Part 3: Misty, Water-coloured Memories...

A stitch in his side finally stops the desperate flight. Slouched against a lamp-post, he doubles over and tries to calm down, ragged breaths gradually giving way to a steady rhythm. The Arabian straightens slowly before orienting himself. 'Okay, it can't be far to the Metro. Practically everywhere is five blocks from a station. Just gotta keep moving.'

With no clear destination in mind, he steps into the dark, wincing at the occasional twinge in his chest. As each pain flares, he relives every terrifyingly bittersweet moment of the evening. Somehow reaching a service entrance to his hotel, Quatre slips up to his suite and locks the door. Numb fingers caress trembling lips. Collapsing onto the floor, he curls into himself as overwhelming sensations crash over him again.

Swimming stars, emerald pools--then...

Warmth... a sense of safety... love... they envelope the broken soldier, washing over half-buried pains to gently soothe. 'Such freedom of spirit. Joyful carelessness like I haven't felt in years.'

--An image of sunlit fields and wildflowers. A child tentatively reaches out, his fingers inching toward a daisy and its fluttering guardian.

"Pretty," he whispers. Holding very still, he is rewarded when the cerulean butterfly lights on his hand before flitting away. He waves goodbye and turns, laughing to a mustachioed man. "It was so soft, Daddy," he says, grabbing the smiling adult's arm.--

'Father.' Unbidden, more recent memories surface:

--"Disobedient son!"

"I don't care. I'll fight for peace because someone has to make a stand."

--lasers bore through the satellite, destroying another hope to end the war between Earth and the colonies... destroying a young man's fragile grasp on sanity.

--he kneels by a granite marker. Laying his palm flat against the inscription, he stammers "I'm so sorry, Father. I never wanted to disappoint you... I just can't be everything--" Choking back tears he had been surpressing for days, weeks, he stands and locks his gaze on a distant point.

"I promise I'll make you proud. By Allah, I will."--

'Allah.'

--"Absolutely deplorable behaviour. Bad enough the courts try to legitimize what those people do, but to parade around in public..." His tutor roughly pulls the child toward a crosswalk. Curious, the boy cranes his neck and drags his heels.

"What? I don't see anything."

Stiffly nodding at a couple across the thoroughfare, the instructor sneers, "Those abominations, flaunting their perverse association and lust. Remember, young master, that Allah created both men and women, one for the other. And to go against his desires--"

"Is to forever remove your soul from the blessed union true believers enjoy in this life and beyond," the boy replies mechanically.

"Right. Good to see not all my breath is wasted on you. Now hurry or we'll be late. You're in enough trouble as it is, sneaking away like that."--

Physical discomfort ebbing to a dull, steady ache, the blonde pushes himself into a sitting position. "Forgive me, Father. My judgement was clouded, but it's time I accept my responsibility and come home," he murmurs. Within the hour, a taxi is whisking the heir to the closest airport. At dawn, he waits as the shuttle captain prepares the craft for a journey where the youth believes he belongs: outer space.

"More tea, master Quatre?" A polite and gentle prod rouses the napping youth. Blinking away unpleasant dreams and rubbing bloodshot eyes, he nods to his father's assistant. No, his assistant now. He had been back in the corporation's L4 office for five days; but it still felt as though everyone was playing along to his suggestions, patiently indulging him as they waited for someone more forceful, knowledgeable, qualified to take command.

"I have the files you requested earlier. Your schedule is clear after this afternoon's meeting with McGuffin. Perhaps I could arrange an evening's entertainment? You know what they say about all work and no play..."

Shuffling the additional folders to one side, he does not look up as he dismisses the aide. "No, thank you. I'm afraid it's going to be another long night getting up to speed on new accounts."

The silver tea service clinks faintly as it is placed on the desk's corner. Taking a seat nearby, the older man leans forward. "I've worked for this company over thirty years--for your father almost twenty. I've known you since the day you were born. Something's wrong."

Quatre pushes away from his desk and fixes a bemused expression on his face. "While I do appreciate the concern, everything is fine, Hassan."

"Hmm. Voluntarily leaving a well-deserved vacation to bury yourself in trivial matters, minutia that are ordinarily dealt with by a staff of bureaucrats specially employed for such tasks. Oh, yes. Just another humdrum day like all the others," he sarcastically replies.

"There's no need to be so facetious," the blonde hotly warns.

Spreading his hands in mock defeat, Hassan moves further back. "Thought you might need someone to talk things over with. It can get awfully lonely up here at times."

"Like I said, I'm fine." Apparently accepting the finality of Quatre's tone, Hassan rises. He reaches toward the tray and pauses.

"A very wise man once said you can never run so fast or so far that your problems won't be there waiting for you." With a slight smile, he turns to leave.

Intrigued despite himself, the blonde stops him and motions for him to return. "Who said that, a prophet? Great statesman?"

"Nope. My dad." A soft chuckle breaks into a tired laugh. Hassan resumes his seat opposite the weary boy.

Sighing, Quatre tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "Rest assured you did well by not following in his footsteps--wisdom ill suits you."

"As poorly as worry does you, master," he shoots back, again serious.

"Oh, and what makes you think I'm avoiding something? That I've got a difficulty worthy of your humble scrutiny?" He picks up the neglected china cup with its now tepid liquid, frowning between sips.

"You've just got this haunted look I know I've seen somewhere before... you didn't get some girl in trouble on your trip, did you?"

Sputtering and coughing, Quatre attempts to regain his composure. "NO!" he finally manages.

"Thought I'd ask. No harm in it, right? Now let's see, what else could it be..." Hassan casts his eyes around the office. "Whatever it is, you've been here and awake each night since the shuttle docked. Such weighty burdens become much lighter when shared."

"My father, in one of his more oracular moments, said 'Don't poke your nose in things that don't concern you, son.' I believe you would do well to heed that advice."

Hassan, with a false air of injury, retrieves the service and bows his way out a side door. "You know where to find me if ever you need me. Now, most esteemed master, this miserable servant begs his leave of you."

Spirits raised for the first time in days, Quatre allows a brief genuine smile. Clearing aside a few of the more sensitive documents, he calls the outer office secretary by intercom. "Claire, would you please let me know when the McGuffin party arrives?"

A curt "Of course, Mr. Winner," comes before she cradles the reciever. The Arabian slips off his shoes and tucks his feet underneath him. Settling comfortably in the oversized leather chair, he relaxes for a few moments.

'Oh, Trowa, I'm still not sure what to do about you. I thought distance and work would clear my mind, but it's all for naught. Why can't I just forget you and go on? I know it's wrong to feel like this, but am I not permitted a single selfish desire?'

Emotional and physical exhaustion sweeps over him. As he begins to nod off again, the main door opens to reveal a short, mousey man in a shabbily-cut suit, hat riding low on his head, and flanked by mobile walls of muscle.

The blonde jumps to attention, hastily shoving his shoes back on before rushing to meet them with a practiced, disarming grin. "Mr. McGuffin, gentlemen--it seems you've caught me slightly off guard. Let me assure you we have thoroughly reviewed your proposal and shall be able to assist each other in meeting a common goal."

Shaking hands all around, he directs them to chairs which the two hulking "gentlemen" ignore. 'Why didn't Claire warn me? She's supposed to be screening people,' he fumes.

"Yes, Mr. Winner, I do believe we can do business together," says McGuffin in a curiously high-pitched voice, reaching into his coat. Without warning, he brings a small pistol to bear and pulls the trigger.

"What..." Quatre begins, staring at the small feathered bolt as it quickly pumps a clear liquid into his chest. He tears it out and lunges to slap a concealed switch on his desk to summon security forces. Already fatigued, the blonde easily slips unconscious, slumping to the floor.

Back to Part Two: Damage Control .

Please proceed to Part Four: To Sleep; Perchance to Dream or e-mail the author with questions or comments.