell of a price for a little flight. But he didn't think Heero was the kind to haggle. And he still had that pistol. 'Better all around to just pay up and shut up, eh?'
Heero finished counting, and stuffed the bills into a handy pocket. Dismissing his client from his mind, he loaded the cargo into the trolley. Around the fourth box, Taggert got the hint, and wandered off, muttering to himself.
Less than an hour (and a hot shower) later, Heero was lifting off from the poorly maintained airway, and pointed straight at the heart of the Amazon Basin. He'd greased enough palms that, in theory, he should be able to fly ten feet above the commercial district in Buenos Aires without a problem, but Heero always took the airways less traveled, just in case. He laid in the course to the onboard computer, engaged the auto, and leaned back. Compared to leveling OZ bases, smuggling in a country with a ridiculously corrupt Customs department was a cakewalk. Perhaps it was time to move on to something, or somewhere, a little more challenging.
With a frown, he pulled a thin, unopened envelope from his back pocket. His named was written on the front in an elegant and curved hand that was as distinctive as its owner. 'Quatre... why won't you leave me alone?' The letter was the twenty-second of its kind to find its way to Heero's hand. One every week or so, like clockwork, no matter how many times he moved or how well he'd hidden his tracks. The pilot of Wing had finally given up a month and a half ago and started reading the damn things. Never in a million years would he have admitted how much he enjoyed the contact--even to himself.
He tore open one end of the envelope and shook the letter out. It was less than three pages long, a rarity for Quatre. Heero skimmed it, picking out the important bits. Wufei had gone on some sort of meditative retreat, and Quatre was having trouble finding him. Heero made a note to look into something similar for himself. Trowa and Duo were doing whatever it was that they did on their respective colonies, and Relena's school was about to be moved back into the restored original building. Dorothy had been retained as a teacher there, and Quatre was surprised. 'Could have told you that. Relena's too kind for her own good. Relena...' He moved on quickly. Quatre still expected him to come to that one-year reunion thing he'd planned. Heero shook his head, not without amusement. Sometime he thought that the blond remembered the Gundam pilots as a school club, rather than terrorists.
The proximity alert beeped urgently. The letter fluttered to the floor of the cockpit as Heero disengaged the autopilot, and manned the controls. Three green dots lit up the screen as the aircraft's data displayed for him. He cursed softly. All three were official Customs craft, and making a not too subtle beeline in his direction. The new and markedly inferior Wing could outmaneuver one, maybe two of the enemies, but three were beyond its capability. He slipped to the side as the roar of gunfire split the sky.
He could dump the cargo, but it probably wouldn't matter. The downside to a corrupt government was that if they wanted someone to go down, evidence was not necessary. Briefly, he wondered who he'd managed to piss off. Another roar of gunfire, accompanied by the high pitched whine of a missile gave him more important things to think about. He avoided both neatly, but the evasive maneuver had boxed him between the three planes and the jungle below. A quick analysis of the options was enough to confirm his first impulse. Some things never changed. Never allow yourself to be captured. 'Sorry, Quatre, looks like I'll miss the reunion...'
Heero pushed the nose downward, and watched with a stony face as the jungle reached up and swallowed him whole.
Quatre Winner, current CEO of the massive Winner financial empire and ex-Gundam pilot, rubbed his eyes wearily. The action had no visible effect on the neat columns of numbers and abbreviations on the computer screen before him, despite his fervent wish that they would be gone when he reopened his eyes. The files detailed all the myriad losses and lawsuits that had been leveled against the Winner holdings since the end of the war. Since his other identity had been revealed to the public, every victim or survivor of a victim of a Gundam attack had decided to hold him and his company personally responsible for their losses. And unlike the rest of the team, he couldn't just fade into the woodwork...no matter how much he sometimes wished he could. He had responsibilities.
It wasn't that he didn't wish to compensate the people he'd harmed, he did. His sea-blue eyes, now rimmed with bruised shadows from lack of sleep, lingered guiltily on one particularly astronomical figure. The description to the left read simply "Destruction of Colony, Survivors". The conspicuous lack of detail was most likely an attempt on the part of the family's retainer to be kind. Instead, the stark, clipped words were an accusation, a condemnation. His fingers skipped across the keyboard, adding "Authorized, QW" to the end of the line. The Winner's accounting firm would have a seizure, knowing full well that the bringer of the suit expected negotiation, but Quatre refused to quibble over a few billion dollars when assigning a value to the millions of human lives that he'd destroyed in a heartbeat.
Quatre *wanted* to pay. He *needed* to pay. It was the only way he knew how to even begin to heal the wounds that he and his fellows had caused, albeit with the best possible intentions. If he thought it would help to seek out every single name on every suit filed and beg at their feet for forgiveness, he would have. But to do so would shame his family, almost as much as having a terrorist in the family had. So, he thought with a tinge of bitterness, he would solve the problem in the proud tradition of generations of Winners and throw money at it until it went away. But the only thing he could do was to go over each claim individually, approve it by hand...and relive the incidents in his mind until he could remember or imagine the face of every person whose life he'd taken. Which was why he was here, in his office on Earth, sitting at the computer when any sane person would be asleep.
"Master Quatre?" Quatre raised his bloodshot gaze to that of his oldest and most trusted friend.
"Yes, Rashid?" The man bowed gravely. Somehow the gesture, done as it was in pajamas, managed to avoid absurdity.
"There is someone at the door, asking for you."
Quatre frowned, checking the clock on his desk. It was 3:45 in the morning. Who on Earth would be visiting at this hour? "Who is it?" he asked.
Rashid allowed a smile to touch his features, although his concern for his young master almost made it impossible. Perhaps, Rashid thought, the young man at the door could encourage Quatre to relax a little. "I believe it is Trowa Bloom." The last word was spoken to Quatre's back, as the young man sprang out of his chair with the most open smile that Rashid had seen in months, and raced for the front door.
With amusement, his voice rose to call, "I asked him to wait in the green receiving room..." to the empty air, he continued, "...as I thought you might want to clean up first."
----
"Trowa!" Quatre enthusiastically embraced the other boy, then held him at arm's length. Involuntarily, he exclaimed, "You look terrible. What's wrong?"
Trowa, his face drawn and pale, shrugged but said nothing as he stepped out of the circle of Quatre's arms. Quatre let him go; he knew that Trowa was uncomfortable with physical affection, of course, but as the months passed he'd been afraid that--invitations or no invitations--he would never see the other Gundam pilots again. He was glad to be proven wrong.
Trowa was still staring at him, his grave regard taking in the bags beneath Quatre's eyes, the rumpled condition of his normally crisply arranged clothing and, Quatre felt certain, the minute swaying of his weary form. Finally, Trowa spoke. "You look terrible. What's wrong?" Quatre burst out in relieved laughter, and although his expression did not change, he thought that Trowa's eyes lightened.
"Master Quatre?" The two young men turned to face Rashid, whose voice was not a little aggrieved. "You have another visitor."
"Who is it?" The query was Trowa's, and his voice was hard and wary. Quatre and Rashid exchanged glances...was Trowa running from someone? If so, who?
Before answering, Rashid turned his eyes to Quatre. Only after the blond boy nodded did he reply, "It is Professor H."
Trowa's hand reached out and gripped Quatre's wrist. Hard. "You're not home."
Bewildered, Quatre looked searchingly at his friend. "I'm not? Why not?"
"Because he's come to kill you." At Quatre's start of disbelief, Trowa shook his head violently. "I can't explain it right now. You have to trust me. You *have* to!" Each sentence was punctuated by a squeeze on Quatre's wrist that made the bones grind and the flesh become numb.
Hastily, Quatre assured him, "I do trust you, Trowa, I do. But what do we do, then?"
"You don't have to do anything, now." The familiar voice came from the doorway, followed by the lean form of Chang Wufei. He tossed an object into the center of the room, an ornate and antiquated crossbow, speckled with dark drops of blood. Trowa flinched as Quatre looked between the two of them with confusion.
Wufei surveyed them grimly as he wiped his bloodstained knife on a square of fabric and slid it back into a concealed pocket in his black leather jacket. "We have a problem," he said.
Quatre poured three brimming glasses of 200-year old whiskey, then after a moment's thought, added a fourth. He capped the bottle and put it on the tray with the drinks, and carried it carefully to the table where Trowa and Wufei were standing. Wordlessly, he passed out the alcohol to his two friends, then to the hovering Rashid. As the Manguanac frowned at the glass, Quatre murmured, "Go ahead, drink it. I have a feeling we'll need by the time we learn just what is going on here." His voice, like his heart, was painfully flat. All the joy he'd felt just minutes before had been drained away, leaving only bitter stains.
Quatre almost raised the whiskey in a toast, then shrugged and downed the half the glass in one draught. Wufei looked into his own glass with a thin, bitter smile and followed suit. "What happened to nonalcoholic champaign?" he asked when he'd swallowed, slightly breathless from the potency of the drink.
"That was when I thought the war was over, and we'd all live happily ever after. Now," Quatre said, "there's a dead man on my doorstep, and my best friends have that look in their eyes again. That look that says it's time to fight and kill and die. And if you're...killing the Doctors, then I guess I won't even have Sandrock to help me, will I?" As soon as the bitter words left his mouth, Quatre silently cursed himself. He wasn't supposed to be like this, not when anyone else was around. He was supposed to have grown past this, by now. And until tonight, he thought he had. The rest of the glass disappeared in one long gulp. Still he stood, head bowed as he thought, until Rashid reached out with a gentle hand and softly grasped his shoulder.
"Master Quatre?"
Quatre's head rose, and he tried a reassuring smile that took a moment to reach his eyes. "It's okay, Rashid. I'm just a little more tired than I thought, I guess. The whiskey probably wasn't a good idea, either." He regarded the other two young men, his face serene. "I'm sorry, Wufei, Trowa. You've probably been through a lot more than I have tonight. Please, tell me what's happening and anything I can do to help."
Trowa placed his untouched drink on the table, not seeming to notice as it slopped a thin amber stream over the rim and onto his hand. Hesitantly, he spoke, "I don't really know. What's going on, I mean. The Doctors...they're trying to kill us. That much I know."
"But...*why*?"
"Because they know we're Blood Tribe. We have always been enemies, but when they needed us to win their war for them, it didn't matter. Now, however, we're lambs to the slaughter. Or we were meant to be, anyway. As always, they underestimated the Blood of the Beasts." Wufei's voice was colder and deeper than the desert night around the compound. Quatre and Trowa exchanged confused glances, but in the end it was Rashid who asked the question that echoed in their minds.
"What in Allah's name is a 'Blood Tribe' and what does it have to do with you young gentlemen?"
Wufei stared at each of them in turn, then sighed as they all met his eyes without understanding. "It would seem I have to explain everything, then." His voice fell into the steady rhythm of a lecturer. "They way the Hunters tell it, ages ago there was a widespread genetic mutation that allowed some beasts to take human form, and live among man...like spies or terrorists." He held up a hand as Quatre started to sputter, "Wait. Humans fear the Blood Tribes because even in our human forms, we are far, far superior to them. In our beast form," he shrugged, "there's just no comparison. We heal almost immediately, and our strength and speed are completely unmatched. So, a group of humans...the most paranoid and reactionary among them...dubbed themselves 'Hunters' and made it their holy crusade to hunt down and slaughter each and every one of us before we came into the full extent of our power. The Doctors are members of that ancient cabal. Fortunately for the four of you, however, they are also Colony loyalists.
"When the Gundam project began, they realized that if the mobile suits were built to specs, no human being could possibly survive them. But if the design was toned down, they would never be able to achieve the superiority needed against the Alliance and OZ forces. One of the Doctors, however, had thought ahead. Through careful manipulation of events, he'd managed to bring a child of the Blood Tribe under his direct control. He'd originally planned to simply use the boy for experiments...we can take a great deal more than any human test subject, and from a Hunter's point of view, there are no messy ethics to deal with. But with the Gundam problem, a new scenario presented itself."
"Heero!" Quatre exclaimed, his voice torn between wonder and horror. Wufei nodded.
"Heero. They ran a few preliminary tests and discovered that having one of us piloting the Gundam improved its potential destructive capabilities a hundred fold. After some persuasion, I imagine, the rest of the Doctors agreed, and a different sort of hunt began. Quite a few of the Blood Tribe had fled to the Colonies, trying to get away from both the Hunter threat and the endless terror tactics of the Protectorate. My own family was instrumental in keeping the latter out of space, but we couldn't kill or intimidate all of the Hunters. We knew some would slip through..."
Trowa interrupted, "Protectorate?"
Wufei's mouth twisted, as if he'd bitten into something sour. "The so-called 'Protectorate' are a group of thugs, made up of mostly predators. They believe we are humanity's natural enemy, and it's our duty to wipe the human race off the face of the Earth. Originally they were formed just to protect young members of the Blood Tribe from human hate, but their methods and beliefs became more extreme through the generations. Now they are as fanatical as the Hunters, and will turn on anyone--human or Tribe--who disagrees with them. Few of us are mad enough to fall for their rhetoric anymore, but there was a time not too long ago that they were a force to be reckoned with. When we lived planetside, my clan fought against their unjust treatment of several herbivorous Tribes, and finally consented to leave for space under the agreement that they never attempt to extend their reach to the Colonies, or prevent anyone who wished to migrate from doing so. They were never stupid enough to violate that agreement, unfortunately."
"So, you knew you were one of these...Blood Tribe things?" Quatre asked, even as he tried to wrap his mind about the idea.
"Of course. The Doctors wanted only those who didn't know, who could be easily controlled, but even in war, it isn't that easy to find five inhuman orphans. Even you were stretching it, but you had mostly isolated yourself from your family at the time, so they must have decided to take the risk. In my case, they knew the Chang clan has always been dedicated to the cause of Colony independence, and until very recently, I had no idea they were Hunters. I'd have killed them as soon as the Gundams were built if I'd known."
Quatre winced at the matter of fact tone. He was still having trouble thinking of his Doctor, the man who'd built his Sandrock, as the enemy. "I'm sorry, Wufei. I still don't really understand. You keep saying 'Blood Tribe' like it should mean something. I mean, if we're *not* human, what are we?"
"Animals," Trowa said flatly, his dark green eyes staring blankly into space, "Abominations."
"That's not true," snapped Wufei. "We are not abominations. We're not even really animals. We're theranthropes, shapeshifters if you prefer. We're every bit as natural as *they* are, so don't let the Hunters tell you any differently. We have every right to be allowed to live our lives in safety...and we five probably have more. We saved the lives of humans and Blood Tribe alike. The Hunters are in the wrong. *They* are the enemy."
Trowa looked unconvinced, but he said nothing. Instead he stared at Wufei. The Chinese boy glared back, and the air between them seemed to crackle with some subtle electricity. Finally, Quatre could bear it no longer and cleared his throat. When their attention turned to him, he said, "Okay, so the Doctors are not on our side anymore. I think...that's obvious. What now? We need to warn Duo and Heero, if they haven't been confronted already. Then...what? Hide? I don't know how long I can go underground, now that my father is dead I have a responsibility to my people. Fight? For how long; I mean, this isn't exactly like the war, is it? When do we know we've won?" His eyes sought an answer from Wufei.
"I don't know." At Quatre and Trowa's expressions, he grimaced. "I never said I have all the answers. My clan is almost completely wiped out, and we renounced most of our contacts on Earth when we left. The village I stayed with through my first transformation is...very peaceful. They are simply too weak to defend themselves from the Hunters, and I won't lead any more of the enemy there. I say we contact the others, then decide."
Trowa hesitated, then nodded once. "All right, then," said Quatre, "come with me to the communications room, and I'll tell you what I know of Duo and Heero's whereabouts on the way."
Heero regained consciousness with a mental jerk. Keeping his breathing deep and even and his eyes closed, he tuned himself into his situation. The oppressive heat and damp against his skin...bare skin, he noted with surprise and instant suspicion...revealed that he was still in the jungle or some similar environment. But instead of the rough death shroud of branches and leaves he would have expected to awaken upon, he felt the regular pattern of a woven grass mat beneath him. Distantly, his body ached, but the pain held none of the urgency of major injury. Obviously, someone had yet again cheated death on his behalf. But who? He wasn't bound or drugged, so federal custody was unlikely, and most of the local peoples were considered unfriendly.
To his left, there was a sudden warm breeze and the breathy crackle of feet on dried grass. "So, you're awake," an amused female voice said. He said nothing. The woman had to be guessing, or trying to lure him into betraying himself. Grass rustled even closer, and he could feel someone standing just out of arm's reach. Heero began to tense. He heard a low, throaty chuckle. "It's no use pretending that you're still out, little brother. Now, open your eyes and..." Heero exploded from the mat, throwing himself at the still unseen woman with almost inhuman speed and deadly accuracy. Instead of screaming and throwing herself to the ground as he'd expected, he caught a glimpse of golden eyes that flared with surprise...and glee? With a speed that surpassed his own, she backhanded him while he was in midair. It was like being slapped by a mobile suit.
His cheekbone cracked as he crashed face first into the floor. Ignoring the white heat of the injury, Heero rolled into a defensive crouch. The woman hadn't moved from her place by the mat, and she surveyed him with obvious amusement and some other emotion that he couldn't quite place. Nonetheless, something about the way it darkened her eyes to the color of honey frightened him even more than the unexpected power of her hands. To cover the fear, he narrowed his eyes. She chuckled again, and he realized that he hadn't deceived her at all.
She smiled at the almost nude young man; somehow, it showed far too many teeth to be comforting. "Is this any way to treat your rescuer, little brother? I had expected better from the great war hero, Heero Yuy." He was unable to hide his reaction to that and she watched his face change with poorly hidden triumph.
"Who are you?" His voice was flat and mercifully clear. He couldn't afford to lose any more ground, even psychological.
"I?" She appeared surprised at the question, "I am Amanda Gentry. But who I am isn't important. Who *you* are is far more interesting." He ran the name through his memory, but came up empty. Perhaps she was an OZ remnant, trying to get revenge for her cause? There had been a few of those, Heero remembered, that had targeted him and the others right after the war. But none of those had had hands with the strength of Gundanium. Besides, he realized as he studied her, she didn't stand like military. There was an unholy confidence about her, but it wasn't the discipline of a well-trained response. It was arrogance, apparently justified arrogance.
Heero wanted his gun.
The grass curtain across the doorway of the hut rustled. "Come in, Tamar," Amanda said with a sigh, "what is it now?" A deeply tanned young man wearing nothing but a loincloth and several old scars stepped halfway through the door. He saw Heero and stopped.
In a hushed voice he said, "He's awake!" Tamar turned dark green eyes to Heero; in them shined pure and naked awe. Heero visibly recoiled, drawing a grimace from Amanda.
"Do you have anything important to say, Tam, or are you just here to cop a gawk?" The man flinched from the scorn in her voice, and dropped his eyes submissively.
"We heard a noise..." Despite his obvious chastisement, he rushed on, "Will he join us? Have you told him yet?"
"Told me what?" Heero demanded. Amanda sighed and ran a hand through her short brown hair, now damp with perspiration. Abruptly, her entire demenor shifted, the arrogance sliding beneath the surface. Not far, but enough that he relaxed minutely, depsite himself.
"Well," she said with a glare in Tamar's direction, "so much for subtly leading up to anything." As the younger man drew his arms protectively around himself, Amanda turned back to Heero. "I don't supposed you'd like to sit down for this?" At his expression, she smiled again, "No, I suppose not. Very well." She paused to think for a moment, then took two very quick steps in his direction.
Before Heero could react, she dropped to one knee and craned her head back until she stared straight up at the ceiling. It bared the white flash of her throat to his clenched hands. Dimly, he noticed that Tamar had done the same, a look of ecstasy on his earnest face. With some difficulty from the awkward position of her neck, she said, "Heero, last surviving member of the Blood Tribe of the Lion, I pledge my fealty and that of the of the Protectorate I command to your service and command. My life...and body," Again that flare of unnamed emotion in her eyes, like an arrow of ice striking at him, "are at your service and your pleasure."
As he stared down at the kneeling woman, the pale vulnerability of her throat seeped into his soul and awakened something within him. It took advantage of his confusion, pushing to the fore long enough to seize her neck in his right hand and squeeze until her breath grew ragged and desperate. Using Heero's body, it leaned over her, and growled with Heero's lips a bare inch from her own, "Your life is mine."
"Yes," she forced out through her constricted throat, and despite the obvious pain, she laughed.
Parts 12 and Beyond