Normal warnings and all that jazz. Teensy spoilers in this for the rest of the story, of course, but we all knew that would happen. No 3x4, though, ‘cuz they haven’t met yet.

 

Disclaimer: I don’t own Trowa or anyone else. Personally, I’ve always wanted to see him in a cat suit. Lucky Quatre…

 

Sea of Silence

 

SPECIAL 1

Trowa

 

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“I was in the circus once,” Trowa said. “I was a clown who did magic tricks. Made two more instantly appear, you know? I found out it doesn’t work on money or metal the hard way.”

 

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The ringmaster looked up expectantly, brown eyes glinting in the smoky haze. “And you think you have something the show needs,” he asked, doubt coating his words. The boy in front of him, barely twelve years old, nodded, and the ringmaster leaned back in his wooden chair. “Well, I’ll be damned. Tell me, why not go running home to your family?”

 

“Don’t have one,” the boy said simply, emerald eyes glazed over in the candlelight. The ringmaster nodded.

 

“Alright. Show me what you’ve got,” he said, shrugging, and the boy stood, only to be stopped by a snap of the man’s fingers. “Wait! What’s your show name?” 

 

“…Nanashi,” he said, looking blank, and the ringmaster frowned.

 

“That’s horrible. No flare, no flare at all! Tell me, what’s your real name,” the man said, and the boy stood up, preparing his example. The ringmaster stomped his foot in impatience. “Well, boy? I’m waiting.”

 

“You may call me what you want,” he said simply. For the first time, the ringmaster noted the cold grace the boy carried himself with. It was like watching the wind walk. “If you need a name, Nanashi will do.” The ringmaster shook his head again.

 

“Well, Nanashi sucks, so let’s name you, eh? How about Tom? No? Hmmm…well, it’s gotta be a good show name,” the man said, only to receive a meaningful glance from the nameless boy.

 

“I haven’t even shown you my act,” he said. With that, he grabbed a candle, closed his palm, and when it opened, three identical candles lay in his hand. The ringmaster gaped.

 

“That’s…that’s the best trick I’ve ever seen,” he yelled. The boy didn’t smile. “How’s it work?”

 

“A magician never reveals his tricks,” the boy stated. “It’s always three, though.” The ringmaster rubbed his chin thoughtfully, not realizing his fake beard was pulling off.

 

“Three, eh? Hmm…Trowa! Means three in some fancy-pants language. Crowds love that stuff,” the ringmaster looked around at the empty bar. “Trowa…Bar. Ton. Trowa Barton. Definitely an improvement.” The green-eyed boy looked at him with indifference.

 

“You want me, or not,” he asked, and the ringmaster nodded emphatically.

 

“Trowa, you’ll be the star of the show.”

 

----

 

The tent was green, a yellow stripe spiraling towards the center pole. The fabric fluttered in the wind, and the boy-Trowa, he corrected- was carrying a pack on his shoulder. The ringmaster was struck by the thinness of both the bag and the boy.

 

“Impressed? Wait until we get to the animals,” he said smugly, and the silent boy just nodded. When they did get to the animal cages, the brunette stopped straight in front of the lion cage.

 

“What are they,” he asked in that eerily monotone voice, and the ringmaster explained that they were lions. The boy stepped towards the cave, and one of the lions strolled to the bars, golden eyes staring into Trowa’s green. “I don’t see why you have them caged. They’re harmless.” With that, the boy placed his pack in through the bars, and slid himself in as well.

 

“Hey! What the hell? Boy, get out of there now,” the ringmaster yelled, but the boy ignored him, scratching the lion behind the ears. “Trowa! Get out, or your job’s gone.” Cold green eyes glanced back at him.

 

“They know you’re scared,” he said, and after one last scratch slid back out through the bars, pack in tow. The lions, which had circled around him, followed with their eyes as the ringmaster led his employee towards the back tent.

 

“Hell, any sane human would be scared of a lion,” the ringmaster grumbled. “It can rip your arms off if it wants to.” His brown eyes looked hesitantly at the boy. “You’re not just a kid, are you? What’s your deal? It’s like you’re dead or something.”

 

“I died a long time ago,” Trowa stated, and the man couldn’t help but shiver. There was no doubt in that voice.

 

He’d been a mercenary at seven, and when his entire crew had died from a traitor, the boy had run. To where, he didn’t know; from what, he couldn’t say. He’d ended up on street corners, nearly passing out each time he performed his little “trick” for some more money. His life had been a maze of blood and roses. First he got the rose, and then it turned to his blood dripping across the thorns.

 

In the back of his mind, Trowa wondered how long it would be until he was stabbed again.

 

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“Trowa Barton, meet Catherine Bloom,” the ringmaster, now two years older, said as he ushered in the seventeen-year-old acrobat. She smiled at the silent boy, who just nodded. “He’s a bit on the quiet side, and likes to sleep with the lions, so the tent’s practically yours alone.” Catherine frowned, and the unconcerned ringmaster left.

 

“I’ve seen your act,” she said hesitantly, and his green eyes met her own gray-blue. Catherine frowned. “Hey, now, you stop that! You’re going to talk to me whether you want to or not.” Trowa pursed his lips. Most people knew not to talk to him like that. He was the cold, heartless bastard. Nobody even bothered to try and talk to him like that. It just wasn’t done.

 

Catherine sighed, and plopped down in the empty chair to her right. “Well, hi then. YOU are going to be my target.” He raised an eyebrow, but she refused to speak via body language.

 

“Target,” he finally asked, and Catherine grinned, pulling out a knife.

 

“Yep. Target. I throw knives, and it’s rare to find a guy willing to do it,” she said. “You afraid?” He shook his head. “Good! You’re a brave boy. Now, what’s this about sleeping with lions? That’s just nasty. If you’re sharing a tent with me, you’ll bathe regularly, and you are sleeping in a good old-fashioned bed, do you understand?” Trowa, shocked, nodded dumbly. To surprise him even more, the young circus woman threw her arms around him. “We’ll have so much fun! It’s like you’re my little brother!” He blinked. BROTHER?

 

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“Wasn’t that great, folks? Let’s hear another round of applause for Catherine Bloom and the Silent Clown,” the ringmaster, now yet another two years older, yelled out, and the crowd clapped enthusiastically. The two adopted siblings were a great draw, and ever since their first show together Trowa had gone to being just the Silent Clown, wearing half a mask and “taming” lions almost daily. Honestly, the things would probably do back flips while singing for him without asking. But, today was special.

 

There’d been a singular call for Trowa’s Triplication act returning for this town. Although the ringmaster was still somewhat anxious near the kid, four years had taught him to consider the boy a nephew. He hated the faint that always came afterwards, Catherine there to catch him or no. But, the show would go on.

 

“And now, it’s time for a rare feat! The Silent Clown will now perform a magic trick so astounding, it has never been…copied,” he began, and chuckled a little at the pun. Trowa walked into the center ring and bowed deeply. He was incredibly tall for sixteen, and was still as thin and graceful as ever. Nowadays, he rivaled even Catherine in acrobatics. “Without further ado, I give you Triplication!”

 

With a flourish, Trowa showed he had nothing in his pants (he wasn’t wearing a shirt), and nothing in his hands, as Catherine handed him a small wooden idol. He held it up for the audience to see, and closed it in his hand. The smoke went off, and he opened his hand to show three of the same thing. The crowd muttered, and Trowa grabbed a wooden stick. Another flourish, and three were in his hand. The crowd gasped.

 

When the show was over, a man approached Trowa, leaning heavily against the outside of the lion’s cage.

 

“That was very impressive, Mr. Barton,” he drawled. “I wonder, does that trick work with everything?” Trowa shrugged.

 

“As far as I know,” he said, still close to fainting. The man nodded.

 

“I’d like you to work for me,” the man said, and Trowa’s green eyes pierced into the man. “I want to give you a job.”

 

“I already have one,” he said coldly, climbed into the cage, and collapsed elegantly onto the ground, unconscious.

 

----

 

The lions were dead when he woke up. The lions were bloody, broken, and dead, the cage was surrounded by men in white coats, and a single man wearing a black coat stood in front of the official gate in and out of the now-useless pen.

 

“Trowa Barton, the Silent Clown,” the black-coated man addressed him, a silver chain jingling in his palm. “Your Triplication act impressed us. It impressed us damn good.” He frowned at the man’s poor grammar. “We have job for you, yes? You make money damn good.”

 

“I have a job already,” Trowa stated, and noticed men pulled out daggers.

 

“Triplicate here chain,” the man in the black coat said, and tossed the metallic strand onto the nearest dead lion’s body. He didn’t realize he was glaring.

 

“No,” Trowa said, and didn’t even touch the thing. The daggers came further out.

 

“Triplicate there chain, make money damn good,” the man persisted, as if restating his offer made him want to do it more. “No triplicate, no live.” Every man in a white coat pulled the knives out with a flourish, smiling malevolently at the clown.

 

Was death really that bad, Trowa asked himself. Would it hurt? He sat there, expression blank. He did not fear death- in fact, he was almost curious about it. The only difficulty would be Catherine. Funerals were expensive, and he didn’t want to make her pay for everything.

 

“Would you pay for my funeral,” Trowa asked, and the men blinked at him. It was obviously not the expected response. They looked at the man in black, who was openly gaping at the sixteen-year-old.

 

“No,” the man finally said, and with a mental shrug, Trowa touched the chain, twisting his mind and willing it to triplicate. The boy frowned. It didn’t work.

 

“It won’t work,” Trowa said calmly, and the man glared at him.

 

“Make it work,” he said, and Trowa shook his head, green eyes closed. He tried again, and when it didn’t work, the man threw in a gold coin. “Try that.” He did, and yet again, was unsuccessful.

 

“I can’t. I’ve never tried a metal before; it must be too chemically plain for me to change it. If you want some hair, I could do that,” Trowa offered, and the man’s glare intensified.

 

“Take him,” he said, and seventeen daggers flew towards the clown, who jumped up just in time to cling on the upper bars of the cage. “Down now! Triplicate or die, damn it!” The man began to yell in a different language. “Tuer le clown!” Trowa pulled himself up and over the bars, and with the experience born of dodging his sister’s daggers jumped onto the circus tent’s roof. He let it act like a trampoline, and bounced towards his tent, the men scrambling after him.

 

----

 

He hadn’t said goodbye to Catherine. He’d just grabbed the essentials (his knives, clothes, food, and the paper rose his sister had given him two days ago), shoved them in his bag, and run. The men had kept up for two miles, but stopped after some more profanity from the man in the black coat.

 

Now, it had been three months, and he was at the seaside port of Cayenne. It was a haven for those who didn’t want to be found, like himself. Wanted posters had surfaced recently about him, so he’d taken to using the name Nanashi again, when he needed a designation. He’d begun to hate the name during his time with Catherine, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

 

This was why he stood on a street corner, staring intently at the baker’s window. It had been three days since he’d eaten, and Trowa didn’t dare try to raise money using his old street-side triplication act. They’d catch him, and kill him after realizing he hadn’t been lying. God, he was hungry. He could triplicate his food, yes, but triplicates of triplicates were about as tasty, nutritious and filling as a mosquito, without the blood. And originals, not to mention triplicates, spoiled. He was desperate.

 

It was night, so he didn’t have to worry about being seen. And the bread was just lying there…

 

He broke the window loudly, grabbed a few loaves, and ran, the yells of the panicked baker following. His long legs carried him nine streets down, until he found himself on the dock. The troupe had occasionally sailed to and from towns, and he was relatively learned on how the ships worked. Maybe he should be a sailor?

 

He slumped down against a post, munching on a loaf and contemplating. He didn’t even hear the black figure slink behind him, grinning.

 

“HIYA,” it yelled, arms spread out, and Trowa’s bread went sailing into the air as he pulled out three knives in a single hand. Wide violet eyes shimmered. “That was so cool! Do it again!” There was a sigh behind Trowa again, and he turned to see an annoyed-looking boy holding his bread.

 

“Why do you love torturing people like that, Maxwell,” the black-haired boy asked, and the violet-eyed boy slung an arm around his neck.

 

“Because, Solo hates it when I torture you, and I need to cause mischief,” he shrugged, and noted Trowa still had his daggers out. “Eh…you gonna put those away any time soon?” Trowa stowed them carefully, and took his time about sliding them into their respective sheathes.

 

“What are you doing at this end of the dock,” the oriental-looking boy asked, handing Trowa his bread. “Nobody comes down here.”

 

“Eating,” Trowa said simply. “And, looking for a ship to sail on.” Both boys’ eyes brightened.

 

“Hey, we could help you out! Wu and I are first mates on a ship,” the violet-eyed boy said, and for the first time Trowa noticed the long braid hanging down his back. Further appraisal placed the boy at thirteen. An eyebrow rose.

 

“You’re a first mate,” he asked, and the boy nodded happily. “You’re…co-first mates?” Again, a nod. “How?”

 

“Like this!” The braided boy sucked in air, and bellowed. “GET UP YOU LAZY SLACKERS, AND GET BACK TO WORK!” On the nearby ship, lights flared into existence and half-dressed sailors scrambled on deck. The black-haired boy was shaking his head sorrowfully as the supposed first mate beamed at him. “It’s really easy.”

 

“DUO!!! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU YELLING ABOUT AT THREE IN THE FREAKING MORNING,” a man’s voice yelled, and the violet-eyed boy seemed to shrink. “Wufei, get his ass up here.” A ruffled-looking twenty-year old appeared on the bow of the ship, frowning and glaring like nobody’s business. Wufei nodded, and with a swift push, Duo was pushed onto the gangplank and towards the captain. When he moved on his own, albeit slowly, Wufei turned back to Trowa.

 

“Coming?”

 

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