Three days before, Heero had been found dead in his bed, throat slit with a sickle. Trowa frowned as he mused it over, sitting in his small trailer, staring at the wall on which he’d hung his growing collection of masks on. Who was behind the mask of this killer? He itched to get his hands on the police files, to take matters into his own hands, to find the bastard that had killed his comrade, his brother. The pilots were family to one another now, because only Quatre had any true family left.

Anger rippled through him, slow and steady, but he kept the lid on it. It seemed that as empty as he was when he was a child, he was just as full of bursting emotion now. Even though the pain he felt at the loss of Heero was acute, he could not help but be pleased that he could feel so strongly after being empty for so long.

The soft tap of shoes on the metal stairs into his trailer attracted his attention, and he turned his gaze to the door, just as it opened.

“Hey.” The visitor smiled weakly. “You doing okay?”

He nodded softly, rising to his feet. “Come in. What’re you doing way out here?”

“Just came to check on you. I’ve been checking on everyone. Wufei’s taking it really hard.” A soft frown tugged down the visitor’s lips.

Trowa gave a soft nod, sitting again when his guest did so. “What about you?”

“I like to think I’m taking it in stride.” The guest shrugged, shifted a little closer. “I’m really going to miss Heero.”

“We all will.” Trowa sighed gently, ran his fingers restlessly through his bangs.

“You won’t.” The visitor gave a feral grin.

Frowning in surprise, Trowa tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

The murderer placed his hand on Trowa’s arm, and the Russian gasped when he felt the prick of a pressure syringe.

“What..? Why? You?” Trowa stared in shock at the killer. Everything was clear now, except for why.

“Because I was supposed to save the world.” The murderer whispered, producing another sickle. “I hate you, Trowa. Just like I hated him. You get to die faster, though. It won’t hurt much.”

The tranquilizer in the pressure syringe was already beginning to work on the unfortunate Heavyarms Pilot. “I never meant... To make you hate me.” His head was drooping forward, a soft frown on his lips. “I’m sorry.”

The murderer laughed. “Those were Heero’s last words, too.” Then, he slid the sickle home, between two ribs, and straight into his heart. There was barely a trickle of blood from the fatal wound, but Trowa’s eyes had dimmed almost instantly in death. Again, the killer pulled out the oil, anointed his dead, and left.

The next morning, a new headline dazzled and terrified the public.

Serial Killer Targets Gundam Pilots.

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