PROFILE: TROWA BARTON

By Quatre Raberba Winner

Having emotion was a hindrance. Frankly, I never expected Heero to be the one to tell me that it

was all right to act according to one’s emotions. All those years in the mercenary had taught me

that killing off my feelings was the best way to live in that environment. It was the best way to

protect myself . At the time. I had no choice…

It was always the best strategy in a battle to analyze and observe a situation. One could win with

a calm state of mind. Life was a battlefield. For one who had not seen the world completely, life

was even more deceptive and deadly.

It was betrayal and carelessness that wiped out the guerilla force who raised me. I should have

been more alert. I made a fatal mistake, and they paid for it. It should have been me. No one

should ever be trusted, not even one’s own self. I thought I was right; I assumed that it was my

own force that had betrayed us. That assumption led me to destroying them, the same people

who raised me. It was unforgivable of me to miss that minor detail. That pendant, a gesture of

friendship, caused their demise. It was my fault.

I didn’t kill her. I knew she had a family, and a name. I knew what she was then, but it was too

late. The force was already dead. Dead men could not be bring back to life. But I knew she

could feel guilt and remorse. As long as she was alive, she would be constant reminded of her

deeds. She was like most human being, her conscience would be her punishment. I wanted her

to be tormented.

I thought I had seen everything when I went my own way into space and joined a new

mercenary force. I was wrong again. Ironic that the usually calm and analytical me should fall

again to the traps of assumptions and carelessness.

I knew they would be different from the guerilla force who raised me. They didn’t know me.

They could care less about me. I didn’t care for them either. I spent my time alone, but my

silence and lack of fear of death frightened them.

They were skilled professionals. People hired them and paid decent prices. But they were also

sordid. The barracks and camps reeked of alcohol, urine, and drugs. They had seen me fought in

the battle and knew of my skill. They didn’t treat me as their equal, nor did they respect my right

of privacy. They were curious about me.

Almost all of them were older than I was and were no doubt bigger and taller. Being young,

small but skillful in an armed force brought troubles. That was to my disadvantage, but I paid no

attention to their insults and jeers. It was more productive to wash mobile suits. I should have

been more careful …

"Hey No Name!" Wanna drink?" It was one of the men, having his daily dose of alcohol.

"Yeah pretty boy," his partner stood up. "Stop being so antisocial. Come to papa and get a drink

eh?"

I shook my head.

"Oooooh ... little boy is afraid of alcohol," I could hear him approaching. The barracks had

suddenly quiet down. I said nothing.

"This is good shit!" A heavy hand was on my shoulder. "You sure you don’t want it? Come on,

say something. Loosen up! Get down and have some fun with us!" The hand squeezed my

shoulder hard.

"Well maybe little No Name doesn’t want alcohol," the first one stood up and walked toward us

as well. Several other men did the same. "Maybe he was in for something more ... exciting."

"Say, do you really have no name? Awww ... poor baby ..." He was leaning over my shoulder,

rasping the words into my ear. Other soldiers had gathered around us. I stood up.

"Not so fast No Name!" He shoved me back down to a sitting position. I returned him with an

uncaring gaze. "I see. Little pretty boy is not pleased. Perhaps we should try pleasing our own

little bro some time eh?" His hand wantdered down the front of my pants. I grabbed his hand and

before he could even cried out, the man was down on his back.

"Shit! That little bastard!" One of them charged at me. He was good, but alcohol slowed him

down. I stepped away when another swung at me. Others joined in the fight. A sharp pain on the

base of my neck brought me to the ground. It was useless for me to get up. Several pairs of

hands held me down. I felt the cold nozzle of the gun pressed against my forehead. I wasn’t

strong enough to throw off the group of men holding me captive. I could care less if one of them

should decide to shoot me right there.

"Well since you’re being such a little bastard, I think we should teach you a lesson to show you

who’s the boss around here," I soon found out what they had in mind.

"Ohh yeaaah! The younger they are, the better it feels!" Another wave of searing pain shot

through my body. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes. I wondered how much blood I was

losing.

"Hey, lemme have a go at him! Damn man, why do you always get the virgins?"

It wasn’t the most painful thing to be torn apart from the inside, but it was not pleasing either.

The gun was out of my reach. The unfamiliar pain they inflicted on me was intensifying. One of

them forced my mouth open and shoved his member into my mouth. I bit him. He yelped and hit

me with the handle of the gun. I passed out.

They were still at it when I regained consciousness. I shut them out. I didn’t cry any tears. I shut

all emotions off. I didn’t care, not at all. I had given up.

I threw up and felt strangely soiled afterwards, not knowing at the time why my body reacted in

such a way. I could still feel their presence on me but I shut that feeling out as well. It was as

easy as that. I had no one to blame. A good soldier should always be alarmed. I was careless,

so I paid the price. It was one mistake I vowed never to make again. Mistakes should never be

made on a battlefield. One should never trust.

Mobile suits were important in warfares. They needed to be washed an maintained constantly in

order to be kept in best condition. Resources and weapons must be used efficiently if one was to

win in a war.

I applied some magnet coating on the mobile suit before proceeding o rewire the central control

panel. I figured I could save more fuel if I dropped one of the cylinders and reworked the wires.

Maintaining mobile suits weren’t so bad. It kept me from thinking too much.

"Why, if it’s not the pretty boy No Name," It was one of the older mercenary men. There were

several more behind him. I continued with what I was doing.

"Hey you," A hand grabbed me and spun me around, slamming me hard against the mobile suit.

"I’m talking to you, you little bastard!"

I looked at him coldly and he slapped me hard across the face. "I don’t like that look of yours.

Guess you hadn’t learn a lesson from last time ... " He touched my face. "But well ... gotta admit

that was pretty good. You were so tight and fresh. Mmm ... nothing beats virgin flesh," He

nuzzled at my neck. I sensed the other men watching. I didn’t flinch. His hand wandered down

my chest, then lower. He tugged at my pants ad reached inside.

There was an explosion. He screamed. I would always remember the look in his eyes. His hand

clutching at his groin, his body that doubling over in pain. The crimson blood oozing through his

fingers. The smoke from the gun in my hand.

Several other men took a step forward. I raised my gun, they stopped dead in their tracks.

"Get out." I said. And for once, they did. I was safe, for the time being.

-----------------------------Profile II: Trowa Barton (END)-----------------------