Sight Without a Sense of Feeling A Gundam Wing Fanfiction by Amet January 2002: First of all, I have to say that Trowa really wasn’t meant to be this morose, I was in a mood when I wrote most of this, it kind of carried over and now the boy’s got issues. Whoops. And as for Wufei, I really, REALLY want to know how he got through two whole wars without wearing his glasses. He seemed to need them in Episode Zero and then they just kind of poofed. It confused me. Thank Yous: To Sephy, who I still blame and generally love endlessly for dragging me into this fandom. You rock hon! And to Anne, the resident evil beta, who had a grand old time changing this fic into the proper Queen’s English, only to have my Yankee self change it back. To her I say, neener neener! And wave the meager flag high and proud. Smooches! Also... ::dances like the insane fool she is:: Award! ^-^ ------------------------------------------------- December 16, AC 197 The air was blanketed in an eclectic mix of scents- the salt of day old popcorn, the dusty flavor of packed earth, the sickly sweet odor of animal waste. It seems strange that I should find them all so familiar, even comforting, the smells of home. The ease with which I acclimated myself to this lifestyle still surprises me, the familiarity of waking each day to mundane tasks that invariably bring Catherine to impatient, incoherent mutterings at my never ending wonder at their very simplicity. This life is not something I asked for, like so many other things I’ve experienced it just happened. But it was by far the most pleasant of the random instances of happenstance that made up my short existence. Another of Catherine’s knives hit the target behind me with a resounding thwack, narrowly missing my shoulder as I stood, ramrod straight, eyes carefully unfocused as the next dagger hit home, and the next. The metaphoric nature of the act was never lost on me, as it was not in that moment. This was how it had always been. I have always stood tall against the encroaching darkness, the emptiness that mires men in sorrow and hopelessness, never flinching at what pain may come or what anomalous fate sees fit to throw. I do not fear, and neither do I hope. I survive the things that normal men cannot, because I long ago became one with the mire. They call me Trowa, but that name belongs to another, an arrogant man with laughing eyes who took the time to share his life with a nameless mechanic who could not return the favor. I am still without a name, as my assignment, and thus my identity as Trowa Barton was destroyed along with Heavyarms. But they tell me that it doesn’t matter, that I earned this identity with my part in the war. I think that more than anything they wish to banish the anonymity that followed me into their lives, as if by saying it is so they can restore me the identity I had lost, or perhaps restore my soul. How does one earn another’s name? I am Nanashi. That is not a name, but the acknowledgement of the absence of one. I have nothing in this new world of theirs, and nothing waits for me, so I am nothing. I waited when the fighting stopped, when the war ended and the blood no longer poured forth from my hands. I waited to feel; something, anything. Love, hatred, beauty, honor; even pain eluded me still. Where others saw endless beauty and possibility in our newfound peace, I found only empty promises, devoid of meaning and now lacking even the purpose that drove me in my darkest hours. There was nothing to save now, I was a soldier without a war, a tool without a task. And the emptiness took hold, pulling what remained of my soul in a thousand different directions as others moved on around me. I wondered what they had that I lacked, what the average person possessed that held them to this simple life, that gave them purpose when to me their lives seemed banal, obscure. What made them human? Heero once told me to follow my emotions, and I know above all things that Heero knew more of life than I. But he did not realize as he gifted me with those words that unlike his, my emotionless façade was so much more than a mask, it was who I had become. I knew nothing of emotion, and so his words were wasted, as I had no idea where to begin. I could only recall feeling once, standing on the gangplank of a gundam, hands raised in a gesture of capitulation. I barely cared if I lived or died, I had lost, and my purpose was lost in defeat. But then he appeared, light refracting off his hair in a thousand shades of gold and white and silver, form fragile and seraphic in the sunlight. I did not hear his words, only the lilt and cadence of his voice as he spoke, and something indefinable rose within me. His light was ephemeral, as I expected, but his beauty was not. In the shade of a desert encampment he eagerly showed me who he was, not the otherworldly being who had proclaimed us allies and bade me to follow, but a boy as wounded and lost as myself. Yet somehow through his pain, he still possessed a soul which was kind and giving, and so very beautiful. And so I feared him, fighting the connection I felt undulating between us until I allowed Heero’s words to set me free. Then I followed, blindly, because he was my emotion, everything I’d ever felt encapsulated in a deceivingly delicate frame. I died for him, but more than that I lived for him, through him, through the echoes of elation and comfort I caught peripherally when he was close. He told me I saved his soul. I wanted to ask him how he knew he had one. I took time to realize it was love, I did not know that I could hit the ground without ever knowing I had fallen. I was not naïve enough to believe that what I felt was not returned, that he did not love me as I loved him. We never said the words, but I was not blind. It was written on his face as he smiled for me, spoken in his voice as he said my stolen name and made it mine. So I followed, and I loved, and occasionally when the feeling bubbled over I allowed myself to smile for him, threading through foreign feelings as best I could without knowing how to tame them. But our time together was not endless. The wars ended, his obligations to his family called him home, and Catherine, who had cared for me so selflessly throughout the danger that I brought to she and her makeshift family, bade me to return to her. I stood as tall and as hollow as ever, searching the bleachers in my periphery for enemies I knew would no longer appear. Even in fragile peace I cannot change what I am. It was as pleasant a life as I could allow, and it pleased Catherine to know that I was well. It pleased him as well. He called every so often when he could escape his responsibilities for a short while, and my continued well being lit up his face with beatific smiles. I lived for them, those that I had made my family, my responsibility. Nothing else moved me. A flicker of movement caught my eye, a whisper of navy and green, a faint glint off the lens in a pair of glasses. It moved along the guardrail, creeping from behind and to my right as I strained to see without moving my head. Catherine’s knives still sought their mark, striking the target with familiar regularity with each expert flick of her wrist. The air suddenly seemed oppressive, the smells too thick, the pounding of the knives into the cork behind me a jarring counterpoint to the pounding of blood in my ears. I tensed, I was not comfortable with weakness of any kind, and should the approaching figure be foe rather than friend I was at a decided disadvantage if I were forced to defend myself. What I saw when the blur made its way into my line of vision made me forget where I was entirely, and I did the unthinkable. I flinched. The blur coalesced into not one, but two separate figures. The first was a tall, slender woman with honey blonde hair wound into identical braids that hung over her shoulders, dressed in the standard navy and olive green uniform of the Preventers. Her companion was considerably shorter, wiry and stiffly postured in his uniform, with jet black hair that fell loosely to his shoulders and a pair of wire rimmed glasses perched precariously on his nose. He was scowling fiercely, as the woman grinned and waved, and the hard glittering of onyx beneath his spectacles further expressed his annoyance as she nudged him with her shoulder. Chang Wufei and Sally Po. I hardly noticed the blood running down my arm as I took a stumbling step forward, or Catherine’s rush to my side as she fretted and swore in several languages. “Are you alright?” she asked, latching onto my wrist before I could think to pull it away and frowning at the welling blood as if to banish it by sheer force of will. I was still tracking Wufei as he made his way towards us from the bleachers, and she looked up, concerned. “Tato? Estas bien?” The circus people spoke a strange amalgamation of Spanish, French, and Arabic amongst themselves, from which a young Catherine had gleaned a working knowledge of all three. I had learned a scattering of Arabic phrases during my short stay with the Maguanacs, but beyond that I spoke none of the required languages. Catherine had endeavored to teach me, beginning with Spanish, which she claimed was the simplest given my propensity towards English, and I was slowly learning the language she remembered her parents speaking in her earliest memories. She’d taken to calling me Tato to emphasize the point. In the northern region of Spain it meant little brother. “I’m fine Cathy.” Tepid words, the inevitable accompaniment of tepid thoughts. A duet born of my own boredom and confusion. There would be pain I think, to complicate matters, if I weren’t so far beyond such things. I liked Chang Wufei, as much as I liked anyone. He didn’t push for things, or immediately ask me what was wrong if I lapsed into my habitual silence, because he understood it. He was one of only a handful of people who stood a chance at understanding my motivations, and his presence had always somehow soothed me. Most people thought he was a sanctimonious bastard, and they were right, but he had his reasons. Wufei, like the rest of us, wore a mask, and while mine was of silence and stoicism, his consisted mainly of doggedness and didacticism. His world was painted in grandiose ideals, colored by a frantic search for meaning in his own sense of loss. He expected nothing less than perfection of himself, and of others, but nothing seemed to measure up to his stringent standards. He’d pissed a lot of people off in his seventeen years of existence. Sally was another matter entirely. Easy going and well received, she was not one of us and could never hope to be. But she was useful, and I had been exposed to her at regular enough intervals during the war that her presence was a familiar one. She mothered Wufei and he pretended to abhor her attentions, but I sensed something more fluttering between them. Something in the way she argued with him set a peculiar, distant look to his eyes, as if the tone of her voice summoned memories he would rather escape. They reached us just as Catherine drew breath to launch into an impassioned monologue about the importance of stillness, Wufei still scowling mightily at Sally, who raised a hand in greeting. “Trowa Barton,” She scolded, “reckless as always I see.” She grinned at me, and extended a hand at Catherine. “Sally Po, Preventer. I don’t believe we’ve met.” Catherine didn’t release my wrist, staring at Sally’s hand as if it were a phantom. Shaking her head, she sobered, and answered, “Catherine Bloom.” Sally’s smile turned rueful. “Ah yes, Trowa’s sister. I have newfound respect for you, Miss Bloom, anyone who can put up with one of these guys,” she hooked a thumb in Wufei’s direction, “on a regular basis has to have a mental constitution of gundanium.” That earned her a laugh from Catherine, who smiled wistfully and caught my eye for a moment. “I suppose,” she murmured, a hint of speculation in her voice, before turning to the pair beside her and smiling carefully. “Wufei,” her smile widened as he nervously met her eyes. “It’s nice to see you again. You look different.” Sally grinned again. “Better, I think. I made him take his hair out when we started working together, just looking at that damn tail was giving me a headache, he had it so tight.” She elbowed him again, and he raised an eyebrow at me as she chattered on. “He’s blind as a bat you know. Spent the whole damn war wearing contacts twenty-four hours a day. How the idiot managed to hide it from all of us is beyond me, must’ve hurt like hell.” I was surprised to find myself stifling laughter as I remembered the first time I had heard that phrase, and the circumstances under which it had been uttered. It stole onto me involuntarily, and rapidly, from some well of feeling I had thought dried out a long time ago. Listening to the easy rhythm of Sally’s voice, watching Wufei roll his eyes and mutter under his breath when she wasn’t paying attention, I felt… something for the first time since the end of that last rebellion. It was heady, encompassing, and it spilled over until my lips twitched upward in what might have been the ghost of a smile. Sally noticed and laughed, “Well at least someone’s happy to see me,” throwing a mock glare at an unrepentant Wufei. Catherine blanched, and dropped my hand. Wufei rolled his eyes again and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘onna’. Catherine eyed me speculatively, and I responded, staring into shuttered slate eyes until she saw whatever she had been looking for in mine and turned away. “I should get some gauze for that wound.” “Catherine,” I began, not sure what I intended to say, but certain that Sally and Wufei’s presence bothered her more than she’d admit. “No buts Barton, your sister’s right,” Sally chided, and turned to Catherine. “I have some antiseptic in a med kit in the car, why don’t you and I go get it, leave the boys some private time. They’ve got some catching up to do.” She winked, and leaned closer to Catherine as if to impart something in confidence, though her next words were deliberately loud enough for all of us to hear. “Maybe between the two of them they can string together a whole sentence.” Catherine let loose a small giggle, relaxing somewhat, and Sally chuckled over her shoulder at Wufei as she led the way. He looked away as they disappeared behind a curtain. “I distracted you.” I’m sorry. “My attention should not have been so easily diverted.” It was my fault. “Still…” “Wufei,” I interjected, recognizing his familiar pattern of self-derision, “Why are you here?” He straightened, and met my gaze steadily, for which I was grateful. Wufei was never one to hedge, and it was satisfying to see that despite his appearance, that at least had remained the same. “I am in need of your assistance.” Wufei expresses as much with what he doesn’t say as the words themselves, as do I, and there were any number of possible interpretations to that statement. He was being intentionally vague, which was unlike him, and I wondered idly what could have shaken my companion enough to make him hide behind obfuscation. “My assistance?” I repeated, leaning against the backboard and crossing my arms over my chest, hoping to prod him into elaborating. He sighed, and moved some of Catherine’s equipment from a crate. “There is a conference,” he said the word like disease would come of it, “in a few days. Peacecraft put it together, in honor of a terraforming project she designed for the L4 system. The purpose of the project was to relocate former soldiers; OZ, White Fang, the Treize faction, it didn’t matter; displaced men and women who served in one of the last two wars.” He looked up, ostensibly to make sure I was paying attention, and I nodded. “This particular project was founded on a disused colony on the edge of the La Grange point, a way of revitalizing a section of the colonial cluster that might have fallen to the Sweepers in a few years were it not for Peacecraft’s efforts.” He paused, adjusting his glasses, and continued, “But it is known throughout the Alliance that the driving force behind the implementation of the project, is Winner Corp.” I flinched at the name, and Wufei paused, studying me for a reaction. Feelings rose violently within me, angry after nearly a year of suppression. Love mingled with hope and intertwined with fear like ghosts misting across shadows. I could barely distinguish one from the other, and I clenched my eyes shut, hardly connecting the next broken whisper of breath as my own. “Quatre.” The name shattered something within, and I turned pained eyes to Wufei. “What’s happened?” “He’s fine Trowa, it’s all right.” He looked almost frightened, though of what I could not say. The use of my perceived first name told me more than anything that Wufei was attempting to offer comfort, but he was no better at giving it than I was at receiving it, so after a few moments of strained silence he continued his report. “The project has been successful. Too successful. More and more people flock to the colony as time passes, at this rate its numbers will eclipse that of the Winner family’s home colony by years end. But whenever an inspection team was sent in, the figures matched. Despite appearances, it seemed that the project truly /was/ producing enough to maintain their rate of growth, it was uncanny.” “If that were true,” I stated, “you wouldn’t be here.” “No,” he admitted, straightening in his seat and tucking a stray partition of hair behind his ear, “I would not. Three weeks ago, when Peacecraft first insisted that we hold this infernal gathering, Preventer was to send an inspection team of our own to be certain of security for the delegation. This was to be Peacecraft’s commemoration of the wars, held at year’s end to coincide with the ending of the Eve Wars and the Barton Rebellion, and the colony would serve as a reminder of what could be achieved with cooperation rather than dissention. A symbol of peace, I believe she called it.” He snorted derisively, “We were stretched to our limits at the time containing a viral outbreak in the L1 cluster, but Peacecraft was insistent that it be done immediately, so Quatre volunteered to send a team of his security employees in their stead. It was agreed upon, and they were sent. They have yet to report back.” “And you have no reason to believe they might have been delayed?” It was more a statement than a question, I knew the answer as I said it. “No,” he persisted, “It was a routine inspection, these were highly trained personnel who reported directly to Quatre. There has been no indication of accident, nor has there been any indication of foul play. They have simply vanished. Our regular inspectors returned in their wake once the outbreak was contained and found nothing. Security plans were measured and drawn up, and Peacecraft insists on going through with her conference, despite the cautions of myself, Lady Une, or her brother.” I wasn’t surprised that Relena was forcing their hand, she was a brilliant political strategist at the best of times, but at her worst she was a spoiled teenager who could not understand why she might have to wait to receive what she wanted. She had always been an innocent who played on far too grandiose a scale, and to many of my former comrades her idealism translated into simple childish foolishness. “What do you plan to do?” Wufei peered up at me from his seat on the crate. “I am unsure. I have no proof of foul play, but something in this situation unnerves me. I want to send a team with the delegates to the conference, to be prepared in the eventuality that something does go awry. The President himself is going, Barton, I can’t afford to be sloppy.” “And you want me to come?” “I need people I can rely on. More than that I need people I can trust.” He paused, folding his arms over his chest to mirror mine. “I can think of no one I would rather risk my life with than you.” It was as much a compliment as anyone had ever received from Wufei, and were I anyone else I’m certain I would have been touched. As it was, I merely nodded in acknowledgement and queried, “What about Sally?” He snorted. “Merquise and Noin have been recalled for this mission. Merquise prefers to work alone, and Noin would rather work with Sally.” An uncharacteristic smirk worked its way across his features at the mention of his partner, “Save us from the onnas Barton.” It made me wonder whether all the changes our year apart had wrought on my companion were physical, and the mention of overbearing women made me wonder whether it was in everyone’s best interest for me to leave this place again. Catherine would not be happy. Had she not spent enough of the war worrying about me to do it again in supposed peace? As if sensing my thoughts, Wufei spoke again. “There is one other thing I should mention. Quatre was furious that his men were so easily abated. He knew each of them personally and he is determined to find out what became of them. He was not originally slated to attend the conference, but after their disappearance he has insisted on attending in place of the company official he intended to send in his stead.” I sighed. Wufei looked grave, knowing that he had me, and annoyed at the subversive tactic it took to accomplish his goal. If Quatre would be attending the conference, especially in a mood to search for danger, there would be nothing to keep him out of the line of fire were violence to erupt. I had to agree with Wufei’s assessment, the inspectors’ disappearances were altogether too neatly done to be attributed to accident, and were the team he sent in comprised of people who could not contain the situation effectively, an incident involving so many prominent political figures could spell disaster for the Alliance government. The fragile peace we fought for was at stake. But more than that, my Quatre was at stake. Sally returned shortly after my decision was made, without Catherine, and bandaged my arm with her usual military efficiency and affable bedside manner. I ignored most of her comments, already planning what was necessary for my journey and what could be left behind. I was handed a temporary badge, and agreed to meet Sally and Wufei at a designated shuttle pad early the next morning. Then I went in search of Catherine. I found her sitting outside her trailer, the first place in my short life that I had dared to call my home, staring at the sunset. She stood as I approached, watching me warily from behind shuttered eyes. “He’s crying again, isn’t he?” “No. But he will be if I don’t do something.” Catherine threw me a pointed look. “I’d ask you how you know that, but I don’t think I’ll like the answer.” She sighed, wrapping her arms around herself as she stared off into the sunset. “You never were one for banality Trowa.” I wasn’t completely sure what she was trying to tell me, and Catherine using one of the ‘twenty-five cent’ words she was always scolding me for confused me, so I paused to allow her to organize her thoughts. The only discernable sound between us was the slight restlessness of wind blowing as it kicked up dust at her feet and rustled her skirts, pushing my bangs into my eyes for several seconds as I attempted to study her. My would-be sister’s profile was darkened against what little light was left in an amethyst sky, standing tall and proud among the first flickering of stars as if she belonged among them. Still, her slight fame seemed wholly insignificant against that backdrop, suddenly thin and fragile, a wholly untenable innocence against the horrors of the world outside this place. That thought somehow brought me back to Quatre, to that false innocence that shattered under the weight of the Zero system and returned tenfold, reflected in aqua eyes with the fire of a seemingly infinite hope in even the direst of circumstances. Those were the times when he seemed unbreakable, and indescribably beautiful, when the sheer force of his conviction banished any truth behind his fragile exterior, revealing the brilliant mind that brought men twice his age and twice his size to his side. “Stop looking at me like that. I did go to school you know.” Catherine huffed, and smoothed imaginary wrinkles in one of her skirts, turning a pensive eye to the stars. “I think we both know you don’t belong here, Trowa, as much as I wish you did. I can make you comfortable, maybe in time I can even make you happy, but I can’t help you find fulfillment, not here. The only time you ever seemed to have a sense of purpose is when you were saving the world.” She shook her head ruefully, and turned to favor me with a sullen smile. “Maybe he can help you with that.” Maybe. I wondered. I felt that there was something I should to say to her, to make things easier, perhaps assure her of my devotion. But I had felt too much in too short a span of time, run the gamut of my limited expressions of sentiment. There was nothing left for Catherine, and all I could say was, “I need to pack.” She nodded bravely, and I pretended not to notice the glittering of unshed tears in her eyes as I turned away. One thought flitted through my mind as I threw my meager belongings into a duffel, repeated like a mantra as I prepared to leave the only life in which I had known something of security. I’m coming Quatre. return to splash page