Part 5: Endgame

He bolts down yet another blank hallway, sure that each step is bringing him closer to his final mission's objective. Diving around a corner, the brunette fetches up against the far wall. He fires from his low position, efficiently dispatching more guards. Straining his ears to detect the slightest abnormal noise, he pads over to the nearest body and inspects it.

'Something of a professional,' he assesses with a practiced eye. 'Must be getting very close indeed. Only her personal forces would be adequately trained to repel an invasionary strike.' Crouching amidst the remains, he recalls the past few days' events--a strange sequence culminating in a reluctant return to guerilla tactics with which he is all too familiar.

::: Within moments of returning to his Parisian suite, Trowa had contacted via a secure line the planetside representatives of Winner Corporation. The remainder of that day and a majority of the following one were consumed in a frustrated attempt to ascertain the heir's whereabouts. Only after he had browbeaten an already slightly concussed Hassan did he learn of the successful abduction.

Temporarily freed from the taxing and bewildering task of keeping the media unaware of recent developments, the aide related all he knew. In hindsight, the hastily arranged meeting with McGuffin was an obvious ruse, merely a pretense for unobtrusive infiltration. Once inside the building's high-security perimeter, the small band easily immobilized remaining threats, person by person.

Upon regaining consciousness, Hassan discovered the plot and alerted the chief of security. Unfortunately, the group had already slipped through the defense net.

"No one thought a kidnapper would have the audacity to schedule the attempt. We designed the system to prevent facile access to the Master, but neglected to reinforce possible exit pathways. We were overconfident. Perhaps fatally so," the aide shamefully informed Trowa.

Recordings from closed-circuit cameras stationed throughout the upper levels revealed a clearly rehearsed strike utilizing the assistance of recently developed technology. Short segments of each tape showed only cleared hallways where Trowa postulated the assailants had crossed. Whether they had a device to loop a recorded image, project a realistic hologram, or had a mole within the corporation, he didn't care. It was enough to know something important to him had been taken.

Ringing off, he then turned to the evidence at hand. McGuffin Mining Operations was a legitimate colonial company--that is until one looked closer at falsified documentation. Shaking his head at the barely concealed electronic trail, Trowa zeroed in on an insignificant address listed as a tertiary holding. He actually laughed when he cross-referenced it with an outdated personal database of known Romefeller properties.

'First you tip your hand with that blatant note, then you flaunt your influence in a dangerous stunt. There's got to be a reason why you've made it so easy to track you--is that what you want: someone to find you?' Trowa thought as he readied himself for the chase. :::

According to classified blueprints he had uncovered, he is a few hundred meters from her most likely hiding place. Leaving bodies behind, the former mercenary sprints to the next corner and steels his courage. Once again he curses a general lack of cover and flings himself out into the next hall, meeting no resistance.

He counts nearly invisible doors as he stalks. Bringing his gun about, he palms open the portal. A quavering voice greets the youth.

"Halt, intruder."

Trowa recognizes that any sudden movement on his part would be seen by the amateur as a threat. Slowly holstering his weapon, he raises his hands. Confident the other's lack of training gives the proven soldier every advantage, he plays along.

"My mistress has been waiting for you, Barton. Forward." The underling motions with his rifle to a second exit. The brunette approaches it, but launches into an unsophisticated attack when passing close to the lackey. A quick combination of punches and a bone-snapping kick leave the man in a heap.

"I'll see myself in, thank you." He crosses into a room beyond the empty antechamber. Three walls are covered by screens and computer terminals. Before one station, off to the right, is a high-backed chair. The door slides shut behind him, yet the chair's occupant remains turned away.

"My, my. How terribly rude of you to take so long in answering my invitation." It's a voice he had not heard in months: fierce yet feminine, demanding with a hint of possible supplication.

"I thought the path was easy enough for a skilled hunter such as yourself," it purred.

"Where is he, Dorothy? I know you have him near," Trowa fires, face set in a mask of chill retribution.

She abruptly rises from her seat and turns to him. Her long golden hair swings wide, rustling against formal attire. Peevishly, she pokes a finger at his chest. "I will ask the questions, foolish boy. That's why you're here, after all--to give me some answers in return for your precious."

Momentarily inclining her head toward the outer room, she queries, "Did you kill Edward?"

"No. He is not a soldier and will not die at my hands." He doesn't understand her erratic behaviour, but if there is a chance of finding Quatre...

She smiles and nods to herself. "Just as I thought. You've been an interesting study so far, Mr. Barton--or should I say Mr. Bloom?"

Sea-green eyes narrow. Dorothy allows the alien jovial expression to remain throughout her narrative.

"Yes, Triton Bloom. Only son of a small Earth family. Though they were merely humble members of a tiny travelling circus, both parents and the boy were killed in a skirmish between Alliance and rebel forces approximately fifteen years ago. At least that is what the fourth and final member believes. Little Catherine grew up sheltered by other nomadic performers, forever blaming impersonal militaristic actions for her loved ones' deaths.

"How fitting then that her dear brother not only escaped his parents' fate, but also became a model mercenary--the incarnation of senseless destruction she so despised."

She walks back to a console and calls up several data files. Gesturing to one as it scrolls by, she resumes speaking. Trowa listens to her words, but continues watching the screen when it begins to display images of a child known simply as Nanashi.

"It was a long process, obtaining this information. However, there is always a means if one is truly determined.

"No one knew who this child was and none seemed to care where he was going. After years on the battlefields of Earth, he fled to outer space and eventually insinuated himself in the Barton Foundation as a mechanic. Still nameless, and some even say soul-less, he came to replace the original pilot of Gundam 03.

"The newly christened Trowa Barton should have been the leader of Operation Meteor, a plan to eliminate all order on Earth. Instead, through actions of his own and by the invisible hand of fate, not only was this arrogation foiled, but the agressive colonies entered a tentative truce with a weary world, harmony has apparently been restored, and a family was unknowingly reunited."

Steepling her fingers, Dorothy leans back against a terminal. She takes in the stunned expression on Trowa's normally inscrutable countenance. "All of it is true... your history, the formative forces of your personality, your role in history as it shall be written."

Left hand twitching in surpressed rage, he stands otherwise unmoving. "Then that means... your note--'Return to nothing.' If you've harmed Catherine as well..." he warns.

"On the infinitesimal chance you suspected me tampering with your 'surrogate' sister, I did send some lads to watch her. Either at my signal or upon confirmation of your arrival at the staging site, they were instructed to slay all circus personnel and any unlucky spectators who could stand as witness. I believed, rightly so, you would follow the Winner boy instead," she explains. "It always pays to have a contingency plan."

"Why are you holding either of them? I'm here. Release them."

Her smile fading to a hard, thin line, she levels an exacting stare at the youth. "They may be spared if you tell me all I want: given your background and obvious lack of regard for the sanctity of life--" She indicates another flickering screen, this one with a list of confirmed deaths due to the recent war. "Why are you still risking yourself for another?"

Trowa cannot stop himself from wondering aloud at the request. "You seem to know so much about me already; but if you don't see that I care for them, you are far more misguided and delusional than I supposed from our previous meeting."

She petulantly stamps her foot. "There must be more than nebulous generalizations, meaningless maxims! How can someone devoid of basic human qualities later embrace and defend a policy of enlightened pacifism?"

Assuming a placid attitude, he truthfully responds. "Because I lived in the darkness, I value the light."

He does not retreat or retaliate when Dorothy clutches at his shirt and screams, tears starting to trickle down.

"Then why doesn't everyone realize that? Why hasn't humanity changed? Why are people still so petty?"

Eyes imploring, beseeching him in visible turmoil, she sobs. Voice cracking under emotional strain, she begs, "Why can't I be strong?"

Slowly, he brings her close for a short hug then guides her away and into the nearest seat. "You can be strong... in your kindness. Quatre saw it in you. Use it as your support."

She slouches in the chair. Too embarrassed by her weakness to look at him, she examines her empty hands. Dully, she begins again--in a voice almost too low to be heard.

"When it was all over, I really tried... I tried to find a purpose, but there was only an empty ache--a desire without a name, just a blazing urgency to be filled. You defeated me--were more powerful in a way I could not comprehend. So to become better, I had to understand the source of your strength, assume it if possible.

"I had to in order to bring about the end of all war, all pointless hatred and sorrow. They tell me the struggle is over; but I don't believe them. How can it be when the seeds of destruction are still growing... still nurtured by every living person?"

She dares to glance up, but quickly hides her face. She turns back to the unjudging floor tiles.

"That's when I remembered something, a way to find an ending. I was also told that when I was very small, I was given a series of intelligence tests. One was a simple maze with a line drawing of a mouse to one side and a wedge of cheese at the other end. The administrator thought I was somehow deficient for no matter how patiently she explained the procedure, I would first trace with my finger a path from cheese to mouse, then follow it in reverse with a pencil.

"She asked me 'Why?' and all I could say was 'It's much easier when you do it this way--you don't get distracted when you've seen the goal from both sides.'

"I needed someone like that... somebody who has made the transition so I could formulate an approach that would work."

Reading a fragment of sincerity in her despair, Trowa places a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "To change our destiny, we must strive for the greater good. Sacrifice all we are in a bid to show at least one person they can rise above their own self-defeating image. Someone helped me realize the enormity of humankind's potential. Let me help you... let us both help you," he finishes pointedly.

"Show me where Quatre is and we can all start to heal."

Nodding, she numbly gets to her feet and trudges toward the medical wing of the complex, Trowa in tow. Outside the appropriate room, she pauses.

"I... I can't go in and face him. Not after all I've done to hurt him. Throwing him to a spineless bully like McGuffin..."

Resolute, he grasps her hand and pulls her into the room behind him. "Fears are often proven groundless in the morning sun," he assures her.

The doctor and nurse notice their entrance. "Your Grace, to what do I owe the pleasure of your appearance?" McGuffin stammers, bowing deeply.

Rearing regally with the last of her mental reserves, Dorothy stabs at the man with an unyielding look of enmity. "Leave me and never darken my day again." Snivelling, he scuttles out and is followed more sedately by his assistant.

Trowa rushes over to the bed. In a flurry of motion, he unbuckles each restraint before removing sensors and an I.V. tube, fingers skimming over both the recent bruises and older scars. Hesitating for the tiniest fraction of a moment, he gently brushes aside limp platinum hair and whispers a kiss on his beloved's forehead.

Stirring by degrees, the small blonde blinks a few times. As he looks up into worried emerald eyes, he gives a slight gasp. "Trowa... you've come for me," he murmurs, a drowsy smile playing across his lips.

"Of course I'm here. I couldn't let you go away before I told you-- Je t'aime, dear Quatre. I love you." Although his tone is tender and soothing, he braces himself for the inevitable rejection once the young man registers the comment.

Surprisingly, the recumbent youth instead reaches out and weakly interlaces his fingers with Trowa's. Covering their joined hands with his other, Quatre gingerly attempts to sit up. Trowa supports him using his free hand and drapes a sheet over the thin gown once he is upright.

"In my greatest hour of uncertainty, I first became aware that my heart... my heart beats for you alone," the blonde says softly.

"As does mine for you," declares his closest companion.

A sob breaks the solemnity and draws their attention to a shattered figure slumped against a bare wall. Sliding from the bed, Quatre unsteadily makes his way toward it.

"Dorothy?"

She shys away, choking out "I'm so sorry... I didn't mean..."

With the beatific smile of a saviour, he sinks to his knees. "That's O.K. It'll be alright," he says as he folds her to his chest. She rests her head on his shoulder, no longer afraid.

--One child of war rails in his loneliness, crying out at the swirling maelstrom--lost--

--Becomes two, huddling together beneath the scant protection afforded by compassion--

--Becomes three, standing united in forgiveness as the dividing line vanishes--

--Becomes a legion, each touched by the emissaries of love--

--Becomes... Peace

--Owari

Back to Part Four: To Sleep; Perchance to Dream... .

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