A Darker Shade Than Black

Part II

He hated his psychiatrist.

Reclining on the couch his psychiatrist seemed so inordinately insistent that he recline upon, Heero closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore the man. It wasn’t working. The psychiatrist had a harsh, grating, rasping, altogether unpleasant voice. That, combined with the heavy rain rattling the windows outside, was enough to drive any one to screaming madness. But Dr. J wanted exactly that, therefore, it would be the one thing Dr. J would never see from him.

Heero couldn’t help but feel that Dr. J never wanted to be a psychiatrist, and honestly couldn’t blame him. Who would want to spend all their waking hours with a variety of society’s rejects? There was always that slightly manic gleam to the aging man’s artificial eyes, as if he were focused on something no one else knew about.

"So, have you heard about the Federation?" asked Dr. J, straying from his monologue on the damage masochism could inflict on people. The irony had not been lost on Heero.

This unexpected question perked Heero up, and he barely inclined his head towards Dr. J. Encouraged, Dr. J continued. "Why don’t you give me a briefing on the current situation then, Mr. Mitchell?"

"Yuy."

"Whatever."

Heero sighed and glanced at the clock. Twenty more minutes. He might as well favor the old guy. "Basically, the Federation’s taken over the Earth, and the colonies, and is using military force to impose its beliefs onto the citizens of the world. They talk about peace but it’s a bunch of crap even I can see through. They’re all unified in their purpose, however, which is to gain absolute power, so I doubt they’ll fall any time soon."

"Very good, Heero!" Dr. J complimented with a grin, revealing sparkling artificial teeth. Heero wondered fleetingly if the man had anything natural left. "What’s your opinion?"

Heero shrugged. "I don’t really care. It doesn’t affect me."

Dr. J leaned forward, and the strange green artificial eyes rotated once with a soft whirr and click as they set themselves back in place. "Oh, it doesn’t, young Heero? You’re an L2 colony citizen, are you not? What if your parents were killed?"

"I wouldn’t care," came the flat, cold answer. "I don’t have any parents. The Mitchells are merely my legal guardians."

The old man raised a grayed eyebrow. "You don’t care about them?"

"I already said, they’re not my parents." Heero, unable to stay still, got up, opened a drawer in a desk on the other side of the room, and pulled out a pen. Retracting the nib, he began to scrape his arm up and down, watching his movements intensely along the same tracks as the old scars. Those same scars, toughened from such treatment, did not yield easily. A slight smile curved his lips as he pressed down harder.

"Then, what about your real parents? Your mother, your father? What did you think about them? Did you love them?" the doctor prodded.

Heero arubtly stopped his self-mutilation. The dark head of hair jerked towards Dr. J, and the aged psychiatrist noted the startled look in the sharp blue eyes. "Love?" he asked, his tongue stumbling over the word.

"Yes, love," Dr. J repeated, a little impatiently.

Love…

Unbeknownst to Heero, a different faint smirk had appeared on his face, curving his lips only the slightest bit upwards. Love. Yeah, that’s what his father had told him. Told him he was going to show the little boy the right way to love. Told him he was punishing him because he loved him, because bad boys needed direction.

And his mother? Hah. She had been a weak little joke. Easily cowed over by the threatening ways of Heero’s father.

---

"Not when the child’s here, my love, it’s not right, it’s not right," my mother stuttered nervously. She had dark brown hair and brown eyes. She was very pretty.

"Who the hell are you to tell me what’s right and what’s wrong, you fucking whore!?" the man shouted at her. He had very cruel, dark blue eyes and spiky black hair. He wasn’t half as pretty as my mother.

Tears came into my mother’s eyes. "Gabriel, please understand, the man was just asking me for directions…"

With a low growl, Gabriel strode forward and seized her by her dress collar. He lifted her up into the air with casual strength. In a voice embittered by whiskey, he spat into her face, "You don’t deserve to live. You and your damned bastard child. What good does that dumb little moron do?" He jabbed a finger at me, huddled and fearful in the corner. "Does he pay the rent? Does he pay the bills?"

Mother swallowed, and unashamed tears coursed down her face. "No, I’m sorry Gabriel, it will never happen again!"

Gabriel literally flung her away from him. She hit the wall. "It damn well better not!" he roared at her, before retreating into a bedroom where I knew another amber liquid bottle was waiting for him. He gave me a good kick as he went inside. I didn’t cry. I knew that when I cried it was just an invitation for him to hit me more. And my mom always made me feel better.

Mother opened her arms when she saw me huddled in the corner. I was scared. But this was just the first of so many scenes like this. So many times, the senseless violence was repeated over and over. So many times. So much for such a little child to see.

I ran into her open arms and she rocked me then, crying, her tears wetting the fabric of my shirt. Over and over, she kept telling me, "Gomen, my darling, gomen, I never wanted you to see that…"

When she was done, I sat more or less placidly on her lap. "Why you marry him?" I asked her.

She sniffled. "I didn’t, love, that’s why he called you a bastard child." With a sad smile on her face, she softly petted my head. "But don’t you worry about that. It’s better he hit me and not you."

I pursed my lips. "He not my da?"

My question must have hurt her, because I felt her tense. But all she said was, "Yes, Heero, he is your father."

I wrinkled my nose in determination. "He’s a bad da. He ain’t supposed ‘t hit ma and he ain’t to hit me."

She gently pressed my head into her chest. "You’re right, Heero…you’re a smart boy. A man is not supposed to hit a woman, much less a child. You remember that."

"Waa." I squirmed. I wanted to go outside and play.

She sighed and released me with a question: "Heero, how old are you now?"

I beamed at her, the memory of Gabriel’s kick already fading. After all, mom was always around, so he rarely hit me. The real meaning of this never fully hit me until years later. "I’m three Mommy, ‘n how old are you, huh?"

"Nineteen, love." She gestured with one hand, and with the other wiped her nose. "Go outside, Heero. Go play."

I happily ran out of the house. But I heard her whisper, "Go play, because soon he won’t let you anymore."

----

[three years later]

I was used to filth, used to dirt, used to pain, immune to it all.

Gabriel had kicked my mom out two years ago, by violence, as was his way. I was six years old and I didn’t care. My days were endless as were my nights. All of it became a never-ending cycle of pain, of abuse. I never cried.

I remember when Gabriel broke my arm, twisted it off at the elbow. He was drunk, he usually was. I don’t know what I did to push him to that point. I must have done something. I just don’t remember it.

I had come home from school, where all of the first-graders stayed away from me. Weird Heero Yuy, with the dirty, stinking clothing, that nasty little tanktop and the ugly spandex shorts. Winter, spring, summer or fall, that was my outfit. I didn’t care what they thought about me, or about my outfit or anything, but they certainly enjoyed shoving their beliefs down my throat. I was just too busy struggling to survive, struggling to predict Gabriel’s next moves with a brain made numb, to want to befriend them. I let them taunt me all they wanted – but I did my best to fight if someone tried to pick a few rounds. The last thing I needed was bruises at home *and* in school.

I came home with a stomach snarling with hunger. The school required its children to eat the school lunches, but I had been personally informed by Gabriel that if I so much as tried, he’d wear me out. I disobeyed him once. He forced me to throw up when I got home. When I vomited hamburger meat, he knew of my disobedience. He forced ammonia down my throat as punishment.

I saw him when I came home, sprawled on the sofa, his great fat belly pouring out over his belt. He glared at me through bleary eyes. "Wha’re doin’ ‘ome, yooooou," he slurred. "Bast’rd, why’re in ma ‘ouse, goway."

I stood there not quite sure how to respond. He lurched to his feet. "I sa’ goWAY," he protested drunkenly, and stumbled towards me. "Yura bad boy, yur supposed t’ ‘bey yur futhur!"

I tried to run – but Gabriel could be surprisingly fast for a person of his weight and degree of drunkenness. He grabbed me by the shoulder as I did my best to flee the scene.

I had always been a small child. His hand was larger than my whole shoulder. He grabbed it with his right hand, and with his left seized my corresponding arm and began to twist it.

He loved this and I didn’t know why, didn’t know, didn’t know. The manic grin he wore every time he struck me, every time he committed another monstrosity against my tiny child’s body…He didn’t stop when he solicited a pain-stricken whimper from me, nor when the crack of bone rang through the air.

I screamed. I had detached myself from pain long ago, but I knew I had to do something, anything, if I wanted to survive – I had to scream, had to beg for help. I needed that arm, that was a fact.

He was twisting my arm like a screwdriver, and grunting happily, "Thatta show ya t’ dis’bey ME, eh li’l boy, eh?"

I did not cry. I was no longer able to scream. It was futile anyway. No one was coming. No one would swoop in to rescue me.

My mom wasn’t going to rescue me, I realized with a start. That was who I had been screaming for. Mom. That’s who I had wanted to help me. My weak mother, who had let herself be pushed around by Gabriel even though she could have run away long ago.

I was not able to realize that she stayed to shield me from Gabriel’s mindless rage.

I was beginning to see a blackness…a star-filled blackness enclosing me. I shivered with no more sound, falling limply against Gabriel’s stomach and gasping in air. He gave my arm one good final wrench and shoved me away, letting me drop to the floor, where my wrung arm banged with an electric painful jolt on the floor.

Now I began to feel pain.

A small, high-pitched whine filled the air. I was somewhat surprised to discover that the source of the pathetic sound was me. The pain was so deep, so all-reaching that I couldn’t feel it. It was as if I were caught in a white flame, feeling the throb of fire, but not its fierce bites. All I felt was a numbness devouring my body, and a completely out of place feeling of warmth, pleasure at the pain I knew wasn’t hitting me because my brain wasn’t functioning. My entire arm was slick with blood, and I could see white bone peering out upon daylight. That was odd…I was practically missing half an arm. My lower arm was hanging on pathetically by a few strands of severed tendon, muscle and skin.

Gabriel looked upon me the way a normal person might survey a dying cockroach; devoid of emotion, flatly uncaring. "Now I’v-a take ya to d’ ‘ospital. See what chou gone ‘n made me do. Tell ‘em…tell ‘em it got caught in-a car door."

I didn’t respond. My mind fell into the iron arms of an uncompromising blackness.

-------

"Heero, are you alright?"

Heero was slowly rubbing his left elbow in small circles, seemingly detached from the room, a far-away, unreadable expression in his eyes. He didn’t answer Dr. J’s question.

Dr. J repeated it. "Hello? Heero?"

Arubtly the boy blinked; then his hand fell from his elbow, and he stared at the psychiatrist as if he had been caught doing something gravely wrong.

"You know, I’m not going to hurt you," Dr. J said with a chuckle. "It merely seemed as if you were in some pain – would you like an Advil?"

Heero shook his head, his eyes still far from the room.

Dr. J sighed. "Well, boy, I’ll let you out early for now, alright? You go on home to your parents."

"They’re not my parents," Heero said quietly. "I already told you not to call them that."

"Fine then," Dr. J capitulated in irritation, "your legal guardians. Are you satisfied?"

Heero shrugged and left the room.

The doctor sighed. God, what a job he had been forced to take. He’d much rather be working on the Gundam he was building. But he and his four other comrades had been forced to hide out. He hadn’t seen them in – how long was it? Oh well, he was almost done. Then he’d be able to reveal what the colonies really felt about the Federation’s rule.

All he needed was a pilot. Which, given his current job situation, he wasn’t likely to find.

Another sigh.

----

"My price is six hundred dollars. I’m not doing it for less," Duo said in the soft, coaxing voice that not even Hilde was resistant against.

The mushroom-haired professor before him exhaled sharply. Shooting mental daggers at the fifteen-year-old vision of male loveliness before him, he insisted, "Four hundred."

Duo instantly dropped his soft demeanor and stood up, banging the table purposefully. He bored into Professor G.’s skeptical eyes. "This is an assassination," Duo said, enunciating his words, his voice quite clearly conveying his opinion of the Professor’s intelligence. "That means I’m charging whatever I feel like charging. I am the only person you can trust not to spill a word to anyone. I am also the only person capable of carrying out this order with one shot. You got that? That means you’re paying me six hundred dollars. Do that, and by the time the day is out, I swear to you that Foreign Vice-Minister Dorlian will be dead."

With a sound of disgust Professor G. crossed his arms. "Duo Maxwell – "

"Take it or leave it!" Duo whirled around and crossed his own arms in defiance. "Six hundred dollars. That’s the last and *final* offer."

Damn that Maxwell, he’s too shrewd…knows too much about the way things work in this underworld. "Done," Professor G said curtly. "Fine, you can have your damned six hundred dollars."

Duo grinned. "Thanks."

"Hn,"
the Professor said gracelessly.

The boy yawned and plopped himself back down on his seat. "So why do you want me to kill him anyway, just out of curiosity?"

"It's for OZ," the Professor said evasively. "Even though they haven’t detached themselves from the Federation yet, Treize’s OZ holds very different beliefs from that of the Federation leaders. OZ says that Foreign Vice-Minister's talk of peace is going to flame up the Federation and only make them tighten their militaristic control."

Duo nodded. "So what's your stand?"

The Professor shrugged. "I'd much rather be working on something technical or scientific in nature. Politics is nothing more than fancy words and lofty ideals. OZ’s beloved Treize is completely twisted. He makes no sense."

"Then why are you following his orders?" Duo filed his fingernails as he spoke, amusingly enough. Such a very feminine action; it seemed that Duo's work had affected him more than he thought.

"Because I was given the orders and told that if they were not carried out, I would be killed. Not that I particularly care, but I want to finish the Deathscythe first."

Duo blew on his fingernails and shook the hand slightly to rid himself of the dusty chips of filed nail, then reached into a cabinet and pulled out a small bottle filled with a clear liquid. He shook it, then uncapped it, letting the slightly sickening smell of nail polish permeate the air.

The Professor was startled to the point of staring.

Feeling eyes on him, Duo looked up to see the shocked old professor gaping at him. He was confused for a moment; then it hit him. He laughed as he applied the nail polish to his left hand. "Sugoi, I can’t believe something actually shocked you! Old man, it's a necessary part of my job. Besides, it looks nice, so relax. Found a pilot for Deathscythe yet?" he asked conversationally.

Professor G. pursed his lips, having recovered from his momentary agitation. "No. It seems that everyone human being I try has been raised on sugar water. They just don't have what it takes, don't have the necessary skills, don’t have the necessary willingness to learn, don’t even have the intelligence, plus none of them are compatible with the Gundam."

"Mmm." Duo nodded wisely and carefully applied the nail polish to his right hand. "By the way, is there anything I should know, anything specific, any outside factors that could possibly conflict with the completion of the assassination order? I could find him on my own, but could you make my job a little easier and tell me where he’ll be?"

"The right time to strike will be at around seven o’clock tonight," Professor G. said briskly. "Go to Federation Building #49. Are you familiar with it?"

"The obscenely rich-looking place on Riverdrive and 145^th, right?"

"Exactly. Dorlian will be going to a meeting with a few Federation big shots. Negotiations of some sort. Shoot when he emerges from his limousine, then disappear. In the flurry, no one will notice you."

"Oh, so okay." Done with the nail polish, he capped the bottle and placed it back into his drawer. The Professor was allowed only a brief glimpse of the drawer’s contents – various make-up applications that somehow or the other the Professor recognized - before a slim-fingered hand slammed it shut, raising sheets of dust into the air. Duo wrinkled his nose and sneezed. "Gomen, Prof. My office's a mess."

"I noticed," Professor G. said dryly. He has lipstick, blush, and mascara in that drawer? Good God, the poor boy needs help.

Duo shook the fingers of his hands to try to make them dry quicker, then realizing that that course of action wasn't really going to help any, blew on them impatiently. "That's the problem with nail polish, it takes way too long to dry, and the ones that dry quickly aren't worth the piss they're made out of…When will I be paid?"

The Professor felt a faint sense of relief that Duo had changed the subject from nail polish. Perhaps it was just him, but he couldn't help feeling highly disturbed whenever Duo showed signs of feminism…you just didn't expect it from a fifteen-year-old boy. "You will be paid for your services by next - "

"Don't think so!" Duo objected. "I know exactly what you're going to say. Prof., we have gone over this before. Give me my money now."

Professor G. narrowed his eyes. "No, Duo. I have to wait until we receive verification of Dorlian’s death."

Duo rolled his eyes. "Be glad I’m asking, Professor. You know perfectly well I could get six hundred dollars out of your pocket right now."

"So then why don’t you?" Professor G. challenged.

"Because I’m so nice, I don’t take money from old men." Duo sighed. "Give it up. You know you can trust me with this kind of stuff, I’ve done it before."

The Professor gave up – the boy simply did not shut up when he wanted something, especially money - and removed a generic-brand imitation-leather wallet from one of the many mysterious pockets in his long white lab coat. "Here," he said, peeling bill after bill away from a crisp wad and handing it over to Duo’s waiting hand. "By tonight."

"Thank you very much," Duo chirped, a smile again spreading over his face. He stood up. "Don’t worry, Prof. I’m Shinigami. I won’t fail you."

----

Wufei sat more or less placidly in his garden, absorbing what he was reading. It was truly fascinating, the theories of Locke and Rousseau on the relationship of the individual and the government. Though their high-flown theories had obviously resulted in no widespread gain of justice, they had had such radical ideas for their times.

"Do you ever do anything but read, Wufei?" came his wife’s voice.

Meiran came jogging over, in her customary gray outfit. Wufei closed his eyes briefly. "You should be glad I even bothered to move to this colony cluster, Meiran. I don’t know why you wanted to move anyway."

As he knew she would, Meiran flared up. "I beg your pardon, your Majesty," she said sarcastically, placing her hands on her hips. "I figured you’d be thankful if I tried to prolong our life span, seeing as L5 was so ancient it was going to collapse in no time. I should have known that the mighty Chang Wufei would be oblivious to all such mortal actions."

"We exited illegally. All members of the Dragon Clan were supposed to stay on L5." Wufei turned a page in his book.

"Too bad I’m not a good little girl, huh then, Wufei? If I were a good little girl, then I’d acquiesce to the fact that there’s no justice in this world, right?"

He was not going to let her get to him. "Exactly right."

She sighed in irritation. "You’re getting to me."

He smiled despite himself. It was almost an unspoken game between them. Who could annoy the other first? A battle of sharp wits. In that area, at least, Meiran seldom failed him.

Unless they were discussing justice, a topic on which Meiran was positively rabid. How someone could so fervently defend justice when it was so obvious that none existed was beyond him.

"Besides," she said defensively, "we only exited illegally according to the Federation. Our move was requested, encouraged, and sanctioned by the Chief Elder. The Federation just wanted to trap us and let us die in that ancient wreck of a colony."

"Thanks to your brilliant idea of moving, the Chief Elder and all the others of the Dragon Clan are no longer around," Wufei informed her. He snorted. "So much for your ‘justice.’ All it did was kill good people."

Meiran gave him a withering glare, her dark ebony eyes sending veritable sparks his way. "All you do is sit here and judge, Wufei, as if you’re so far removed from the world. For your information, I wanted to stay and fight, but the Chief Elder desperately wanted us to move. He sacrificed his life so that we, the last remaining members of the Dragon Clan, would live. And so maybe through us, the Dragon line would carry on." She turned away, back rigid, and Wufei could just feel the sarcasm radiating off of his wife. "Though I don’t see how that’s ever going to happen."

"For once I agree," Wufei said, the faintest hint of red brushing his bronze face. "I’m afraid we’re doomed to be a childless couple."

Meiran began to throw practiced punches and kicks into the air, not facing him. "No, we’re not. We have to have children. Certainly not now, but it’s our – well – duty."

Wufei could definitely feel his face heat up. "Meiran, you’re insane. We can’t have children together."

"And why not?" she challenged, though he noticed that she carefully avoided facing him as she paraded around the garden practicing her techniques. "Physically there’s nothing wrong with either of us, and we’re going to have to someday. Even you have to care about the Dragon Clan, Chang Wufei, and let’s face it – we are all that’s left. I’ll be damned before I let *you* be the last surviving member of *my* Clan."

"Thanks so much," Wufei said sardonically, carefully trying to control his blush. Meiran would never let him live it down if she saw him actually redden. But he couldn’t resist adding another question. "Honestly, Meiran, how - ?"

"We’d find a way," she answered shortly, and turned around.

Damn.

Her eyes turned from uncomfortable to downright gleeful when she saw the expression on her husband’s face. "Wufei, I never would have thought you capable of it. Showing human emotion." She threw her hands up and grinned. "Proof! You’re not a god, Wufei, you’re a mere mortal like the rest of us!"

"And you’d do well to remember that, Nataku," he retorted.

She tossed her head back. "I’m the closest thing to a Nataku that the Dragon Clan has left, Wufei, so it’s no use making fun of me for it. And I can fight, which is more than I can say for you."

"Hn. What point is there to fight in mobile suits? How can anyone find your so-called ‘justice’ when they can’t even see each other’s face?"

"The point is in knowing that you can find it. There’s no need to brag or boast about it, so long as you are secure in the knowledge that it’s out there. Waiting to be found."

"Well, as soon as you find it, you just tell me," Wufei said sardonically, and resumed his interrupted reading. There was a cool, sweet-smelling breeze riffling the flowers and leading loose, silky strands of black hair away from their convenient pony-tailed state on Wufei’s head.

"By the way, Wufei, we’re attending a school on this colony starting Monday. The Vera Langel Institute."

Wufei’s head snapped up from his reading for the second time that day. "What?!"

She smiled, enjoying his confusion. "We’ll be going into the tenth grade."

"Oh honestly Meiran," Wufei snapped, "the last thing I need is school. I study independently, remember? What can I possibly learn there that can be of any use to me?"

Meiran’s eyes narrowed, and she reached down and snatched the book from his hands. "How about people skills?"

"I don’t want people skills!" Wufei was vaguely aware that he sounded like a whining child. He didn’t care and let his voice rise. "The last thing I need is people skills! Since when do scholars need people skills?!"

Meiran let the book fall, where it landed with a cushioned thump on the bright green grass. "Because scholars must also be diplomats, dear Wufei." A detached expression appeared on her face as she crossed her arms and gazed out into clear blue skies. "One day, we may be called upon to explain the actions of the Dragon Clan. And if I can’t fight for you, then you will have to be just that – a diplomat."

----

"Dad, what’s going on?" Quatre asked worriedly, standing with his father as they overlooked the scurryings of the workers below them.

The elder Winner looked down at the golden heir of the Winner fortune, so solemn in the midst of the colony’s troubles. "Are you sure you want to know, Quatre?"

"I think I have a right to."

Mr. Winner sighed. "Well, there’s some problems between the Federation and another faction within the Federation, OZ. And both the Federation and OZ are demanding that we make an alliance with one of them. OZ hasn’t publicly declared itself against the Federation, but it’s bound to happen, and then war will break…they seek my favor early. But both of them are equally threatening to peace. I won’t do it."

Quatre’s intelligent turquoise eyes surveyed the factory. There was a general air of tension and anxiety pervading the place. He could already see why; if his father didn’t come to a decision, he would probably be assassinated as a threat to the military plans of the organizations.

He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder and looked up. Sometimes, he swore that his father could read his mind. "It’s not the time to worry yet, Quatre," Mr. Winner said comfortingly. "We always have the people on our side. The Winner family has been very kind to them – as a man, I can’t imagine doing less…" He sighed. "But the Federation and OZ might not appreciate our kindness. While we’re here on L2, we need to gather our supplies, so that we can hold out if the Federation decides to blockade us or something like that."

Quatre blinked – he didn’t quite see the sense in that, except as a possible Plan B. "The best approach would be to fight back, Dad. They’re not going to listen if you make speeches, eloquent though they be, or if you try to stay on the defensive, admirable as that may be. Don’t we have any military force we can send over from L4?"

The older man gave the boy a stern look. "Let’s not have anymore talk of fighting back. You know I’m a strict pacifist, my son. The Winners have always been pacifists, even in times of war. I’m not going to change that tradition now."

And plead though Quatre might, his father was steadfast and consistent in his refusals to fight. Every argument he could think of was deflected by his father’s, "We are pacifists."

"Dad, I believe in peace too, you know that!" Quatre cried in frustration. "But we have to do something! We can’t just sit around and wait like sitting ducks! That’s just what we are! We’ll put the colony and ourselves in danger if we just keep doing nothing!"

"You call this nothing?" His father swept a hand above the crowd of laborers. "You think this effort is nothing?"

"That’s not the kind of effort I’m talking about," Quatre said, pushing down his urge to yell and instead forcing his voice down. "You know that I believe in peace just as much as you do. But sometimes, you have to fight to defend peace."

"No, Quatre," Mr. Winner said gently. "That just defiles the whole purpose of being a pacifist, if five seconds after you declare yourself one, you turn around to fight. That’s not the right thing to do."

"So the right thing to do is to sit back as your enemy prepares to kill you and your people, then," Quatre said bitterly, looking down at the floor.

His father sighed sharply. "Don’t get fresh with me, Quatre. Just stay in school, stay with your friends, and stay out of this foul business, for Allah’s sake."

Quatre glared silently at the floor, not trusting himself to respond. He was the sole Winner heir, and it was his duty as such to protect his family and his people to what extent as he could. What was his father trying to do? Did he think Quatre too delicate for such things? No, that wasn’t possible, Mr. Winner knew him much better than that.

If so, then his father also knew that the last thing Quatre was planning on doing was retiring quietly to school.

Already, plans were beginning to develop in the back of Quatre’s agile mind. What he really needed was a good, long talk with Rashid and the rest of the Maguanac Core on how to pilot a mobile suit...