He wasn't sure what it was about hospitals, but something there scared him more than any bullet, threatening death, could ever have. Inwardly, he hated all of the lights. It left him feeling exposed. Trowa always felt that his name and the term "shadow" were synonymous...but even shadows cannot exist without light.

"That is a fairly serious injury," the doctor intoned. She was a young woman, no more than 19, Trowa was sure of that. Her auburn hair and blue eyes left him with the impression that she was a caring and compassionate person. He felt that way until the moment she pressed an icy finger into the sensitive flesh of his infected forearm.

"Mmmh..." he whined. The pain was impossible to tolerate.

"You have an extremely high pain tolerance, this wound is terrible!" she exclaimed looking at the wound with almost a motherly alarm.

"I manage what I can. Coming here is costing me valuable time," Trowa said placidly. His voice concealed every trace of the turmoil his body was in. If he ever wished that he would pass out, now was the time. Unfortunately, his mind, being the torturer it was, refused to abandon him.

"Well, a few more days and your 'valuable time' would have cost you your arm," she smirked.

Some sort of medication was placed over the wound, numbing it. This relieved Trowa to no end.

"Thank you..." he sighed.

"Oh, don't thank me just yet. After I suture this up, and the drugs wear off...you will hate me. This is a terrible infection; it has traveled up your arm. You should take better care of yourself--how did you manage this anyway?"

"I'm a soldier, wounds are common place."

"Common place...didn't your commander allow you to come here?" she asked.

"I had a duty--"

"Next time you get a wound, get here," she demanded cutting him off. "If you die then what will become of your duty?"

"If I die, I guess you'll find out."

There was silence as the doctor trained her eye on the wound as she sutured it closed. More antiseptics were placed on the lesion and the early stages of the drug wearing off were starting to show up. Trowa's arm once again began to throb.

"Here, this is my name. The next injury you get, come and request me. I'll take care of you, just don't let this happen again. I don't want to see you in a hospital bed," she smiled handing Trowa a card with her name on it, some extra bandages, antiseptic, and some pain medication.

"I'll be dead before you catch me on a hospital bed," Trowa laughed. It was a short wispy laugh...the one he used when he was being honest and trying not to seem too downcast.

"I know," she acknowledged. Her blue eyes indicated that she was not joking, this forced Trowa to slowly back out of the room.

Finally, he reached his home. Currently, he and the other Gundam pilots were staying at the Winner family's mansion. It was a comforting place that they all were pleased to call "home". Even if it was only a temporary safe hold. His room was a welcome sight and he exhaustedly entered it.

Duo was sitting on his bed with a book in his lap. Trowa's eyes recognized the approximate shape and color of the book he was holding. Immediately, adrenaline began to surge through his body, making his arm throb even more.

"What the hell are you doing?" Trowa raged grabbing Duo by the collar.

"Good to see you too...I--" Duo began but was cut off by a swift blow from Trowa's wounded arm. Trowa winced but his anger soon overcame his pain and his eyes followed the book as Duo dropped it. It flipped open on to the bed displaying pictures of a much younger Duo with other children, an older man, and a woman who wore an outfit similar, but not exactly like, a nun's outfit.

"I..." Trowa stammered.

"What is your problem man?!" Duo raged. "If I wasn't the guy I am, I'd kill you for that!" Duo yelled leaving Trowa's room.

Trowa sank to his knees as the thought of what he'd just done washed over him. Once again, he pulled a pen from his pocket and retrieved his own thin book from beneath its concealment. Not moving from where he was, he began to write.

6.23.195

I used to think that I was a rational person that never reacted on impulse. I used to believe that I never acted without thinking. I can't believe that any longer. I have just hit a very good friend and loyal comrade. Why? Because I thought for one vain instant he had found you...my precious book of thoughts...and was reading my every word. I was angry, on impulse, and determined to retrieve you before another instant was passed. However, I was wrong, he was merely looking at a photo album...of his past. What kind of fool am I?

I went to the hospital today, to seek treatment for my arm. The infection had gotten severe enough that I could no longer avoid seeking treatment. The doctor that cared for me reminded me of someone...I just couldn't remember whom.

Every day I think I die a little more to this cause I am fighting for. I think I lose a little bit of who I really am to the endless recesses of this war. I can't feel the way I think I should, I'm not affected the way I feel I should be--nothing means as much as it should. Not even my friends and allies. Then again, who I am does not bear all that much importance.

A year ago I would have given my life a soul to defend and protect these four pilots that I have befriended. But a year ago, I was much younger emotionally. War has a way of making people grow older before their bodies know how to. I've been hardened...changed...and inwardly turned upside down. Nothing means what it used to. I've become cold and indifferent...yet I can realize it. Perhaps I am not too far-gone yet; maybe someone can bring back to me what I've lost. The question is a simple one--who?

He stayed on his knees for a few minutes more before he finally crawled to sit on his bed. His arm still throbbed from hitting Duo with it. He fumbled around his pocket for a moment and retrieved the paper the doctor had given him.

It read: Dr. Lisa Air

"Lisa..." he thought aloud...and his stomach turned.